But Morrison didn't need to know that detail. The banker's face went from red to purple. You can't— I can and I will request a full accounting of this loan, Mr. Morrison. And if I find any irregularities, any hint of usury or fraudulent terms, I will take it to the territorial judge. Judge Hammond, I believe, he struck me as a man of integrity when I met him at church last Sunday.
It was a bluff mostly. She had met the judge briefly, but she had no idea if he would take their side against Morrison, but the banker didn't know that. Morrison yanked his horse's reins hard enough to make the animal dance nervously. "You've got 6 months, Walker. 6 months to pay in full, or this ranch is mine." He glared at Clara.
"And you might want to teach your wife her proper place before she finds herself in trouble she can't talk her way out of." He rode off with his men, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. Ethan turned to Clara, his expression unreadable. Harvard? He said finally. I didn't lie.
My father did have a degree from Harvard. And you just happened to forget to mention that. You never asked. She met his gaze steadily. You've made it clear you don't want to know anything about me, remember?
He was quiet for a moment, then said, "That was impressive what you did there." It was a delay tactic. Nothing more. He'll be back and he'll be angrier. Still, you didn't have to do that. This isn't your fight.
Yes, it is. She gestured to the ranch around them. This is my home now. Whether either of us likes it or not. If Morrison takes this ranch, I lose, too.
Sophie loses. We all lose. So, it's about self-preservation. Partly, she hesitated, then added, "And partly because men like Morrison have been making women like me dance to their tune my whole life. I'm tired of it." Something shifted in his expression, a recognition of shared experience.
They'd both been forced into this marriage by Morrison's machinations, both been stripped of their choices. "We need to look at those documents," Clara said. "The real ones. There might be something we can use." "They're in the study," Ethan said slowly. "I haven't I haven't been in there since Margaret died.
It was her favorite room. Would you like me to get them?" He shook his head. No, it's time. I need to stop avoiding it. They walked back to the house together, and Clara was surprised when Sophie slipped her hand into hers as they entered.
The gesture was tentative, ready to be withdrawn at the first sign of rejection. Clara kept her grip gentle, neither holding too tight nor letting go. The study door had been closed for so long the hinges creaked in protest. The room beyond was frozen in time, dust moes dancing in the afternoon sunlight, streaming through lace curtains. Books lined two walls, their spines showing an eclectic mix of interests.