Poetry, agriculture, history, novels. A delicate writing desk sat near the window, papers still scattered across its surface, as if Margaret had just stepped out for a moment. Ethan stood in the doorway like he was facing a firing squad. Clara could see the pain etched in every line of his body. "She loved this room," he said quietly.
"Spent hours here, reading, writing letters. She was teaching herself Latin from those books over there. Said she wanted Sophie to have a proper education, not just the basics they teach at the town school. She sounds like she was remarkable, Clara said honestly. She was.
He moved into the room slowly, running his fingers along the desk surface. "She would have liked you, I think. You're both fighters in your own ways." It was the kindest thing he'd said to her since their wedding. Clara didn't know how to respond, so she stayed silent. Ethan opened a drawer in the desk, pulling out a leather portfolio.
The loan documents are in here. Margaret kept all the important papers organized. She had a better head for numbers than I did. They spread the papers on the desk. Clara pulling up a chair while Ethan stood behind her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
Sophie had wandered over to the bookshelves, running her small fingers along the spines with reverent care. "Here," Clara said, pointing to a clause in the contract. "This interest rate is higher than what he told you originally, isn't it?" "Yes," he said it was 8%, but this says 12. And here, this penalty clause, it says if you miss even one payment, he can call in the entire loan immediately. That's not standard.
I didn't read it carefully, Ethan admitted. Margaret was sick, dying, and I just needed money for the doctor, for medicine. I would have signed anything. Clara heard the guilt in his voice, the self-rrimination. He took advantage of your desperation.
That's what men like Morrison do. She continued reading, her finger tracking along the lines of text. There was something here, something not quite right about the language, the terms. Her father had taught her to read contracts, had shown her how unscrupulous men hid their tricks in legal language. Wait, she said suddenly.
This date, when did you sign this? March 15th. But this is dated March 20th. And look, the interest rate calculation starts from March 1st, not the date of signing. Ethan leaned closer, his breath stirring her hair.
He's been charging me interest for weeks before I even got the money. Not just that, if the date is wrong, the whole contract might be void, or at least questionable enough to take to a judge. She turned to look at him, not realizing how close he was. Their faces were inches apart, close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his gray eyes, could count his eyelashes. For a moment, neither moved.
The air between them seemed to crackle with sudden awareness. Clara's heart thundered in her chest, and she saw Ethan's eyes drop to her lips for just an instant before he pulled back, clearing his throat. "We should take this to a lawyer," he said, his voice rougher than usual. "Do you know one you trust?" "There's a man in Denver, Samuel Fletcher. He helped my neighbor with a land dispute last year.