Sunlight across frozen valleys.

His wife had never seen anything like it.

The rancher noticed tears in her eyes.

“Cold?”

“No.”

“You're crying.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

She looked toward the mountains.

“Chicago had buildings everywhere.”

“That explains nothing.”

“It explains enough.”

He waited.

She smiled.

“I spent years feeling like every wall was moving closer.”

The rancher looked ahead.

“Out here the walls are farther apart.”

“Yes.”

After a while she said, “I understand why you stayed.”

He glanced at her.

She was wrapped in buffalo hide.

Auburn hair escaping beneath a wool hood.

For the first time he allowed himself to imagine her there in spring.

Summer.

Years.

The thought frightened him.

Not because he disliked it.

Because he wanted it.

Chapter Fifteen — The Uncle

They found him in the finest hotel in Helena.

A private dining room.

Good suit.

Silver watch.

Perfect beard.

The wife entered first.

The rancher remained behind her.

Her uncle stood.

His surprise looked genuine.

Then delight covered it.

“My dear girl.”

“Don't.”

He stopped.

The wife moved farther into the room.

Her traveling chair rolled across polished floorboards.

The hotel had reinforced a dining chair at significant expense.

Her uncle looked at the rancher.

“So this is the husband.”

“Yes.”

“Interesting choice.”

The rancher's jaw tightened.

His wife noticed.

“Three insults,” he murmured.

She almost smiled.

“Still no punching.”

Her uncle heard.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The wife placed copies of the trust documents on the table.

“You forged my signature.”

Her uncle's expression did not change.

“No.”

“The warehouse sale.”

“Legal delegation.”

“My mother never gave you authority to sell.”

“She gave me authority to manage.”

“Not steal.”

The uncle sat.

“You've been listening to foolish people.”

“I have bank records.”

For the first time, something moved behind his eyes.

The wife continued.

“And correspondence regarding Montana water rights.”

The uncle looked at the rancher.

There.

A mistake.

Too quick.

The rancher saw it.

“So you do know the land.”

The uncle smiled.

“I know many investments.”

“Did you block my chimney?”

The smile disappeared.

“What?”

“Did you send somebody to burn my barn?”

The uncle laughed.

“You imagine I rode two thousand miles to damage a cabin?”

“No.”

The rancher leaned forward.

“I imagine you paid someone.”

The uncle looked toward his niece.

“This is the man you married?”

“Yes.”

“You could have done better.”

The wife did not flinch.

“I did.”

The rancher looked at her.

The uncle did too.

Something had changed permanently.

He realized it.

The wife reached into her bag.

She removed one paper.

“My will.”

Her uncle went still.

“You should read the second paragraph.”

He did.

The color left his face.

If both spouses died within thirty days of each other, all contested trust property transferred not to family—