Gideon was silent.
Then he answered.
"To the wrong man, perhaps."
Lydia looked down at the map again.
The names were unfamiliar.
The measurements meant little to her.
But one word stood out.
Rusk.
Written beside an old timber camp.
She pointed.
"Who is Mr. Rusk?"
Gideon's expression hardened.
"Silas Rusk."
"Do you know him?"
"Everybody around Calder's Crossing knows him."
"Is he the man mentioned in Everett's letter?"
"Likely."
"What does he do?"
Gideon let out a slow breath.
"He buys land, lends money, and makes sure people who owe him money remember it."
Lydia felt a chill.
She knew that kind of man.
Everett had entertained several similar businessmen in St. Louis.
Men who spoke pleasantly at dinner, then threatened employees behind closed doors.
She looked toward the red seal.
"Everett always preferred partners who believed debt was a form of ownership."
Gideon glanced at her.
"Did he owe money?"
"He was always borrowing."
"From whom?"
"I don't know all their names."
She hesitated.
"Sometimes he asked me to copy figures from his account books."
Gideon looked interested.
"What kind of figures?"
"Freight weights. Payments. Wagon loads. Names of companies."
"Do you remember them?"
"Some."
She frowned.
"He said my handwriting was better than his clerks'. He made me rewrite certain pages before visitors arrived."
Gideon leaned forward.
"Did he explain why?"
"No."
"Did you keep copies?"
Lydia opened her mouth.
Then stopped.
She looked toward the heavy traveling trunk beside the bed.
Gideon followed her gaze.
"What is it?"
She swallowed.
"I may have something."
The trunk was made of dark wood, reinforced with iron straps.
Lydia had carried it from St. Louis.
It contained nearly everything she owned.
Several dresses.
A winter cloak.
Two pairs of shoes.
Her mother's Bible.
A packet of letters.
A small sewing box.
And a collection of paper patterns she had copied over the years.
She had worked as a seamstress before marrying Everett.
After his supposed death, sewing became the only reliable way she could earn money.
But even that work had been difficult to obtain.
Some employers considered her too large and slow for demanding assignments.
Others offered wages so low that she could barely afford lodging.
Several households hired her only to mock her size in front of guests.
When the marriage advertisement appeared in a St. Louis newspaper, Lydia had been living in a cramped boardinghouse room.
Her rent was overdue.
Winter was approaching.
And the landlady had warned that another unpaid week would mean eviction.
Gideon's advertisement was simple.
Mountain homestead. Honest work. No drink. Seeking respectable woman willing to share a difficult but decent life. No fortune required.
Lydia had read it three times.
The words no drink stayed with her.
She answered.
Gideon wrote back.
Then she wrote again.
Their correspondence lasted nearly four months.
He never asked her weight.
He never requested a portrait.