PART 2 — THE MAN WHO PRETENDED TO BE BROKEN

Josephine pulled the bearskin blanket against her chest.

For one terrible moment, she could only stare at the man standing before her.

Jeffrey Ross was not merely able to walk. He moved with the confidence of someone who had never needed a wheelchair at all.

“What did you do to yourself?” she whispered.

“Nothing.”

“Then why have you spent two years pretending?”

His expression hardened.

“Because a ᴅᴇᴀᴅ man attracts less attention than a living one.”

Josephine’s stomach тιԍнтened.

Jeffrey reached toward the small table beside the bed and lifted an oil lamp. Its yellow light revealed a long scar disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

“Two years ago, I was supposed to die beneath a logging cart,” he said. “The men who arranged it made certain the whole town believed I couldn’t walk afterward.”

“Who?”

“Victor Harlan.”

Josephine recognized the name immediately. Harlan was a wealthy timber merchant whose influence reached from the mountain settlements to the county courthouse.

“What does he want from you?”

“My land.”

Jeffrey crossed the room and opened a wooden chest. Inside lay several folded maps, a leather-bound ledger, and a stack of letters tied with black string.

“There’s timber beneath my property worth more than most men will earn in ten lifetimes. Harlan wanted it. I refused to sell.”

“And he tried to kill you?”

“He tried to make me disappear. When that failed, he made certain everyone believed I was helpless.”

Josephine stared at the documents.

“But what does this have to do with me?”

Jeffrey’s silence was answer enough.

She stepped away from him.

“You didn’t buy me because you needed a wife.”

“No.”

“You bought me because my uncle was willing to sell me.”

“Your uncle was willing to sell something else, too.”

Jeffrey pulled a folded paper from the chest and handed it to her.

Josephine recognized the handwriting immediately.

Arthur Wright.

Her uncle’s signature appeared beneath a document transferring the rights to an abandoned silver claim once belonging to her father.

But there was another signature.

Her own.

Josephine’s blood turned cold.

“I never signed this.”

“I know.”

“Then who did?”

“Your uncle. And he didn’t stop there.”

Jeffrey pointed to a paragraph near the bottom.

The document stated that Josephine had willingly surrendered all claims to her father’s estate in exchange for thirty dollars.

She looked up.

“My father died owing nothing. He told me that himself.”

“Your father discovered a silver vein on land that borders mine,” Jeffrey explained. “He also discovered that someone had been stealing from the claim for years.”

“Who?”

“Arthur Wright.”

Josephine’s fingers trembled.

Her uncle had raised her after her parents died. He had sat beside her father’s grave and promised she would always have a home.

Now she understood why he had been so eager to marry her off.

He hadn’t merely sold her.

He had removed the one person who could challenge his theft.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she demanded.

“Because I needed to know whether you were working with him.”

She stared at him in disbelief.

“You think I helped my uncle steal from my own father?”

“I think desperate people sometimes make terrible bargains.”

“And you think I am desperate?”

Jeffrey looked at her for a long moment.

“I think you’ve been betrayed enough times to know better than to trust a stranger.”

That answer silenced her.

Outside, a branch snapped.

Jeffrey immediately extinguished the lamp.

“Get away from the window.”

“What is it?”

“Someone’s coming.”

He crossed the room with astonishing speed, pulled a rifle from above the fireplace, and motioned for her to hide behind the heavy wooden cabinet.

Josephine obeyed.

Three knocks struck the door.

“Ross!” a man’s voice called. “Open up!”

Jeffrey remained silent.

“We know you’ve got company. The wedding was quite the surprise.”

Josephine’s heart hammered.

A second voice followed.

“Mr. Harlan sends his congratulations. He also wants his property back.”

Jeffrey’s jaw тιԍнтened.

“Tell Harlan he can come collect it himself.”

There was a brief silence.

Then the first man laughed.

“He says you’ll change your mind when you learn what happened to the woman you married.”

Josephine felt the room tilt.

Jeffrey’s eyes moved toward her.

“What woman?” he called.

The answer came through the door.

“Her mother.”

Josephine nearly stumbled out from behind the cabinet.

“My mother is ᴅᴇᴀᴅ,” she whispered.

Jeffrey raised one finger, warning her to stay quiet.

The men outside laughed again.

“Ask your bride about the letter she never received, Ross. Ask her why her mother was last seen near the old silver mine.”

Then came the sound of boots retreating through the snow.

Jeffrey waited until the footsteps disappeared.

Only then did he lower the rifle.

Josephine stepped forward.

“What letter?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he returned to the chest and removed a small envelope, yellowed with age.

On its front was written one name.

Josephine.

She recognized the handwriting.

It belonged to her mother.

Her knees weakened.

“Where did you get that?”

“Your father gave it to me shortly before he died.”

“Why didn’t you give it to me?”

“Because I didn’t know whether you were safe.”

Josephine took the envelope.

Inside was a single sentence.

If you ever discover what Arthur did, find the man who walks beneath the mountain. He knows where I am.

Her eyes lifted slowly.

“Who is that man?”

Jeffrey looked toward the dark window.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out.”

Then, from beneath the bearskin blanket draped over his wheelchair, a small metallic object slipped onto the floor.

Josephine bent to retrieve it.

It was a silver locket.

She opened it.

Inside was a miniature pH๏τograph of her mother.

On the back, written in tiny letters, were four words:

HE NEVER DIED, JOSEPHINE.