If no rancher in Dakota wants a three-hundred-pound bride, she can earn her keep in my barn or starve in the blizzard, my father declared as he pushed me onto the morning stagecoach.
The air in the Deadwood freight depot was thick with the scent of pine tar, damp wool, and the nervous energy of men trying to move goods before the next storm. Barrels of salted meat, sacks of grain, and crates of mining tools were stacked high. I was there to arrange a new, larger order for my catering business, now flourishing thanks to Elias’s bold move with his cattle herd. My independent merchant account, though backed by his herd, was fully functional, a small victory against Arthur’s relentless attacks.
Among the crowd, I spotted Samuel Winslow, my father’s senior accountant. He was a small, anxious man, perpetually fidgeting, always with a stack of ledgers under his arm. He was currently surrounded by several stern-faced town council members, who were clearly asking him pointed questions about the general state of trade and credit in the territory.
“Mr. Winslow,” Councilman Harding pressed, his voice booming over the general din. “There are rumors of certain… irregularities in how some local businesses are handling their finances. Specifically, the matter of withheld payments and unusual account transfers. We’ve heard whispers.”
Winslow’s eyes darted around, landing briefly on me. He visibly flinched, then quickly looked away, his face turning a shade paler. He clutched his ledgers tighter, his knuckles white.
“No, no irregularities, sir,” Winslow stammered, beads of sweat forming on his brow despite the chill in the depot. “Everything is… by the book. Just a few… minor adjustments for the timber accounts, you see.”
“Adjustments that seem to disproportionately affect smaller outfits and certain… family members?” Harding continued, his gaze sharp. “We’ve had some concerns about Arthur Higgins’s recent dealings, particularly regarding the dissolution of his daughter’s bakery.”
The mention of my bakery sent a fresh wave of panic through Winslow. He looked like a cornered rabbit. His eyes widened, and he swallowed hard.
“No, that was simply… a write-off, a clean-up,” Winslow blurted out, trying to sound authoritative but only managing to sound frantic. “The young lady was… a financial drain, you understand. Arthur had to clear out the accounts, tuck away her remaining trust fund. About three thousand five hundred dollars, I believe. Just to protect it from her… poor judgment, you see.”
The words hung in the air, sudden and sharp, cutting through the depot’s clamor. Several heads turned, including mine.
Three thousand five hundred dollars. My maternal inheritance. It was money left to me by my mother, meant for my future, held in trust by my father until my twenty-fifth birthday. He had told me it was all gone, evaporated by my “failed” bakery. He’d used it as another whip, another way to make me feel worthless and indebted.
But Winslow had just revealed it wasn’t gone. It had been “tucked away” – hidden. Not invested, not lost, but deliberately concealed in a private account, while Arthur publicly declared me bankrupt and a burden.
Nora Gallagher, the sharp-witted publisher of the Deadwood Daily, stood nearby, taking notes for her newspaper. She had been listening intently to the council’s inquiry. Her pen paused mid-stroke. Her eyes narrowed, first on Winslow, then on me. She caught my gaze and offered a slight, knowing nod. She had heard it all.
Winslow, realizing his monumental slip, clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide with horror. He looked utterly terrified, not of the council, but of Arthur Higgins. The confession, though accidental, was out. My inheritance wasn’t lost; it had been stolen.
I felt a surge of cold fury, mixed with a strange sense of vindication. This was the solid evidence I needed. Not just my own suspicions, not just an old invoice, but a direct, accidental confession from Arthur’s own accountant, confirming that my father had not only sabotaged my business but also plundered my trust fund while publicly shaming me. Nora Gallagher’s presence meant this secret wouldn’t stay hidden for long. The game had just changed.
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