Chapter 3 - The Man Beside Her
Lena slept badly.
Not because Beatrice might throw her out.
That threat had changed.
She slept badly because the ceiling above her servant’s room belonged to a story she no longer understood.
At dawn she found Reid in the barn.
He was saddling a bay gelding.
“You leaving?”
“Checking the north fence.”
She leaned against the stall.
“You always check fences when you want to avoid conversations.”
Reid paused.
“You know me too well.”
“I’ve watched you for six years.”
“And I’ve watched you.”
The words lingered.
Neither used them romantically.
Not yet.
Reid was thirty-one, broad-shouldered, quiet, with a scar across one knuckle and a habit of listening long enough to make liars uncomfortable.
Silas trusted him.
Lena did too.
Which now made her suspicious.
“Did Silas ever say anything about my mother?”
“No.”
“My name?”
“Once.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“You said you knew nothing.”
“I said I didn't know about the land.”
“What did he say?”
Reid removed his hat.
Three years earlier Silas had asked:
“If a person discovers the roof over his head came from someone else’s loss, does repairing the roof make it his?”
Reid thought Silas was talking about business.
“I told him no.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“Anything about me?”
“Later he asked whether you were happy here.”
Lena laughed bitterly.
“Happy serving his family?”
“I said I didn't know.”
“Did you ask me?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Reid looked ashamed.
“I assumed if you wanted to leave, you would.”
Lena stared.
“That is easier to say when a man owns a horse, wages, and somewhere else to go.”
Reid accepted the rebuke.
“You're right.”
She crossed her arms.
“Beatrice told me yesterday I would leave. Silas knew the house might be mine. You thought leaving was always available.”
“I was wrong.”
“Everyone seems to have learned important things after they became convenient.”
Reid nodded.
“That includes me.”
Lena’s anger softened only slightly.
He had not defended himself.
That mattered.
“Why did you stand beside me yesterday?”
“Because Beatrice threw your suitcase at your feet.”
“That answer is too simple.”
“Most true answers are.”
She waited.
Reid finally continued.
“Because everyone in that room was looking at you like a problem to be settled. You were the only person nobody had asked what you wanted.”
Lena looked away.
“What do I want?”
“I don't know.”
“Neither do I.”
Reid saddled the horse.
“Then don't let anyone rush you.”
He rode north.
Lena returned to the house.
Beatrice was already in the breakfast room with Warren.
They stopped speaking when Lena entered.
Before yesterday, Lena would have poured coffee.
Today she did not.
Beatrice looked at the empty pot.
Then at Lena.
“Are you refusing to work?”
Lena felt strangely calm.
“Yes.”
Warren smiled thinly.
“You are still employed by the estate.”
Whitlock, entering behind Lena, answered:
“No, she is not.”
Beatrice turned.
“What?”
“Silas terminated Miss Mercer’s domestic employment effective upon his death and paid six months’ wages in lieu of notice.”
Lena had not known.
Whitlock handed her an envelope.
Money.
Not charity.
Wages.
Silas had thought about the humiliation of being ordered to serve while claiming the house.
Late.
Still something.
Beatrice said:
“So what exactly does Lena do now?”
Lena answered:
“I eat breakfast.”
Then she sat at the table.
In a chair.
Not against the wall.
Beatrice stared.
Lena’s hands trembled under the table.
But she stayed.
Warren changed tactics.
“We should be reasonable.”
Reid would have laughed.
Lena nearly did.
Warren proposed an immediate settlement.
Ten thousand dollars.
Lena would renounce any title claim and leave Red Willow.
Beatrice looked surprised.
“You never mentioned ten thousand.”
Warren ignored her.
“To a woman in Lena’s position, that's security for life.”
Lena looked at Whitlock.
“What is the original homestead worth?”
Whitlock answered:
“Depending on water rights, perhaps forty thousand. Perhaps more.”
Warren’s face hardened.
Lena turned back.
“My position seems to have improved.”
Beatrice almost smiled despite herself.
Warren did not.
“You may receive nothing after litigation.”
“Then why offer ten thousand?”
Silence.
Lena had learned something serving wealthy people.
The number they offered first often revealed what they feared losing.
She stood.
“No.”
Warren pushed back his chair.
“You don't understand land law.”
“No.”
“Debt?”
“No.”
“Title?”
“Not yet.”
“Then you should listen to people who do.”
Lena looked at Whitlock.
“I will.”
Warren realized too late that she did not mean him.
He left.
Beatrice remained.
For a moment they sat alone.
Then Beatrice said:
“My father loved this house.”
“So did my mother.”
“You barely remember her.”
Lena felt the cruelty.
She answered quietly:
“You remember your father. Would that make it acceptable for someone to erase his name from his property after you die?”
Beatrice looked away.
Lena stood.
At the doorway Beatrice said:
“I didn't know.”
Lena turned.
“About the deed?”
“Yes.”
“Would it matter if you had?”
Beatrice’s silence answered.
Lena left.
That afternoon Reid returned from the northern fence carrying a rusted metal box.
He placed it on the kitchen table.
“Found this wedged inside the old boundary wall.”
Whitlock examined it.
Silas’s initials were carved into the lid.
Inside lay a survey map.
The original Mercer homestead was outlined in red.
But another line had been drawn across it.
A planned railway spur.
At the edge of Lena’s mother’s spring were two words:
RESERVOIR SITE.
Warren’s ten-thousand-dollar offer suddenly made more sense.
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The house was not the most valuable thing Clara Mercer had left.
The water beneath it was.
