“He weighs pelts.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“Your records show similar loads.”
“His receipts do not.”
Elias frowned.
“You found that from paper?”
“Yes.”
He stared at her.
“What?”
“I may have married an accountant.”
“You married a seamstress.”
“I think you were undercover.”
The next time they went to Leadville, Elias confronted the buyer.
Clara stood beside him.
The man denied everything.
Then Clara laid out eight receipts in chronological order.
The buyer stared.
Clara said:
“Either your scale becomes inaccurate every third transaction, or your arithmetic develops a moral weakness.”
Elias looked at her.
The buyer turned red.
They left with forty-seven dollars in corrected payment.
Outside, Elias stopped in the muddy street.
“What?”
Clara asked.
“I have been arguing with that man for four years.”
“And?”
“You made him pay in six minutes.”
“I used numbers.”
“That seems unfair.”
She smiled.
“You may thank me.”
Elias looked around.
Then bowed awkwardly.
“Mrs. Mercer.”
Clara’s heart did something strange.
Not because of the bow.
Because of the name.
Mrs. Mercer.
The first time someone had called her Mrs. Whitmore, she had been twenty-one and terrified.
Now she was twenty-eight.
And the name felt less like ownership.
More like a choice still being made.
They entered Bellamy’s General Store for flour.
That was where Clara first met Harlan Voss.
He stood beside the stove wearing a black wool coat and a silver watch chain.
Forty-five perhaps.
Smooth face.
Carefully combed hair.
Not a mountain man.
Too clean.
He watched Clara enter.
Then looked at Elias.
“Mercer.”
Elias stopped.
“Voss.”
The dislike between them was immediate.
Clara felt it.
Harlan smiled.
“So the rumor is true.”
“What rumor?”
Elias asked.
“That you finally bought yourself a wife.”
The store became quiet.
Clara’s body went cold.
Elias took one step.
She touched his sleeve.
Not because Elias frightened her.
Because Harlan wanted a reaction.
She knew men like that.
Clara looked directly at Harlan.
“How disappointing.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“To discover a man old enough to grow gray still confuses marriage with commerce.”
Someone near the stove coughed to hide a laugh.
Harlan’s smile tightened.
“You must be Mrs. Mercer.”
“Half owner of Mercer property, actually.”
Elias looked at her.
Harlan did too.