“We find out exactly what they want.”
“And if we don't like the answer?”
His fingers closed around hers.
“Then we decide what we're willing to lose.”
Clara had expected many things from marriage.
She had expected gossip.
She had expected disapproval.
She had even expected loneliness.
What she had not expected was a war over land.
And she certainly had not expected it seven days after saying “I do.”
But the letter from Washington was only the beginning.
The first sign appeared three days later.
It was a wooden stake driven into the ground less than half a mile from their house.
A white mark had been painted across its top.
Elias stared at it.
Clara stood beside him.
“What is that?”
“A survey marker.”
“Who put it there?”
“I don't know.”
She looked toward the horizon.
“Can they take the land?”
Elias shook his head.
“Not if the old boundary still stands.”
“What boundary?”
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said quietly:
“The one nobody in Washington remembers.”
That sentence would change everything.
The next morning, Elias rode north.
Clara wanted to go with him.
He refused.
“You should stay here.”
“Why?”
“Because people are watching.”
“Let them watch.”
“Clara.”
She crossed her arms.
“You married me seven days ago. You don't get to start giving me orders now.”
A faint smile appeared on his face.
“I was afraid you would say that.”
“You should have been.”
He stepped closer.
“This isn't a game.”
“I know.”
“These men have money.”
“So do we.”
“They have lawyers.”
“We can find lawyers.”
“They have politicians.”
“Then we'll find people willing to listen.”
Elias studied her.
“You don't understand what they're capable of.”
Clara's expression softened.
“Maybe not.”
She touched his arm.
“But I understand what you're capable of.”
He looked away.
That was the problem.
He knew she believed in him.
And he was terrified of being the reason she suffered.
“I'll be back before sunset,” he said.
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
He mounted his horse.
Before leaving, he looked back.
Clara stood in the doorway.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then he rode away.
By noon, the town was talking.
A representative from the railroad had arrived.
His name was Charles Mercer.
He was thirty-five, impeccably dressed, and spoke with the confidence of a man who had never been told no.
He entered the town council meeting carrying a leather portfolio.
Inside were maps.
Contracts.
Federal documents.
And a proposal.
The railroad would bring jobs.
A larger market.
Lower shipping costs.
New businesses.
A permanent station.
Mercer spoke for twenty minutes.
Nobody interrupted him.
Then he placed a second document on the table.
“These are compensation offers for affected landowners.”