PART 2 — THE MOUNTAIN MAN MADE AN OFFER NO ONE EXPECTED

Beatrice Sullivan almost didn’t go to Martha Jenkins’s dinner.

She had already packed her trunk twice. The first time, she had folded her dresses carefully, placing them beneath the few books she had brought from Boston. The second time, she had sat on the edge of the bed for nearly an hour, staring at the ticket she had purchased for the stagecoach.

Leaving seemed sensible.

Staying meant enduring another day of whispers, another pitying glance, and another reminder that Chester Halloway had found her unsuitable before he had even learned her favorite color.

But Martha had been kind to her.

And Beatrice had grown tired of allowing other people’s cruelty to decide where she went.

So she put on her best blue dress, pinned her hair neatly, and walked to the Jenkins house just before sunset.

The gathering was smaller than she expected.

There were only six people around the dining table: Martha, her husband Samuel, the town doctor, an elderly schoolteacher, Caleb Stone, and a quiet young ranch hand named Thomas.

Chester Halloway was absent.

Beatrice noticed that immediately.

“Don’t look so worried, dear,” Martha said, taking her coat. “I invited you to dinner, not to a public trial.”

A few people laughed.

Beatrice managed a smile.

Caleb stood near the fireplace, holding a cup of coffee. He wore a dark wool shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His presence seemed to fill the room without requiring anyone’s attention.

When he noticed her, he nodded.

“Miss Sullivan.”

“Mr. Stone.”

“Glad you came.”

It was a simple greeting, but there was something reᴀssuring about the way he said it.

Dinner began pleasantly enough. Martha served roasted chicken, potatoes, and fresh bread. Samuel told a story about a runaway mule, and the schoolteacher complained about the condition of the road near the river.

Beatrice listened more than she spoke.

Then Martha placed her fork down.

“Beatrice, I was hoping you might tell everyone what you did in Boston.”

Beatrice blinked.

“What I did?”

“Your work. You mentioned it in your letter.”

“Oh.” She folded her hands. “I worked for a dressmaker. Mostly alterations, repairs, and fitting gowns. I also helped keep the accounts.”

The schoolteacher looked interested.

“Accounts?”

“Yes, ma’am. The owner wasn’t very good with numbers, so I kept the books for her.”

Caleb looked up from his plate.

“You know bookkeeping?”

“A little.”

“How little?”

Beatrice hesitated.

“Well enough to notice when a supplier charged twice for the same delivery.”

Samuel chuckled.

“That’s more than most people know.”

Caleb set down his cup.

“Can you read a land deed?”

“Yes.”

“Understand a contract?”

“If it’s written clearly.”

He nodded slowly.

“Then I may have a question for you.”

Before Beatrice could ask what he meant, Martha changed the subject.

But Caleb’s question stayed with her throughout the evening.

When dinner ended, Beatrice helped Martha clear the table.

“You seem to have made an impression,” Martha said.

“On whom?”

Martha gave her a knowing look.

“Caleb doesn’t ask questions unless he has a reason.”

Beatrice glanced toward the sitting room, where the mountain man was speaking quietly with Samuel.

“He’s probably just being polite.”

“Caleb Stone is many things, dear. Polite isn’t usually the first word people use.”

Martha smiled.

“He’s also been trying to find someone who can help him with a problem at his ranch.”

Beatrice dried a plate.

“What sort of problem?”

“One that involves papers, numbers, and a great deal of money.”

The next morning, Beatrice received a visitor.

It was Caleb.

He stood on the general store’s porch, holding his hat in one hand.

“Miss Sullivan. Could I have a word?”

Beatrice stepped outside.

“Of course.”

“I heard you’re planning to leave.”

“I am.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Caleb nodded.

“Then I’ll be direct. I need someone to help me organize the accounts at my ranch. My former bookkeeper left three months ago, and I’ve discovered several payments that don’t make sense.”

Beatrice looked surprised.

“You want me to keep your books?”

“I want you to look at them first. If you don’t like what you see, I’ll drive you back to town.”

She studied his expression.

“Why me?”

“Because Martha says you know numbers. And because yesterday you noticed that Thomas was using the wrong hand to hold his knife.”

Beatrice frowned.

“What?”

“He’s injured his right wrist. You noticed and moved the serving dish closer to his left hand without saying anything.”

She hadn’t thought anyone noticed.

Caleb continued.

“I need someone observant. Someone who can tell when something doesn’t belong.”

Beatrice looked toward the street.

A few women were watching from outside the bakery.

“People will talk.”

“People already talk.”

“Your ranch is far away?”

“About twelve miles.”

“And what would I earn?”

Caleb named a fair weekly wage.

It was more than she had made in Boston.

Beatrice hesitated.

“I wouldn’t want you to think I’m accepting because I expect anything beyond work.”

His eyes met hers.

