“Who replaced this?”
“Silas.”
“When?”
“Three weeks before I fell.”
Penny stared.
Before my next bride arrived.
The wording returned.
She looked toward Declan.
“Did Silas know you intended to marry again?”
“No.”
“Had you discussed it?”
“No.”
“Then why repair something specifically before another bride came?”
Declan’s face changed.
Exactly.
They barely slept.
Before dawn, hooves sounded outside.
One rider.
Declan reached for the rifle.
Penny looked through the window.
Silas Frost dismounted.
He was fifty-one.
Lean.
Well dressed for mountain travel.
Dark wool coat.
Neatly trimmed beard.
Not physically intimidating.
His face carried the calm of men accustomed to manipulating situations before anyone recognized manipulation.
He carried a leather portfolio.
Penny looked toward Declan.
“Don't shoot him.”
“No promises.”
“Declan.”
He lowered the rifle slightly.
Silas knocked.
Penny opened.
He smiled.
“Miss Ashford.”
“Mr. Frost.”
His eyes moved over her clothing.
Then Declan.
Then the table.
Documents.
Letters.
The smile weakened.
Silas stepped inside.
“Busy morning.”
Penny noticed the portfolio.
“What brings you here?”
“Family matters.”
He looked toward Declan.
“You should be resting.”
Declan’s voice was cold.
“You should be leaving.”
Silas smiled.
“Always charming.”
Then he looked toward Penny.
“I hear congratulations may be appropriate.”
Penny did not react.
“For?”
Silas opened the portfolio.
Removed a document.
Marriage license application.
Her name already written.
Penelope Ashford.
Bride.
Declan Frost.
Groom.
Penny’s entire body went cold.
Silas smiled.
“I thought I'd save everyone the ride into town.”
Declan stood.
“How did you know?”
Silas looked confused.
“Know what?”
“That she would marry me.”
Silas’s eyes flickered.
A fraction.
Enough.
Penny stepped forward.
“I haven't agreed.”
Silas looked at her.
“Not officially.”
There.
Not officially.
Meaning he expected it.
Penny held up the metal flake.
Silas’s face changed.
Tiny.
But changed.
She said:
“The new pipe is interesting.”
Silas stared.
“What pipe?”
“Your repair.”
“Leaking line.”
“Leaking what?”
“Water.”
Penny smiled.
“Poor answer.”
Silas looked toward Declan.
“What's happening?”
Penny placed the death records on the table.
Seven.
Then Helen’s letters.
Then the trust records.
Silas stopped pretending.
Not completely.
Enough.
He said: