PART 2 — THE WOMAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

By sunrise, the story of Avalene Marsh’s stew had traveled farther than the cattle drive.

The ranch hands spoke of it over coffee. The stable boys argued about whether her biscuits were better than his mother’s. Even old Higgins, who considered compliments a waste of perfectly good breath, asked whether there would be another pot of stew that evening.

Avalene heard every word.

She pretended not to.

For the first time in years, she felt useful in a way that did not hurt.

But not everyone in Bell Haven was pleased.

At precisely ten o’clock, a black carriage stopped outside the Calder farmhouse.

A woman stepped down wearing a dark green traveling dress, a feathered hat, and gloves so clean they looked untouched by the world. Her name was Beatrice Vale, and she had once expected to become Mrs. Wyatt Calder.

She had known Wyatt since childhood. Their families had attended the same church, shared business dealings, and quietly discussed a marriage that would have joined two prosperous ranching families.

Then Wyatt’s mother died.

And before Beatrice could offer her condolences, Wyatt disappeared into his grief, refusing every invitation and every letter.

Now he had married a stranger.

Beatrice had not forgiven him for it.

“Mrs. Calder?” she called as Avalene opened the door.

Avalene wiped her hands on her apron. “Yes?”

Beatrice’s eyes traveled from the apron to the flour on Avalene’s sleeve.

“How unexpected.”

“May I help you?”

“I certainly hope so. I have come to see Wyatt.”

“He’s out with the men. He should be back for dinner.”

Beatrice stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

“I suppose you are still learning how things work here.”

Avalene closed the door quietly.

“I’m learning the house, certainly.”

“The house?” Beatrice gave a small laugh. “My dear, this is not simply a house. It is the Calder estate. Its land, cattle, and water rights are worth more than most people in this county will earn in ten lifetimes.”

Avalene said nothing.

Beatrice removed one glove.

“Wyatt has always been stubborn. His mother knew that. She also knew he needed someone who understood the responsibilities of his position.”

“I imagine he does.”

“Someone with breeding. Education. Connections.”

Avalene looked directly at her.

“And you believe you are that someone?”

For a moment, Beatrice’s smile disappeared.

Then she replaced it.

“I believe I could have been.”

Before Avalene could answer, Beatrice noticed the framed pH๏τograph on the mantel. Wyatt stood beside his mother, a younger man with a rare smile.

Beatrice picked it up.

“Poor Mrs. Calder. She would have been heartbroken to see this arrangement.”

“She was the one who chose me.”

The pH๏τograph slipped slightly in Beatrice’s fingers.

“What did you say?”

“Wyatt told me his mother read my letters. She asked him to write to me.”

Beatrice returned the frame to the mantel.

“That is impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because Mrs. Calder had already made other arrangements.”

A cold silence settled between them.

“What arrangements?” Avalene asked.

Beatrice adjusted her hat.

“You should ask your husband what his mother intended for this ranch. Especially what she intended to do with the eastern pasture.”

Then she left.

Avalene stood by the door long after the carriage disappeared.

That evening, Wyatt returned to find his wife unusually quiet.

He noticed immediately.

“Something happened?”

“A visitor.”

“Who?”

“Beatrice Vale.”

Wyatt’s expression hardened.

“What did she want?”

“To explain that I am not suitable for this house.”

He removed his hat slowly.

“Did she say that?”

“Not in those exact words.”

Wyatt crossed the kitchen and set his hat on the counter.

“Beatrice has never understood the difference between money and worth.”

“She seemed to know your mother.”

“She did.”

“Then she mentioned something about the eastern pasture. Something your mother supposedly planned.”

Wyatt stopped moving.

For several seconds, the only sound was the fire crackling in the stove.

“What exactly did she say?”

Avalene repeated the conversation.

Wyatt looked toward the window.

“My mother owned the eastern pasture separately from the rest of the ranch. She inherited it from her father. After she died, I ᴀssumed it pᴀssed to me.”

“Did it?”

“I thought so.”

“Perhaps you should check.”

He studied her face.

“You think Beatrice knows something?”

“I think she wanted me to ask questions.”

Wyatt gave a humorless laugh.

“That sounds like her.”

But Avalene had already seen something in his eyes.

Uncertainty.

Later that night, after the ranch hands had gone to bed, Wyatt brought a small wooden box from his mother’s study.

He placed it on the kitchen table.

“She kept important papers here.”

The box contained old receipts, letters, property records, and a folded envelope bearing his mother’s handwriting.

Wyatt opened it.

The letter was addressed to him.

My dear Wyatt,

If you are reading this, then I am no longer there to argue with you about eating properly or working yourself into the ground.

I have one request.

Do not sell the eastern pasture without first speaking to Mr. Whitcomb in Bell Haven. Your father made a promise concerning that land, and I intend for it to be honored.

There is another matter. The woman who answers your advertisement must be welcomed with kindness. Do not mistake a quiet nature for weakness. A woman who has survived hardship without becoming cruel is worth more than a dozen polished ladies.

I hope you will recognize that.

Wyatt read the letter twice.

Then he lowered it.

“My mother knew you would come.”

Avalene touched the edge of the paper.

“She hoped I would.”

He looked at her, and something softened in his expression.

“I’m beginning to think she knew me better than I knew myself.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then a noise came from outside.

A horse.

Wyatt stood immediately and went to the window.

A rider was disappearing down the lane.

On the table, beside the wooden box, lay a second envelope.

It had not been there before.

Wyatt picked it up.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

The eastern pasture is not yours. Leave it alone, or your new wife will discover how dangerous the Calder name can be.

Wyatt’s jaw тιԍнтened.

Avalene read the note over his shoulder.

“Someone wants us frightened.”

“Someone knows about the letter.”

“And someone was close enough to put this inside our house.”

Wyatt folded the paper carefully.

“Tomorrow, I’m going to Bell Haven. I’ll speak to Whitcomb.”

Avalene nodded.

But she was looking at the envelope.

There was a faint scent of rosewater on it.

The same perfume Beatrice Vale had worn that morning.