Chapter 7 - What Harlan Never Told the Town
Josephine did not stay long enough for Harriet to ask every question.
That was deliberate.
She glanced toward the door twice before speaking again.
“My husband believes I know nothing about business.”
“Do you?”
Josephine's face hardened.
“More than he thinks.”
Harriet tucked the three dollars into the lawyer envelope.
“Who else is involved?”
“Commissioner Dawson. Commissioner Pike.”
“There are five commissioners.”
“My husband makes three with them.”
“So the vote is decided.”
“Unless someone proves financial interest.”
Harriet stared.
“You mean bribery.”
Josephine flinched.
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
“Harriet, I cannot accuse my husband publicly based on something overheard.”
“Then why tell me?”
Josephine looked miserable.
“Because Cyrus Vale's men met him at our house.”
Harriet waited.
“They gave him an envelope.”
“How much?”
“I don't know.”
“Where is it?”
“I don't know.”
Harriet believed her.
That was inconvenient.
Josephine wrapped her shawl tighter.
“I came because what happened at the social…”
“You don't need to—”
“I do.”
Harriet stopped.
Josephine looked at the counter.
“I've spent years making sure other women knew their place because I was terrified someone would notice mine depended entirely on my husband's approval.”
Her laugh was brittle.
“I mocked your bread. Meanwhile I can't buy a train ticket without asking Walter for money.”
Harriet had never heard Josephine Mercer speak like this.
“I don't expect forgiveness,” Josephine said.
“Good.”
That surprised her.
Harriet continued, “Forgiveness isn't something you demand because you finally feel bad.”
Josephine nodded.
“I know.”
“But thank you for telling me.”
A small relief crossed Josephine's face.
Then Harriet added, “And if you find that envelope…”
“I'll bring it.”
She left.
Harlan emerged from the kitchen.
“You heard.”
“Walls are thin.”
“So are manners.”
“Yes.”
Harriet smiled despite herself.
The Denver lawyer arrived exactly at four.
His name was Gideon Shaw.
He was fifty, bald, and possessed eyebrows impressive enough to conduct their own legal practice.
Samuel embraced him.
“You look terrible,” Gideon said.
“So do you.”
“I've always looked terrible.”
“True.”
Harriet liked him immediately.
For two hours Gideon studied the Vale contract, property records, county maps, and survey notices.
Finally he removed his spectacles.
“They can take an easement.”
Harriet's stomach dropped.
“Just like that?”
“No. But public-use law favors railroads.”
“What about the water?”
“That is different.”
Harlan leaned forward.
“How?”
“The county may approve a transportation corridor. That does not automatically convey commercial water rights.”
“So Vale needs Harriet to sell voluntarily.”
“Or create another legal mechanism.”
“What mechanism?”
Gideon looked grim.
“Water-use permits. Mining priority claims. Perhaps an argument that the spring source lies elsewhere.”
Harlan swore.
“What do we do?”
“Tomorrow we delay.”
“For how long?”
“Thirty days if we're lucky.”
Harriet's heart sank.
Thirty days felt like nothing.
Gideon continued.
“Then we establish actual property value, water rights, prior ownership, and any evidence that the commissioners have conflicts.”
Harriet thought of Josephine.
“Suppose somebody was bribed.”
“Proof?”
“Not yet.”
“Then don't say the word outside this room.”
Fair.
That evening Samuel went to bed early.
Gideon took Room Six.
Harlan sat with Harriet in the kitchen.
She was shaping dough.
He drank coffee.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“So should you.”
“I'm not baking two hundred loaves.”
“One hundred twenty.”
“Still.”
Harriet divided another piece of dough.
“Tell me something.”
“Depends.”
“Why does everyone in town think you beat three men outside the Silver Dollar?”
Harlan groaned.
“Who told you that?”
“Everyone.”
“It was two.”
She stared.
He smiled.
“I'm joking.”
Harriet threw flour at him.
He wiped it from his beard.
“Now we're even for the dishwater.”
“Not remotely.”
She continued kneading.
“What really happened?”
“Three drunk men cornered a stable boy. I convinced them to stop.”
“With words?”
“Mostly.”
“What does mostly mean?”
“One word might have been a chair.”
Harriet laughed.
Then she noticed his expression.
“You don't like fighting.”
“No.”
“That surprises me.”
“Why?”
“You look like a man who could.”
“Being able to do something isn't the same as enjoying it.”
That stayed with her.
After a moment, Harriet asked, “Why didn't you ever marry?”
Harlan nearly inhaled coffee.
She smiled sweetly.
“You've asked enough personal questions.”
“Fair.”
He stared into the cup.
“Almost did.”
Harriet's smile disappeared.
“When?”
“Before Caleb died.”
“Who?”
“Woman named Rebecca.”
The name felt strangely sharp.
“What happened?”
“She wanted Denver. I wanted the ridge.”
“That simple?”
“No.”
He rubbed his thumb along the mug.
“Nothing important ever is.”
Harriet waited.
