Chapter Twenty-Five
Henry stepped out of the solicitor’s office, exhaling in frustration.
The heat hit him immediately, thick and dry beneath the midday sun. Dust drifted lazily along the street as wagons rattled past, their wheels groaning over packed earth. Farther down the block, a blacksmith’s hammer rang steadily against iron.
Normally, the familiar noise of town barely registered with him.
Today, every sound scraped at his temper.
He jammed his hat onto his head and descended the wooden steps with hard, deliberate strides.
Outbid.
The lawyer’s word sat bitterly in Henry’s mouth.
For nearly six months, he’d been quietly negotiating for the parcel of land bordering the south edge of his ranch.
It wasn’t the largest piece of property in the territory, but it mattered.
Good grazing land. Reliable water access.
Enough space to expand the horse stock without crowding the lower fields.
Henry had planned carefully, saved carefully, and—most importantly—he’d kept it quiet. He hadn’t told a soul other that the solicitor handling the purchase. Not George. Not his ranch hands. Not even Ruth.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them; he just knew how quickly information traveled in a small town like Cottonwood Falls. One careless mention in a general store or outside church, and suddenly, everyone knew a man’s business before the ink had even dried.
And so, he’d kept it to himself, and yet, somehow, someone else had known. Someone with enough money to outbid him outright before the deal was finalized.
Henry’s jaw tightened as he strode along the boardwalk toward the hitching post where he’d tied his horse and wagon earlier that morning.
The solicitor’s words replayed unpleasantly in his mind.
“I’m sorry, Collins. Better offer came in yesterday evening.”
When Henry had demanded to know who made the offer, the man had suddenly became cautious.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
That alone had told Henry enough.
Victor.
It had to be. Who else would benefit from hemming in Henry’s ranch, preventing expansion? From slowly choking off opportunity piece by piece until Henry either sold—or failed?
Henry’s hand curled into a fist at his side.
As if the horse auction hadn’t been enough.
The worst part was, he couldn’t understand how the man kept learning things he shouldn’t know. That unsettled him more than the lost property itself.
Henry had just turned the wagon toward the road leading out of town when a familiar voice stopped him.
“Henry?”
He stiffened instinctively.
Beatrice stood on the boardwalk outside the mercantile, one gloved hand lightly holding a parcel wrapped in brown paper. The afternoon breeze stirred the ribbons on her bonnet, and for a brief moment, she looked almost exactly as she had, years ago, waiting for him in town after church services.
Only now, the sight no longer stirred him.
Henry drew the horse to a stop. “Beatrice.”
She smiled. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“You’re standing in the middle of the street,” he replied dryly.
To his surprise, she laughed quietly. The sound eased some of the tension between them.
“I only wished to thank you,” she said after a moment.
Henry frowned slightly. “For what?”
“For yesterday.” Her expression softened. “You were kinder than I deserved.”
Henry shifted uncomfortably.
Beatrice lowered her gaze. “And Ruth …” she added. “Your wife was gracious to me, despite having every reason not to be.”
At that, Henry’s thoughts traveled immediately toward the ranch. He imagined Ruth, kneeling in the dirt of the garden, valiantly offering kindness in spite of her own misgivings.
“She has a good heart,” he said simply.
Beatrice nodded. “I experienced that for myself.” She looked back up at him carefully. “I wondered,” she began hesitantly, “if, perhaps, I might visit sometime. Properly.”
Henry’s brows drew together.
“Just for tea,” she clarified quickly, “with Ruth. I should like the chance to thank her for her kindness.”
Henry hesitated. Life had become calmer since Beatrice’s departure, and part of him recoiled at the idea of inviting old complications back into his home.
“I don’t think—”
“Oh, please,” Beatrice insisted. “You said we might be friends, and I should like to get to know your new wife.”
“Beatrice—”
“I know things between us were complicated before,” she pressed, “but I want to show you that I’ve changed, Henry.”
Henry hesitated. He did not want to sit down to tea with Beatrice, but he’d been trying very hard to follow Ruth’s Christian principles.
“Won’t you give me another chance?” she said.
Henry exhaled quietly before nodding once. “All right.”
Relief spread immediately across her face. “Truly?”
“Tea,” he clarified firmly. “Nothing more.”
“Of course.”
Henry glanced toward the sky. “I’m heading back now, if you want a ride”
Beatrice smiled faintly. “I’d like that.”
***
The ride home was awkward in ways Henry hadn’t anticipated. Not openly painful, just strange. The past sat quietly beside him in the wagon while his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed elsewhere.
For the first several minutes, the steady creak of wheels and the rhythmic clatter of hooves filled the silence as Cottonwood Falls slowly disappeared behind them.
Then, Beatrice smiled faintly toward the passing fields. “Do you remember,” she said softly, “the first time you brought me riding out this way?”
