Rosalie stopped breathing.
She reread the sentence.
The money you gave
him.
Gideon shook his head.
Rosalie’s pulse began hammering.
For me.
He shook his head again.
Harder.
Then he took the notebook.
I never gave your father fifty dollars.
Rosalie stood so suddenly the chair scraped backward.
Gideon could not hear the sound, but he saw the movement.
Her wedding morning returned in fragments.
Her father fastening his coat.
Merrick drinking whiskey before breakfast.
Silas saying, “Rook has paid what you’re worth.”
A leather purse disappearing into his desk.
Fifty dollars.
A signature.
A wagon waiting.
Rosalie had believed Gideon had purchased her.
The entire town probably believed it too.
She pointed at him.
“If you didn’t pay—”
He watched her mouth helplessly.
She forced herself to write.
Why did you marry me?
Gideon looked genuinely bewildered.
Then wounded.
He stood, crossed to the cedar chest again, and removed another folded paper.
