“Apparently your first husband knew.”
Her stomach turned.
Of course he knew.
He knew everything that could become money.
The creditor folded the paper.
“The note matures when the trust does.”
“Unless paid earlier.”
The mountain man said:
“Get off my property.”
The creditor smiled.
“I came to negotiate.”
“You came to threaten my wife with a forged signature.”
“You cannot establish forgery by looking.”
The widow finally spoke.
“He forged it.”
The man looked toward her.
“You seem certain.”
“I know the way I write my name.”
“So will experts.”
The creditor’s smile faded slightly.
Good.
The widow continued.
“My first husband used to copy my hand.”
The mountain man looked at her.
“Why?”
“He signed social invitations.”
“Household orders.”
“Sometimes because he thought my handwriting was prettier.”
Her expression hardened.
“I thought it was harmless.”
The creditor closed the folder.
“Then perhaps we’ll see what a court says.”
The mountain man stepped forward.
The creditor looked up at him.
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
The mountain man’s voice remained quiet.
“I’m giving you the chance to leave while the conversation is still about paper.”
The widow touched his sleeve.
He stopped.
The creditor smiled.
“Baltimore is not afraid of mountain men.”
The widow answered:
“No.”
“But Baltimore respects records.”
The man turned toward her.
She continued:
“And I kept mine.”
That was partly bluff.
He did not know.
Neither did her husband.
The creditor’s face changed just enough.
Then he climbed back into the wagon.
“We’ll be in town for two days.”
The widow watched him leave.
Only after the wagon disappeared did her legs weaken.
Her husband caught her.
She hated being caught.
Then hated herself for hating it.
“I’m fine.”
“No.”
“I am.”
“You’re shaking.”
She looked toward him.
“I don’t know what records I have.”
He almost smiled.
“You scared him.”
“I lied.”
“You asked a question with confidence.”
“That’s different.”
She laughed weakly.
Then became serious.
“My first husband forged my signature.”
“Probably.”
“What else did he do?”
Her husband looked toward the cabin.
“We find out.”
The trunk.
The battered trunk she brought from Baltimore.
They had barely opened its bottom compartment since arriving.
Old correspondence.
Receipts.
Her mother’s sewing things.
Her father’s papers.
Her first husband had dismissed the box as household clutter.
The widow had kept it because throwing away her father’s handwriting felt impossible.
Now they emptied everything across the dining table.
Letters.
Old land deeds.
Insurance statements.
Receipts.
Tax notices.
Her husband read slowly.
She read faster.