Henry’s grip tightened slightly on the reins. Of course he remembered.
Back then, the ranch had been smaller. The south pasture barely fenced, the barn half the size it was now. Beatrice had worn a pale blue dress utterly unsuited for riding, laughing every time the horse startled beneath her.
At the time, he’d thought the sound beautiful; now, the memory only felt distant.
“You were terrified of the horses,” he said flatly.
Beatrice laughed lightly. “I was trying very hard to impress you.”
Henry made no reply, so she continued.
“You picked wildflowers for me near the creek.” Her smile softened with the memory. “I pressed them between the pages of a book afterward.”
Henry stared ahead at the road. Mere months ago, thinking of Beatrice had filled him with anger sharp enough to choke on. Now, he mostly felt tired.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” she said after another pause, glancing toward him carefully. “The ranch is much larger than before.”
“It keeps me busy.”
“That was always your problem,” she teased gently. “You worked too hard.”
Henry nearly laughed at that. She’d once admired that ambition—when she thought it would benefit her. Now she spoke of it like fond exasperation.
“But look at you now,” she continued. “One of the most successful ranchers for miles, a new wife …” Her voice trailed off.
“And what about you?” Henry asked. “What brings you back to town?”
“Oh,” she said dismissively. “Nostalgia.”
“Right,” Henry replied, his thoughts churning. Ever since the auction, he’d been asking himself why Beatrice had returned. The timing gnawed at him. Why seek him out now, of all times, after everything that had happened between them?
Beatrice had never been guided purely by sentiment. She’d been deliberate in everything she did. Though Henry no longer loved her, he hadn’t forgotten that.
“You did not seem happy to see me,” she said softly.
“Well, what did you expect?” Henry said.
“I told you. I only wanted to apologize.”
“And Victor?” he said.
“I do not care about Victor,” she said. “I’ve never cared for him.”
“Then why?” he asked without thinking. “Why did you betray me?”
Beatrice hesitated. “I never intended to fall in love with you,” she admitted. “At first, it was just a job that Victor paid me to do, but … I did fall for you Henry. I still care for you.”
“I have a wife now,” he said.
“Yes,” Beatrice replied.
“And I don’t want to live in the past anymore,” Henry said. “I’ve chosen to forgive you for myself, so I can finally begin to move on.”
“I understand,” Beatrice said.
Henry nodded once, though unease lingered stubbornly beneath his ribs. Something about this felt unfinished. Not dangerous, exactly, but not completely innocent, either.
***
By the time the ranch came into view, late afternoon sunlight had turned the fields gold.
Henry climbed off the wagon seat before turning to help Beatrice down. The front door stood partially open, letting out the faint smell of baking bread and cinnamon.
Henry stepped inside first. “Ruth?” he called.
The sound of movement came immediately from the kitchen. Then, Ruth appeared in the doorway—and stopped short.
Her eyes widened the instant she saw Beatrice behind him. The change in her expression was quick, but unmistakable, and Henry suddenly felt absurdly guilty.
“Beatrice wanted to stop by for tea,” he explained, hearing too late how poorly planned that sounded.
Ruth’s gaze flickered briefly between them, but to her credit, she composed herself almost immediately. “Of course,” she said softly.
But Henry knew her well enough now to hear the strain beneath the polite response.
Still, she stepped aside graciously. “Please come in.”
Beatrice smiled warmly. “Thank you, Ruth. I truly hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all.”
The kitchen was warm from the stove, sunlight spilling across the table, where Clara sat, drawing quietly with a bit of charcoal on scrap paper. She looked up curiously at the newcomer.
Ruth moved automatically toward the cupboard. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Let me help,” Beatrice said.
“It’s no trouble.”
Henry watched Ruth carefully as she gathered cups and set biscuits on a plate. Her movements remained graceful and controlled, but there was tension in her shoulders. A quiet distance.
Suddenly, he knew bringing Beatrice here had been deeply unfair to Ruth.
Beatrice took a seat while Ruth poured tea carefully into delicate cups.
For a few moments, conversation remained polite and harmless: weather, town gossip, church attendance.
Then, Beatrice set down her cup gently and looked toward Henry. “Would you mind terribly if I spoke with Ruth alone for a few minutes?”
Henry frowned.
“Woman to woman,” Beatrice added with a small smile.
Ruth eyebrows darted up.
Henry hesitated, but Beatrice appeared sincere, and Ruth herself gave no sign she objected.
Before he could overthink it, Clara tugged lightly at his sleeve.
“Come on,” he muttered, crouching slightly beside her. “Let’s go see what trouble George is causing.”
Clara brightened immediately.
Henry straightened, glancing once more toward Ruth. She offered him a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
As Henry led Clara outside toward the barn, he could not shake the tension in his shoulders or the gnawing in his gut.