The investigator turned toward him.
“You signed this?”
The brother looked.
“Yes.”
“Under threat?”
He hesitated.
“No.”
The giant’s jaw tightened.
His brother continued.
“Not that one.”
The investigator wrote.
Good.
No heroic revision.
Later, outside, the bride found her husband chopping wood violently.
Too violently.
The axe struck.
Again.
Again.
She stood behind him.
“You’re angry.”
“No.”
The axe came down hard.
She waited.
He split another log.
Then another.
Finally:
“Yes.”
“At him?”
“Yes.”
“At yourself?”
The axe stopped.
He looked toward her.
“How do you do that?”
“What?”
“Find the thing under the thing.”
She smiled faintly.
“Women at desks become very observant.”
He rested the axe.
“I should’ve known.”
“Your brother was dead.”
“I should’ve questioned.”
“You had a burned body.”
“His coat.”
“His knife.”
“A sheriff.”
“A doctor.”
“A town.”
The giant looked away.
“I wanted to believe it.”
“Why?”
“Because I was tired of fighting him.”
There.
Again.
The bride moved closer.
“You think relief made you guilty.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“I was relieved when my father finally left our house.”
“Does that mean I wanted every bad thing that happened to him afterward?”
“No.”
“Then stop putting responsibility backward.”
The giant's eyes narrowed.
“Backward?”
“You’re taking what you know today and punishing the man you were ten years ago for not knowing it.”
He absorbed that.
The bride continued.
“That’s not accountability.”
“What is it?”
“Self-flattery.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“It lets you make yourself responsible for everything.”
“Which means the world still revolves around you.”
The giant stared.
Then, incredibly, laughed.
“You insult strangely.”
“I’m talented.”
His face softened.
“What should I do?”
“With your brother?”
“Yes.”
“Listen.”
“Believe what evidence supports.”
“Be angry where anger belongs.”
“Don’t forgive because you’re afraid not forgiving makes you cruel.”
“Don’t hate because you think anger proves loyalty to the dead.”
He looked toward the house.
“And if I don’t know?”
“Then don’t know.”
The giant smiled sadly.
“You make uncertainty sound like work.”
“It is.”
He picked up the axe.
Then put it down again.
“Come inside.”
“Why?”
“I want coffee.”
“You want me to make it?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
He smiled.
“I’m learning.”
The first trial began in Denver seven months later.
By then, the pale-pink bride had become well known far beyond Mercy Hollow.
She hated it.
Newspapers loved the story.
Mail-order bride uncovers land fraud.
Giant rancher’s dead brother returns.
Bloodstained woman exposes railroad conspiracy.
The headlines grew more ridiculous each week.
One newspaper claimed she had personally fought six gunmen at Black Pass.
She wrote the editor.
I fought no gunmen. I held a ledger. Please correct this.
The correction appeared on page eight.
The dramatic lie remained on the front page.
She learned something useful about newspapers.
Her husband found it hilarious.
“You’re famous.”
“I’m misquoted.”