“That’s exactly what I’m offering. Work. A proper wage. A safe room in the house. Nothing more.”

She looked at him carefully.

There was no suggestion of marriage.

No demand that she become grateful.

No hidden condition.

“Why are you helping me?” she asked.

Caleb put his hat back on.

“Because a woman shouldn’t have to cross half a continent only to be sent away by a man who couldn’t see past her appearance.”

Beatrice’s throat тιԍнтened.

She looked down before he could notice.

“How soon would you need me?”

“Today, if you’re willing.”

She considered her packed trunk upstairs.

Then she looked back at him.

“I’ll come.”

Caleb nodded once.

“Good. Bring warm clothes. The road gets rough after the river.”

He started toward his horse.

“Mr. Stone?”

He turned.

“Why did you ask Chester whether he was treating me right?”

Caleb was quiet for a moment.

“Because I knew what kind of man he was.”

Beatrice waited.

Caleb’s jaw тιԍнтened.

“He once hired a young woman to work in his store. She was honest, hardworking, and had nowhere else to go. When she refused his advances, he spread stories about her until she left town.”

Beatrice felt a chill.

“Did anyone defend her?”

“Not enough people.”

“And you?”

“I was away in the mountains when it happened.”

He looked toward the distant ridge.

“I’ve regretted that ever since.”

Then he mounted and rode away.

For the first time in four days, Beatrice felt something other than humiliation.

She felt useful.

And perhaps that was a beginning.

Caleb’s ranch stood in a wide valley surrounded by pine-covered mountains. The house was larger than Beatrice expected, with a long porch, a stone chimney, and a barn that looked as though it had been built to survive a hundred winters.

A housekeeper named Mrs. Dwyer showed her to a small bedroom overlooking the pasture.

“You’ll find everything you need here,” the older woman said. “And don’t mind the men. They’re decent enough once you get used to their noise.”

Beatrice smiled.

“I’ve lived above a general store. I doubt a few cowboys will frighten me.”

Mrs. Dwyer laughed.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

After supper, Caleb led Beatrice into his office.

Three ledgers lay on the desk.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “Take your time.”

Beatrice opened the first book.

At first, everything seemed ordinary.

Feed purchases. Equipment repairs. Wages. Timber sales.

Then she noticed the same supplier’s name appearing repeatedly.

Hollis Freight and Supply.

The amounts were small enough to escape attention, but the dates were suspicious.

One invoice charged for twenty sacks of flour.

Another charged for twenty sacks of flour delivered on the same day.

A third recorded payment for a shipment that had supposedly arrived two weeks earlier.

Beatrice pulled the books closer.

“Mr. Stone?”

Caleb returned from the doorway.

“Yes?”

“Who handles your freight deliveries?”

“Usually a man named Hollis. Why?”

“Because either he has discovered a way to sell you the same flour three times, or someone is making money from your accounts.”

Caleb’s expression hardened.

“Show me.”

She pointed to the entries.

He studied them for several minutes.

“That’s impossible. I checked the invoices.”

“Did you check the delivery receipts?”

Caleb didn’t answer.

Beatrice opened another ledger.

“There’s something else.”

She placed two pages side by side.

The same signature appeared on both.

But the ink was different.

And one of the dates had been altered.

“Someone has been changing these records,” she said.

Caleb leaned over the desk.

“How much?”

Beatrice began calculating.

The total was larger than she expected.

Much larger.

By the time she finished, Caleb’s face had become cold.

“Someone has stolen nearly eight hundred dollars from me.”

Beatrice looked up.

“And I don’t think that’s all.”

She turned to the final page.

There, beneath a series of ordinary expenses, was a payment for a parcel of land Caleb had never mentioned.

A parcel bordering the western side of his ranch.

The seller’s name was unfamiliar.

But the buyer’s signature was unmistakable.

Caleb Stone.

He stared at the page.

“I never bought that land.”

Beatrice slowly closed the ledger.

“Then someone is using your name.”

Before Caleb could respond, a horse galloped into the yard.

A ranch hand rushed through the office door.

“Mr. Stone! There’s trouble at the northern pasture!”

Caleb grabbed his coat.

“What kind of trouble?”

“Two men from the Halloway outfit are moving the boundary markers. They’ve brought a surveyor with them.”

Beatrice felt the blood drain from her face.

“Halloway?”

Caleb looked at her.

“Chester?”

The ranch hand nodded.

“And they’ve got papers claiming the northern pasture belongs to him.”

Caleb reached for his rifle.

But Beatrice was already looking at the ledger.

At the forged signature.

At the suspicious land purchase.

At the name that appeared again and again beside the false payments.

Hollis Freight and Supply.

She recognized it.

Not from the ranch accounts.

From the back of the land deed.

And suddenly, Beatrice understood that Chester’s rejection might have been more than a personal insult.

He might have known exactly who she was—and what she was capable of finding.