The truth churned like venom in Rose’s middle as she stepped into the barn the next morning. She’d worked hard to avoid both Thomas and James the night before, and again this morning.
But now that the other men had ridden out to check on the stock, she had to talk to James. Had to tell him the details she so desperately wanted to ignore.
Thomas was right. James deserved to know the truth surrounding his mother’s death. The truth of how her own mother had been involved, even if unknowingly.
The rich scents of hay and horses filled the air, pulling up the precious memory of James in the cave—the soft promise of his kiss, the way he’d cradled her face like something cherished. She should never have let him kiss her without telling him the truth first. She could not pretend he would accept her. No matter how desperately she’d wanted him to.
She’d been selfish. So ridiculously selfish, just like her mother’s actions in bringing Vincent to this ranch all those years ago.
She wouldn’t let it continue though. She would tell him now. Then face the consequences. Even if they required her to leave this safe haven she’d come to treasure.
James stood by the ladder leading to the hayloft, his walking sticks propped against a nearby post as he worked to add more rungs.
The sight of him—so strong despite his injury, so focused on the simple task of making something better—made her chest ache with what she was about to destroy.
He must have heard her footsteps because he turned, and the way his face lit up at the sight of her nearly broke her resolve. His golden-brown hair caught the morning light streaming through the barn door, and his green eyes held that same warmth they’d carried yesterday when he’d kissed her.
“Rose.” His voice warmed with a note of pleasure that made her chest ache. “I was hoping to talk to you. I couldn’t find you after the evening meal last night.”
She’d made sure he couldn’t find her. Had rushed through cleaning the kitchen with Mrs. Wang, then claimed exhaustion and retreated to her room before he could corner her for conversation.
“I need to tell you something.” The words scraped against her throat like broken glass.
James set down his hammer, concern cloaking his features. “What is it?”
The barn closed around her as the air thickened with the poison of what she had to say. She clasped her hands in front of her to keep them from trembling. The memory of his kiss still burned on her lips—a sweetness she was about to sully forever.
She forced in a breath for courage. “When I was twelve, Vincent ordered me to start singing with my mother. I begged Mama to make him change his mind, and she finally told me why she couldn’t. Why she sang all those years, letting all those drunken men leer at her. Why she wouldn’t stand up to Vincent even for me.” Her traitorous voice cracked on those last words. Mama had protected her, just not the way Rose had begged her to.
“She said Vincent had confessed to her that he’d killed your mother.”
The hammer slipped from James’s fingers, clattering to the barn floor with a sound that echoed in the sudden silence. The color drained from his face, his green eyes widening with a shock so complete it made her stomach lurch.
“What?” His voice came out barely above a whisper.
Rose’s hands shook as she forced herself to continue. “After we reached Virginia City, Vincent told Mama he’d poisoned Lady Balfour. He said if she didn’t sing in his theater, he would tell everyone she had done it instead.”
James gripped the ladder rung so hard his knuckles went white. “Vincent killed my mother?”
The raw pain in his voice made tears blur her vision. “I don’t know for certain. But he had access to her, didn’t he? Because Mama had invited him here. Had let him court her right in your mother’s house.” The words tasted like bile. “If Mama hadn’t brought him to this ranch, your mother might still be alive.”
He opened his mouth to speak. Then closed it. When he finally responded, his voice came out desperate. “My mother died of consumption.”
The last word hung in the air between them—consumption. Rose had heard that diagnosis so many times in the weeks before Lady Balfour’s death. Everyone had believed it. She had believed it.
Until Mama’s trembling confession in that cramped Virginia City room.
“That’s what everyone thought.” Rose’s voice came out steadier than she felt. “But Vincent told Mama he’d been slipping poison into her tea for weeks. Small amounts, so it would look like a wasting illness. He said…” She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “He said it had been easy because Mama let him visit so often.”
James turned away from her, his shoulders rigid beneath his coat. He clung to the ladder with both white-knuckled hands.
She had to finish it all. Had to hand over this incriminating letter. She sucked in another breath for fortitude. “When Thomas went to get the contract, he also brought back a letter.” Her throat constricted around each word. “It’s a blackmail note Vincent had prepared to use against Mama if she ever tried to leave him.”
James turned back to her, his face drained of color, his green eyes holding a blankness she’d never seen in him.
Her fingers trembled as she reached into her apron pocket. The paper burned like fire against her skin—this tangible proof of Vincent’s evil, of her mother’s entrapment, of Lady Balfour’s murder.
She’d avoided looking at it since Thomas gave it to her. Hadn’t been able to force herself to unfold the pages again and see Vincent’s careful handwriting detailing his crime.
