She looked from him to the document.
“You read.”
“It’s yours.”
“I said read it.”
He studied her.
Then nodded.
He picked up the paper but stayed near the hearth, leaving several feet between them.
The fire cracked.
Snow hissed against the window.
The mountain man began.
“This document states that the property described as the south forty acres adjoining the creek, including the cabin, barn, well, fenced meadow and timber rights…”
The bride blinked.
He continued.
“…has been transferred without lien, debt or condition to the legal ownership of the woman named herein.”
He looked toward her.
Her name was printed on the page.
She stared.
“What?”
“It’s yours.”
She almost smiled from disbelief.
“That isn’t funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
“This cabin?”
“Yes.”
“The land?”
“Yes.”
“You own it.”
“Not anymore.”
She shook her head.
“I don’t understand.”
“I know.”
“Why would you give it to me?”
He lowered the paper.
“Because you were brought here thinking you had nowhere else to go.”
She felt something tighten beneath the corset that had nothing to do with whalebone.
He continued.
“And because your father made sure you believed the twenty dollars and horses meant I bought you.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“Didn’t you?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
She laughed once.
It came out bitter.
“I watched him count the money.”
“I know.”
“I watched your horses tied beside his barn.”
“I know.”
“He said you paid for a wife.”
The mountain man’s jaw tightened.
“He lied.”
The bride pushed herself away from the wall.
Pain stabbed her ribs.
She ignored it.
“Then what did you pay for?”
The mountain man looked at the paper in his hand.
Then back at her.
“Your release.”
She stared.
“My what?”
“Your father claimed you owed him for your keep since your mother died.”
Her face changed.
“He said feeding you, clothing you, paying the doctor when you were fourteen, all of it made you indebted to him.”
“He cannot—”
“I know.”
The man’s voice hardened.
“I know he cannot.”
She stopped.
He continued more gently.
“But you’ve spent years believing he could.”
The bride said nothing.
Because that part was true.
Her father had kept a ledger.
Not a real legal ledger.
A household book.
Shoes.
Fabric.
Medicine.
Food.
Coal.
Every expense associated with his daughter had appeared beside her name.
Whenever she protested his demands, he opened the book.
Whenever she asked to leave, he opened the book.
Whenever she refused to work extra hours sewing shirts for a merchant in town, he opened the book.