“She thought I would change after we married. I thought she would. We were both fools.”
“Did you love her?”
Harlan looked at Harriet.
“Yes.”
She hated the answer.
Immediately she hated herself for hating it.
He continued.
“But loving somebody isn't always enough to make two lives fit.”
Harriet focused fiercely on dough.
“Where is she now?”
“California. Married. Three children last I heard.”
“You keep track?”
“Her brother sells cattle through here.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
Then Harlan said, “I haven't thought about marrying her in twelve years.”
Harriet's fingers slowed.
“I didn't ask.”
“No.”
Their eyes met.
The kitchen suddenly felt too warm.
Harlan stood.
“I should go.”
“Yes.”
He didn't.
Neither moved.
The distance between them was four feet.
Then three.
Harlan approached slowly.
Harriet did not step back.
He lifted one hand.
Paused.
Giving her time.
Harriet's heart pounded.
His fingertips touched the flour on her cheek.
He brushed it away.
“You always miss this spot.”
Her breath caught.
“Maybe I leave it there intentionally.”
“Why?”
“So people know I work.”
“I think they know.”
His thumb lingered near her jaw.
Harriet looked up.
There were a thousand reasons not to do this.
The town.
Her father.
Vale.
The hearing.
The fact that Harlan might simply pity her.
That last fear was strongest.
She stepped away.
His hand fell.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
Harlan frowned.
“For what?”
“I don't know what you're doing.”
“Neither do I.”
“That isn't comforting.”
“No.”
She folded her arms.
“Men like you don't look at women like me.”
His face changed.
“What does that mean?”
“You know.”
“No. Explain it.”
Harriet regretted starting.
“Harlan—”
“Explain.”
She looked at the floor.
“Rebecca was probably beautiful.”
“She was.”
The answer stung.
“And thin.”
“She was.”
Harriet laughed bitterly.
“Thank you.”
“You asked.”
“No, I proved my point.”
“What point?”
“That this is…”
She gestured between them.
“Not real.”
Harlan stared at her as if she had begun speaking another language.
“You think I paid twenty dollars for bread because you're what? A charity project?”
Harriet flushed.
“I didn't say—”
“You thought it.”
“I don't know what to think.”
He stepped closer.
“I think you're beautiful.”
She stopped breathing.
Harlan's voice remained calm.
Not dramatic.
Which made it impossible to dismiss.
“I think you're beautiful when you're angry. I think you're beautiful at four in the morning with flour on your face. I think you're beautiful carrying a sack of potatoes while insulting me for trying to help.”
Harriet's eyes burned.
“Harlan.”
“And I think it's a damned shame nobody has told you often enough for you to recognize the truth when you hear it.”
She could not speak.
He looked furious now.
Not with her.
With every voice living inside her.
Harriet swallowed.
“Don't say things you don't mean.”
“I don't.”
Silence.
Then a crash came from upstairs.
Harriet ran.
Samuel was on the floor beside his bed.
By midnight his fever was dangerously high.
Gideon sent for the doctor returning from Helena.
Harlan rode into the storm to meet him halfway.
Harriet sat beside her father, cooling his forehead with cloths.
At three in the morning Samuel woke.
“Harry.”
“I'm here.”
His eyes struggled to focus.
“Drawer.”
“What?”
“Bottom drawer.”
Harriet opened the bedside cabinet.
Inside lay an old wooden box.
“Bring it.”
She placed it on his lap.
Samuel's shaking fingers opened the lid.
There were photographs.
Her mother's wedding ring.
Letters.
A tiny lock of Harriet's childhood hair.
And beneath them, a folded document sealed in oilcloth.
Samuel pressed it into her hands.
“What is it?”
“Something your mother made me promise not to use unless necessary.”
Harriet unfolded the paper.
A land deed.
Older than Bitter Creek itself.
She read the boundary description.
Her confusion deepened.
“Papa, this says Mother's family owned land all the way to Jessup Ridge.”
“Yes.”
“But we don't.”
Samuel closed his eyes.
“Not anymore.”
“What happened?”
He looked at her.
“Your grandfather divided it.”
“Between whom?”
Samuel's breathing rattled.
“Your mother…”
He swallowed.
“And Caleb and Harlan Jessup's father.”
Harriet froze.
Samuel continued.
“But there's a clause.”
“What clause?”
“Bell Creek can never be sold separately from Jessup Spring.”
Harriet stared at the deed.
“What does that mean?”
Before Samuel could answer, the downstairs door slammed open.
Harlan's voice echoed through the house.
“Harriet!”
She ran to the landing.
Harlan stood below, covered in snow.
The doctor was not with him.
Instead, Harlan held a telegram.
His face told her everything before he spoke.
“County hearing's been moved.”
“To when?”
“Eight tomorrow morning.”
Harriet looked at the clock.
3:17 a.m.
Harlan's jaw tightened.
“Vale isn't giving us thirty days.”
May you like
He held out the telegram.
“He's trying to finish this before sunrise.”
