The rancher picked up one document.

“What happens if the fraud is discovered?”

“Prison,” his wife whispered.

“And if you die?”

“The trust transfers to the nearest male relative.”

The rancher looked toward her.

“Your uncle.”

She nodded.

Now he understood why she had fled.

He also understood something uglier.

Their marriage changed the inheritance.

“What happens now that you're married?”

She hesitated.

“The property would transfer according to my will.”

“Which says?”

Her eyes dropped.

“You.”

The rancher stared.

“What?”

“I signed it before leaving Helena.”

“You left sixty thousand dollars to a man you'd known six hours?”

“I had nobody else.”

The rancher stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.

“Then your uncle doesn't just need you dead.”

She understood at the same instant.

He continued.

“He needs me dead too.”

The stranger on the cot whispered, “Yes.”

The storm outside suddenly felt less dangerous than the people hunting them.

Chapter Twelve — The Wrong Enemy

When the weather cleared enough to ride, the rancher went south.

His wife demanded to come.

He refused.

They argued for twenty minutes.

In the end she remained because the trail had become nearly impassable even for a wagon.

The rancher rode with the blacksmith.

Their first destination was the neighboring cattleman’s ranch.

The man answered the door with a bruised nose from their earlier fight.

He saw the rancher.

“Come to finish it?”

“No.”

“Disappointing.”

The rancher showed him the threatening note.

The cattleman read it.

“Not mine.”

“You wanted my land.”

“I still do.”

“You threatened me.”

“I offered you money.”

“You said I'd regret punching you.”

“I meant I'd raise my offer after your cattle froze.”

The rancher frowned.

The cattleman threw the note back.

“I didn't burn your barn.”

“How do I know?”

“Because somebody burned mine too.”

The rancher froze.

“What?”

The cattleman led them behind the house.

A storage shed stood blackened.

“Two nights before your storm.”

“Anything taken?”

“No.”

“Threats?”

The cattleman handed over another note.

SELL BEFORE WINTER GETS WORSE.

Identical wording.

Different handwriting?

No.

The same.

The rancher looked toward the blacksmith.

Somebody wanted both properties.

Not one.

The cattleman crossed his arms.

“You thought I was squeezing you out.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were squeezing me.”

“Why?”

“Surveyor came through last month. Said someone had filed preliminary water rights covering both springs.”

The rancher stared.

“Who?”

“Company out of Chicago.”

The blacksmith swore.

The rancher felt the pieces beginning to connect.

Chicago.

His wife's trust.

Railroad warehouses.

Her uncle.

“What's the company name?”

The cattleman told him.

The rancher knew it.

He had seen it among his wife's papers.

One of the companies her uncle controlled.

The marriage had not merely hidden her.