She turned away.
“Oh, Lord.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
She covered her face.
“No, no, no.”
“I tried to let you know.”
“When?”
“I moved my hand.”
“You could have opened your eyes.”
“I was afraid you’d stop.”
The woman spun.
“Of course I would have stopped.”
“I know.”
“That was private.”
“I know.”
“You pretended to sleep?”
“No.”
“I woke.”
“And then you stayed quiet.”
“Yes.”
“That is pretending.”
The cowboy pushed himself up slightly.
Pain crossed his face.
The woman instinctively moved toward him.
Then stopped herself.
He saw.
“Sit.”
“You don’t order me in my cabin.”
“Fair.”
He lowered himself against the pillow again.
The woman crossed her arms.
“You have ten seconds to explain why I shouldn’t put you in the barn.”
The cowboy’s mouth moved faintly.
“Because it’s cold.”
“Nine.”
“Because I’m injured.”
“Eight.”
“Because I have something that belongs to you.”
She stopped.
The cowboy’s expression changed.
He slowly slid one hand beneath his pillow.
The woman tensed.
“If that’s a gun—”
“It isn’t.”
He pulled out a weathered envelope.
Her breath caught.
The paper was yellowed and bent.
One corner had a brown stain.
Across the front, written in a handwriting she would have recognized even after fifty years, were three words.
For my sister.
The woman did not move.
The cowboy held the envelope out.
Her face emptied.
“Where did you get that?”
He said nothing.
She took one step forward.
“Where did you get that?”
“Your brother gave it to me.”
The words struck harder than any blow.
The woman grabbed the bedpost.
“My brother is dead.”
“I know.”
“You said you didn’t know me.”
“I lied.”
Her eyes hardened instantly.
The softness vanished.
“You have exactly one chance.”
The cowboy nodded.
“I knew your brother.”
“How?”
“We rode together.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
“What outfit?”
“None permanent.”
“We took freight work.”
“Herd work.”
“Survey escort.”
“Whatever paid.”
The woman’s jaw tightened.
“My brother never mentioned you.”
“He probably didn’t mention half the men he worked beside.”
“He mentioned the important ones.”
The cowboy looked down.
“Then maybe he didn’t think I was important.”
Something in the answer sounded too honest to dismiss.
The woman stared at the envelope.
“Why did he give you this?”
The cowboy’s face darkened.
“Because he thought something might happen.”
Her heart began beating faster.
“His death was an accident.”
The cowboy looked at her.
“No.”
The room changed.
The woman’s hand tightened around the bedpost.
“What did you say?”
“Your brother didn’t fall into that ravine by accident.”