Jonah did not answer her question.
Evelyn still had one fist twisted in the front of his coat when she asked again.
“How much do you expect to earn?”
The stranger’s tired eyes dropped briefly to her grease-stained fingers gripping his collar, then returned to her face.
“Nothing.”
Evelyn frowned.
For a moment, the only sound between them was the loose gate creaking behind him in the Montana wind.
She released his coat.
“Nothing?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Then either you’re a fool or a liar.”
Jonah Reed almost smiled.
“Probably some of both.”
Evelyn took one step back.
The movement made the folded foreclosure notice inside her apron scrape against her hip.
Thirty days.
She could feel the paper without touching it.
Thirty days before Hart Ranch ceased being Hart Ranch.
Thirty days before the bank came for the barn her father had raised beam by beam, the fields he had cleared with a borrowed plow, the old kitchen table where her mother had once rolled biscuits, and the bedroom where Samuel Hart had died in his sleep believing, apparently, that his daughter would be safe.
Jonah’s injured arm remained pressed against his chest in the dirty sling.
His horse behind him looked almost as tired as he did.
Evelyn crossed her arms.
“Nobody rides all the way to Bitter Creek and offers to work for nothing.”
“I didn’t ride all the way.”
She glanced toward the half-starved horse.
“That animal confirms as much.”
“I walked the last six miles.”
“That makes the story worse.”
“It usually does.”
“Why are you here?”
Something changed in Jonah’s face.
The dry humor disappeared.
He slowly reached into the inside of his coat with his good hand.
Evelyn stiffened.
Jonah noticed and stopped.
“Paper.”
“What?”
“I’m reaching for paper.”
Evelyn felt foolish for half a second, then angry at herself for feeling foolish.
“Take it out.”
He did.
The document had been folded so many times that the edges were soft.
A black stain darkened one corner.
At first Evelyn thought it was mud.
Then she realized it was old ink.
Jonah held the paper toward her.
She did not take it.
“What is it?”
“Something your father should have brought home two years ago.”
Every muscle in Evelyn’s body tightened.
“You knew my father?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Jonah’s gaze moved toward the ranch house.
“That’s a longer story.”
“I have thirty days.”
His eyes came back to hers.
“No.”
Evelyn’s jaw tightened.
“What?”
“You don’t.”
The words struck like an insult.
She stepped toward him.
“I know exactly what that letter says.”
“I’m not talking about the letter.”
Jonah offered the paper again.
“Your father paid the mortgage.”
Evelyn did not move.
A gust of wind carried dust through the ranch yard.
Somewhere behind the barn, a horse knocked against a stall board.
She stared at Jonah.
Then at the paper.
“Say that again.”
“Samuel Hart paid the mortgage.”
Her face went cold.
“Get off my land.”
Jonah’s eyebrows lifted.
“You think I’m lying.”
“I think Bitter Creek has spent four days laughing over the bank taking this place, and now some stranger walks through my gate and tells me the dead man who left me twelve hundred dollars in debt secretly paid a note the bank says is still open.”
“Twelve hundred forty-six.”
Evelyn froze.
Jonah continued.
“Principal remaining before final payment was one thousand one hundred eighty. Forty-six dollars accrued interest. Twenty dollars recording and discharge fee.”
Evelyn’s breathing changed.
The bank letter in her pocket showed the exact same figures.
“How do you know that?”
“Take the paper.”
This time she did.
The first thing she recognized was the Bitter Creek Territorial Bank letterhead.
The second was the date.
May 11, 1886.
Twelve days before her father died.
Below it, in faded handwriting:
Received from Samuel Hart the sum of $1,246 in full satisfaction of mortgage note number 74-B, secured against the property commonly known as Hart Ranch, two hundred acres, Bitter Creek County.
Under that was a signature.
Martin Vale, Cashier.
Evelyn knew the name.
Everyone in Bitter Creek did.
Martin Vale was now the president of the bank.
A red stamp had once crossed the bottom of the page.