Chapter 8 - The Words He Couldn't Take Back
Ingrid grabbed the reins.
“Whoa!”
The horses didn't respond.
The broken bridge rushed closer.
Calder lay against her, barely conscious.
Ingrid pulled with all her strength.
The horses veered.
One wheel struck a rock.
The wagon tilted.
For one terrifying second Ingrid thought they would overturn.
Then the wagon slammed back down.
She guided the horses away from the bridge and into a shallow wash.
Tom caught up minutes later.
They carried Calder home.
The bullet had passed through his side.
No organs appeared damaged.
The doctor said he might live.
Might.
Ingrid hated that word.
She sat beside Calder through the night.
At dawn he opened his eyes.
“Ingrid?”
“Yes.”
“Did we die?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He closed his eyes again.
“Because I meant it.”
She knew exactly what he meant.
“You were bleeding.”
“Still meant it.”
“You were delirious.”
“Still mean it.”
Her eyes filled.
Calder opened his eyes.
“I love you.”
This time there were no horses running.
No gunfire.
No excuse.
Ingrid looked down.
“Why?”
His brow furrowed.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A reasonable one.”
“No, it isn't.”
“You could have chosen women like Beatrice.”
“I didn't want Beatrice.”
“Women prettier than me.”
Calder's expression hardened.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Don't speak about the woman I love the way those men in town speak about her.”
Ingrid went still.
Calder reached for her hand.
“You think I see what they see?”
She couldn't answer.
“I see the woman who crossed half the country alone. The woman who stood beside me when she could have left. The woman who found theft in numbers I'd looked at a hundred times.”
His fingers tightened around hers.
“I see the woman who rode into an armed man's camp because I needed her.”
A tear rolled down Ingrid's cheek.
“And yes,” Calder whispered, “I see a beautiful woman.”
She shook her head.
“You don't have to say that.”
“I know.”
That was why she believed him.
Weeks passed.
Calder healed.
Their wedding was planned quietly.
Then Beatrice arrived again.
This time she carried no threats.
Only documents.
“I know what Crowe is doing,” she said.
Calder stared.
“How?”
“My husband knew.”
She placed a packet on the table.
“Before he died, he invested in Crowe's mining venture.”
Ingrid opened the papers.
They proved the survey existed.
They also showed Crowe had bribed the banker.
“This can destroy him,” Ingrid whispered.
“Yes.”
“Why give it to us?”
Beatrice looked at Calder.
For the first time, she appeared tired rather than cruel.
“Because I wanted Calder.”
Ingrid stiffened.
Beatrice continued.
“And for a while I convinced myself that if I made his life difficult enough, he would eventually choose the easiest solution.”
“Marrying you,” Ingrid said.
“Yes.”
Beatrice swallowed.
“But then Crowe started trying to kill people.”
Calder looked at her coldly.
“You knew about the debt manipulation.”
“Yes.”
“You helped.”
“Yes.”
“Why should we trust you?”
“You shouldn't.”
Beatrice stood.
“But the documents are real.”
She left.
Calder wanted to take them immediately to the sheriff.
Ingrid stopped him.
“What?”
She held up one page.
“This signature.”
“What about it?”
“It isn't Crowe's.”
“Whose?”
Ingrid had seen it before.
On the original loan.
She looked toward the door Beatrice had just walked through.
“Her husband's.”
Calder stared.
“But he's dead.”
Ingrid looked at the date.
The signature had been written three months ago.
Beatrice Whitmore had just lied to them again.
And this lie suggested something far more disturbing.
May you like
Her husband might not be dead at all.
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