Chapter 8 - The Grave Beneath the Pine
Mary Hayes had written neatly.
Even while afraid.
Hattie sat beside the fire with the journal resting on her knees.
Gideon stood behind her.
Red remained tied to the chair.
The storm raged outside.
Mary’s words carried them nine years backward.
She wrote about arriving in Colorado.
About loneliness.
About Gideon’s quiet kindness.
About how badly she wanted to prove she could survive mountain life.
Hattie paused.
That surprised her.
Mary had not been merely a delicate woman dragged into wilderness.
She had chosen it.
She wanted the adventure.
She loved Gideon.
Deeply.
Page after page made that clear.
Then Red Lawson appeared.
Mary disliked him immediately.
Red smiles when nothing is funny, she had written.
I believe that is when he is most dangerous.
Red shifted in the chair.
“Woman never liked me.”
Hattie ignored him.
The entries continued.
Mary discovered gold in the creek.
At first she found the entire thing amusing.
She wrote about holding tiny flakes in her palm while Gideon stared as if she had produced diamonds.
Then Red became obsessed.
He wanted to file a claim.
Gideon was uncertain.
Mary increasingly resisted.
She had seen mining camps.
Men injured.
Families abandoned.
Businesses consumed by speculation.
She wanted no part of it.
Then came a disturbing entry.
Red came while Gideon was hunting. He said Gideon owes him his life and therefore owes him half of everything he owns. When I told him the mountain belongs to neither of them, he laughed. I do not believe he was joking.
Gideon looked toward Lawson.
Red said nothing.
Hattie turned another page.
Mary had learned about the dead man at Fort Laramie.
Red told her.
Not to protect Gideon.
To frighten her.
He threatened to report Gideon unless Mary convinced him to surrender the map.
Mary refused.
Then Hattie reached an entry written only two weeks before Mary became ill.
The handwriting was less steady.
I moved the map today. Gideon believes it remains inside his desk. Red searched the house while Gideon was gone. I watched him through the window. He thinks no one saw.
Gideon whispered, “She never told me.”
Hattie continued.
I have also copied Red’s letters. They prove he has been selling shares in a mine he does not legally own. If those investors learn there may be no registered claim, he could hang for fraud before he ever reaches Gideon.
Red’s face changed.
For the first time, real fear appeared.
Hattie noticed.
“So that’s it.”
Red said nothing.
She looked at Gideon.
“The gold isn’t the only thing he wants.”
Gideon crossed the room.
“Where are the letters?”
Red laughed nervously.
“You think I know?”
“Mary copied them.”
“Could be anywhere.”
Hattie flipped through pages.
Near the end, Mary’s illness began.
January 12.
Headache.
January 13.
Chills.
January 14.
Fever.
Then an entry that made Hattie stop.
I asked Gideon to take me to town. He says the western pass is unsafe. He is probably right. I hate that fear makes me angry with him.
Hattie looked toward Gideon.
His face had collapsed.
Mary did not blame him.
The next entry:
Gideon has not slept. He keeps pretending I do not see him checking whether I am breathing. I am frightened, but not of him. Never of him.
Gideon turned away.
Hattie’s throat tightened.
Years.
For years he had believed Mary died afraid of him.
Red had allowed it.
Perhaps encouraged it.
Hattie read on.
Mary grew weaker.
Some pages contained only sentences.
Gideon tried the pass. Turned back. I am glad. I would rather be sick than widowed.
Another.
Red came today. Gideon was outside. He wants the letters. I told him I burned them. I lied.
Red cursed under his breath.
Hattie looked up sharply.
“Where are they?”
No response.
She returned to the journal.
The final complete entry was dated January 20.
If the fever does not break, Gideon will blame himself. He must not. I chose this life. I chose this mountain. I chose him.
Hattie’s eyes blurred.
She continued.
The letters are where our promises sleep beneath the pine. If Gideon ever finds them, he will understand.
Then one final line.
Do not let Red Lawson turn grief into guilt. That is how he controls people.
Gideon left the cabin.
Hattie immediately stood.
“Gideon!”
He disappeared into the storm.
She grabbed her coat.
Her injured arm protested.
She ignored it.
Red shouted after her.
“Untie me!”
Hattie looked back.
“No.”
“You can’t leave me!”
“You entered my house with a rifle.”
“Hattie!”
She slammed the door.
Outside, Gideon had gone toward the trees.
Hattie followed his tracks.
Wind nearly knocked her over.
She struggled uphill.
Finally she saw him.
Kneeling beneath a pine tree.
A simple wooden marker stood there.
MARY ELIZABETH HAYES
1855–1877
Gideon knelt in snow.
Hattie approached slowly.
He did not turn.
“She didn’t blame me.”
His voice sounded broken.
“No.”
“All these years.”
Hattie stopped beside him.
“I kept hearing her ask to leave.”
“She forgave you before there was anything to forgive.”
“I failed her.”
“You made a mistake.”
“She died.”
“So did my father.”
Gideon looked up.
Hattie swallowed.
“The week before he died, he complained about chest pain. I told him it was indigestion.”
Gideon stared.
“I gave him peppermint tea.”
Her voice shook.
“He died three days later.”
“Hattie.”
“For months I wondered if I had forced him to see a doctor whether he would still be alive.”
Gideon stood.
Snow blew around them.
“But we are not gods.”
She touched his coat.
“We do not get to know which choice saves someone.”
His eyes filled.
Hattie had never seen Gideon cry openly.
He did now.
She stepped closer.
He hesitated.
Then wrapped both arms around her.
Hattie held him.
His face pressed against her hair.
For the first time their embrace was not cautious.
Not accidental.
They held each other because both understood grief.
Eventually Gideon pulled back.
Hattie looked toward the grave.
“Where our promises sleep beneath the pine.”
Gideon followed her gaze.
He knelt.
Brushed snow from the ground.
Near the marker was a stone.
He removed it.
Beneath was frozen soil.
“We need a shovel.”
Together they returned.
Red watched them enter.
“You found it?”
Neither answered.
Gideon retrieved a shovel.
They went back.
The earth was hard.
Gideon worked until sweat mixed with melting snow on his forehead.
Finally metal struck wood.
A small box.
Hattie’s heart pounded.
Gideon pulled it free.
Inside were letters wrapped in oilcloth.
Dozens.
Red Lawson’s letters.
Promises to investors.
False claims.
Forged ownership papers.
Threats.
Evidence.
Enough to destroy him.
But beneath the letters was something else.
A sealed envelope.
Written across the front:
For the woman who comes after me.
Hattie stopped breathing.
Mary had written a letter to Gideon’s future wife.
May you like
And somehow, nine years after her death, it had found Hattie.
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