I want to—Lord, do I want to—but I worry if I let my guard drop, the tears will break free and I will never regain composure.
I can hear her shuffling about in the hallway, and a moment later, a scrap of paper is shoved beneath the office door. I retrieve it and find a newspaper clipping from the Morning Courier in which I am reported as missing, a victim of the Rose Kid whose sanity is to be questioned. Still, there is a reward for my return. My dear uncle wants nothing more than to see me safely home.
I love you, Mother has scrawled across the top of the paper.
It is an incredible feat to blink back the tears. I feel thirteen again, when I first declared my aspirations of being a journalist. Father had been supportive, but Mother had told me to pursue midwifing or a good marriage. Those were my options.
“Your father encourages you because the world turns in his favor,” she told me. “Men do not understand what it is like to be a woman attempting a ‘man’s’ job. I love you too much to watch your dreams crushed beneath the unfair nature of the world.”
I hadn’t believed her, and she’d known it. She started sliding newspaper clippings of stories she believed might interest me under my bedroom door. They always read I love you at the top. Just like this one now.
“I love you, too,” I whisper through the door. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I could have prevented all of this. I could have spared you from—”
“Do not take blame for what’s happened for one second, Charlotte Vaughn,” she says. “There is only one guilty party here, and it is your uncle.”
“Did he change his will yet?”
“No. He plans to do it later today. Mr. Douglas is to visit.”
“So the Gulch Mine and all of Father’s businesses are strictly yours—ours?”
“For a few more hours, yes.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Where have you been?” Mother asks.
I tell her how I went to see Kate Colton the night I ran, how every moment since leaving I have been trying to find an impartial gunslinger to help us break free of Uncle. How it was slow and difficult because the Coltons were forced to go into hiding after the boy the Territory knows as the Rose Kid left them exposed to the wrath of the Rose Riders, and I found myself caught in the middle of it. I even mention the incident with Parker, carrying on quickly as Mother tries to interject.
“But we don’t need a gunslinger, and we don’t need the Law,” I insist. “All we need is the truth about Uncle Gerald, and the threat it imposes if printed. When he comes back, he will see that I’ve finished him. He will flee the Territory immediately.”
“Charlotte, I do not think you comprehend how thoroughly your uncle has purchased people in town. There is no winning with—”
The sound of the front door flying open and cracking against the wall sends me jumping to my feet.
“You lying, deceitful brat!” Uncle screams as he flings the office door open. I get the briefest glimpse of Mother in the hall—her face white with concern—before he slams the door shut and locks it once more. The back of his hand connects with my cheek, and I stumble away, grabbing the chair to keep from falling.
“Was this your plan—to trick me into confessing to an editor?” he roars. “To tie my own noose? John Marion is an old friend and an honest reporter. He won’t print a story when there is no proof.”
“But you did confess?” One look at Uncle’s face—the sweat beading along his brow, the flighty state of his eyes—and I know it is true. He barged into Mr. Marion’s office asking to explain himself.
About the ledgers, I can imagine him saying. They’re falsified. Please don’t print anything. Charlotte isn’t well. I run a fair business.
No matter the argument, it is enough to plant seeds of doubt.
“He may not print anything, but will he keep your story in confidence?” I ask. “Can you guarantee he won’t mention your strange plea to a friend, who might tell another, perhaps someone you haven’t bought or bribed? Imagine the rage at the mine if your workers hear of this. Imagine what might happen if the story reaches the Weekly Miner and they choose to print something in the Courier’s silence!”
“They won’t!” Uncle Gerald roars, spit flying from his mouth. “I own this town!”
“Then it’s good that I sent the ledgers to the offices of the Yuma Inquirer.”
He draws his pistol and presses the barrel to the underside of my chin. “I could silence you right now,” he snarls.
“That won’t stop the story from printing. And killing your niece surely won’t make you look more innocent in the eyes of readers.”
“You forget that everyone thinks you’re crazy, Charlotte. They’ll think you killed yourself.”
I swallow, trying to ignore the cold metal against my skin. “But will people in Yuma, who know me and Mother? People who trusted Father and respected our family? The Gulch Mine may be here in the Prescott area, but its business partners extend along the Colorado, into Yuma, and beyond. If they learn of your true nature, you will have no future in this Territory.”
He leans closer, the barrel pressing harder into my throat. “That’s assuming they buy the story. And the Inquirer?” He barks out a laugh. “A paper run entirely by women? No one will believe a word they print.”
“Are you willing to bet on that?” I say.
Fear flickers over his face. He can see the dominoes lined up, the way they will each topple when the Inquirer prints the story. It will be there in black and white, confirming any rumors and whispers that have started to circulate throughout Prescott. The miners will be furious. If they don’t kill him, the repercussions will. Mr. Marion may feel bold enough to print his own story. The Law may come calling.
Uncle’s influence will crumple. His honor will vanish, his reputation shatter.
He will be ruined.
This one article will ruin him.
He deflates, the pistol falling away from my skin as he slumps against his desk. “How could you do this to me?” he asks.
“You did it to yourself,” I respond. “The key?” I hold my hand out and he drops it into my palm.
I leave him standing there, slack-jawed and stunned, and unlock the door. In the hallway, Mother pulls me into an embrace. Not a heartbeat later, a gunshot rips through the house. I push away from Mother, looking down at my body—at her—certain that Uncle has just fired on us.
We are well. The house is silent, save for the ringing in my ears.
I turn back toward the office.
I already suspect what I might find, but I nudge the door open anyway.
Uncle Gerald is slumped face forward on his desk, having put a bullet through his brain.