No hidden noble motive.
No protection.
No misunderstanding.
Greed.
Control.
Marcus continued.
“She discovered the accounts.”
“And Vale?”
“I paid him.”
“Was he already dishonest?”
“No.”
Marcus looked down.
“I taught him how profitable dishonesty could be.”
Beatrice’s stomach turned.
“And me?”
He could barely look at her.
“At first I wanted you too weak to challenge trusteeship.”
“And later?”
“When Nathaniel began asking questions again…”
He swallowed.
“I decided death was safer.”
Beatrice sat very still.
Marcus began crying.
She felt no obligation to comfort him.
“Why Caleb?”
“He owed me.”
“You thought he would take the blame.”
“Yes.”
“Did you think he would hurt me?”
Marcus looked toward her.
“I thought he would ignore you.”
That sentence hurt unexpectedly.
“I thought he wanted the land more than he wanted a wife.”
Beatrice almost smiled.
“You were wrong.”
“Yes.”
“About many things.”
“Yes.”
She stood.
Marcus looked alarmed.
“Will I see you again?”
Beatrice thought.
“No.”
His face collapsed.
She remained.
“I came because I needed to hear you stop calling murder protection.”
He nodded.
“I understand.”
“No.”
Beatrice looked at him.
“You accept.”
Marcus lowered his eyes.
“Yes.”
She left.
Outside, Caleb waited by the wagon.
He did not ask what happened.
Beatrice climbed beside him.
“Take me home.”
Caleb nodded.
Halfway up the mountain, she began crying.
He stopped the wagon.
Held her.
No advice.
No statements about closure.
Some wounds did not close.
They scarred.
Caleb understood scars.
Marcus died in prison three years later.
Beatrice did not attend burial.
She sent flowers.
Not for Marcus.
For the grave beside his.
Her mother.
By seventy, Beatrice walked with a cane on difficult days.
Caleb, now eighty-four, complained that she used it like a weapon.
“You deserve it.”
“Violent woman.”
“You married me.”
“Twice.”
Their children tried persuading them to move closer to town.
Both refused.
The mountain house was home.
Workers came daily.
Grandchildren visited constantly.
They were not isolated.
Just stubborn.
One winter evening, snow began before supper.
Beatrice sat near the fire reading.
Caleb stared at her.
She noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That still means something.”
He smiled.
“Remember our first supper?”
“Venison.”
“Yes.”
“You interrogated me.”
“I asked one question.”
“You asked why Marcus wanted me gone.”
“Important question.”
Beatrice closed the book.
Caleb looked toward the fire.
“I thought the answer would be something small.”
“Such as?”
“Family argument.”
She smiled.
“You married poorly.”
“I married dangerously.”