Walked around the table.
And placed her arms around him.
Silas froze briefly.
Then held her.
She rested her cheek against his broad chest.
His heart was beating steadily beneath the fabric.
He lowered his chin toward her hair.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Eleanor whispered, "I think you're a very good man."
Silas gave a low, uncomfortable laugh.
"Don't spread that around. It'll ruin my reputation."
She laughed softly.
He smiled.
Then held her a little closer.
Their visit to Edwin Shaw took them to Cheyenne on a gray November morning.
The journey required careful planning.
Silas left Owen in charge of the ranch.
Eleanor packed the relevant papers in a locked leather case.
They traveled by wagon to the nearest rail connection, then continued by train.
For Eleanor, the journey brought back memories of leaving Boston.
The stations.
The coal smoke.
The endless movement of passengers.
The peculiar loneliness of sitting among strangers while carrying a secret that seemed larger than the entire country.
But this time she wasn't alone.
Silas sat beside her.
His immense shoulders barely fit comfortably against the carriage seat.
He looked deeply suspicious of the train's upholstered cushions.
Eleanor noticed.
"Are you uncomfortable?"
He glanced toward her.
"Feels like the seat was built for somebody half my size."
She smiled.
"Most things probably are."
He grunted.
Then looked toward the window.
The landscape moved past.
Fields.
Low hills.
Distant mountains.
For a while, he remained quiet.
Then Eleanor rested her hand on the seat between them.
Silas looked down.
For a moment, he hesitated.
Then placed his rough fingers over hers.
She smiled.
He didn't look toward her.
But his thumb moved gently against the back of her hand.
And she understood how much effort the small gesture cost him.
Silas Boone was fearless when handling a charging steer.
He could confront armed rustlers without trembling.
But tenderness remained unfamiliar territory.
He approached it cautiously.
As though afraid of damaging something fragile.
Eleanor found that more endearing than any practiced charm she'd encountered in Boston.
Edwin Shaw's office occupied the second floor of a brick building near the commercial district.
He was sixty-three, silver-haired, with a neat beard, intelligent eyes, and a habit of asking questions in an order that made witnesses understand why details mattered.
He examined the ranch note first.
Then the assignment records.
Then Horace Whitmore's letter.
For nearly an hour, he made notes.