PART 1: THE MOST EXPENSIVE ENVELOPE IN THE WEST

The first man tried to steal the envelope at gunpoint.

The second offered five hundred dollars for it.

The third chased cowboy Jack Mercer across twelve miles of mountain wilderness.

And when Jack finally discovered what was inside that mysterious envelope, he nearly fell out of his chair.

It was a recipe for beans.

But three days earlier, Jack had been convinced he was carrying the most valuable secret in Colorado.

It all started on a Tuesday morning in the dusty town of Silver Creek.

Jack Mercer was sitting outside the saloon, wondering how a man could own two horses, three pairs of boots, and still have only forty-seven cents in his pocket.

That was when a wealthy merchant named Theodore Whitcomb stepped out of a black carriage.

Whitcomb was the sort of gentleman who wore polished shoes in a town where the streets were mostly mud.

“Are you Jack Mercer?” he asked.

“Depends,” Jack replied. “Who’s asking, and do I owe him money?”

“I have a business proposition.”

Jack immediately sat straighter.

“Now that’s a language I understand.”

Whitcomb pulled a thick envelope from his coat.

It was sealed with dark red wax and marked with a single handwritten word.

PRIVATE.

“I need this delivered to a woman named Clara Bennett in Willow Springs,” Whitcomb said. “You must place it directly into her hands. No one else’s.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Willow Springs? That’s on the other side of Blackthorn Pass.”

“Correct.”

“That pass is full of thieves, wolves, and men who smell worse than either.”

“I’m aware.”

“And the bridge over Rattlesnake Creek washed out last month.”

“I’m aware of that too.”

Jack leaned forward.

“Then you’re aware this job isn’t cheap.”

Whitcomb placed a small leather bag on the table.

Inside were twenty gold coins.

Jack stared at them.

Then he stared at Whitcomb.

Then he counted the coins again, just in case his eyes had suddenly developed expensive tastes.

“Twenty dollars?” Jack whispered.

“Two hundred,” Whitcomb corrected. “Half now. Half when the woman confirms delivery.”

Jack almost swallowed his chewing tobacco.

Two hundred dollars was more money than he’d earned in six months.

“What’s in the envelope?”

Whitcomb’s expression changed.

“That is not your concern.”

Jack looked at the red wax seal.

“Gold claim?”

“No questions.”

“Railroad contract?”

“Mr. Mercer.”

“Secret map to a silver mine?”

Whitcomb leaned closer.

“If anyone asks, you are carrying nothing more important than a letter from one family member to another.”

Jack smiled slowly.

That was exactly what a man carrying a secret gold-mine map would be told to say.

“You can trust me, sir.”

Whitcomb hesitated.

“There is one more condition.”

“Name it.”

“Whatever happens, do not open that envelope.”

Jack placed a hand over his heart.

“Sir, I’d sooner sell my own mother than break a gentleman’s confidence.”

Whitcomb looked horrified.

“Your mother?”

“Figure of speech. She’s already married.”

Whitcomb decided not to ask another question.

By noon, Jack was riding west with the envelope tucked inside his jacket and more money in his pocket than he’d ever carried before.

He named the envelope Miss Fortune.

“Just you and me, Miss Fortune,” he told it. “We’re going to be rich.”

His horse, Biscuit, snorted.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’ll get new oats.”

For the first six hours, the journey was peaceful.

Then Jack noticed a rider following him.

The stranger wore a gray coat and kept a careful distance.

Whenever Jack slowed down, the stranger slowed too.

Whenever Jack increased his pace, the stranger followed.

By sunset, Jack was certain.

Someone knew about the envelope.

He stopped beside a narrow canyon and shouted, “You following me, mister?”

The rider approached slowly.

“Depends,” the stranger answered. “You carrying a sealed letter?”

Jack’s stomach tightened.

“Nope.”

“A letter with red wax?”

“Nope.”

“Addressed to Clara Bennett?”

Jack paused.

“You ask an awful lot of questions for a man who hasn’t introduced himself.”

The stranger reached beneath his coat.

Jack didn’t wait to see what came out.

He kicked Biscuit into a gallop.

They tore through the canyon as gravel scattered beneath the horse’s hooves.

Behind him came an angry shout.

“MERCER! STOP!”

“NOT PARTICULARLY INTERESTED!” Jack yelled back.

He ducked beneath a fallen tree, crossed a shallow stream, and climbed a rocky trail that even mountain goats would have considered unreasonable.

By the time darkness fell, the stranger was gone.

Jack made camp beneath a pine tree.

He pulled the envelope from his jacket and examined it in the firelight.

“What in heaven’s name are you worth?” he whispered.

For a moment, he considered breaking the seal.

Then he remembered Whitcomb’s warning.

And the remaining hundred dollars.

“Nope,” he told himself. “A gentleman keeps his word.”

Biscuit snorted again.

“Don’t start.”

The next morning, Jack reached the mountain settlement of Dry Hollow.

He had barely finished ordering breakfast when a stranger in a green waistcoat sat across from him.

“Lovely morning,” the man said.

“For somebody,” Jack replied.

The stranger smiled.

“I hear you’re traveling to Willow Springs.”

Jack slowly lowered his coffee.

“Is there a newspaper announcing my whereabouts that I don’t know about?”

“I represent certain interested parties.”

“Well, tell your parties I’m not interested.”

The man placed a roll of banknotes on the table.

“Five hundred dollars for the envelope.”

Jack stared.

Five hundred dollars.

For one piece of paper.

Now he was certain the envelope contained something extraordinary.

“Sorry, friend,” Jack said, pushing the money back. “I gave my word.”

The stranger’s smile disappeared.

“You have no idea what you’re carrying.”

“That’s correct.”

“Then perhaps you should learn.”

Jack stood.

“Perhaps you should learn to mind your own breakfast.”

He left before his eggs arrived.

By the third afternoon, Jack was exhausted, hungry, and beginning to suspect half the territory wanted that mysterious letter.

He had crossed Blackthorn Pass during a thunderstorm, slept in a freezing cave, and lost one boot in a creek before retrieving it with a long branch.

But the red wax seal remained untouched.

Finally, just before sunset, he rode into Willow Springs.

The town was smaller than he’d expected.

One church. One blacksmith. A few wooden houses.

And a little restaurant near the edge of town with a crooked sign hanging above the door.

BENNETT’S KITCHEN.

Jack dismounted.

Through the window, he could see a young woman scrubbing a table.

Her brown hair was tied loosely behind her head, and her sleeves were rolled above her elbows.

The restaurant was empty.

Jack stepped inside.

“I’m looking for Clara Bennett.”

The woman looked up.

“You found her.”

Jack carefully removed the envelope.

“I’ve ridden through three days of misery to put this into your hands, ma’am.”

Clara stared at the red wax seal.

Her expression changed instantly.

“Where did you get this?”

“Gentleman named Theodore Whitcomb.”

She slowly lowered herself into a chair.

“He actually sent it.”

Jack frowned.

“You know what’s inside?”

Clara didn’t answer.

Instead, she broke the seal with trembling fingers.

Jack leaned closer despite himself.

At last, he would discover what secret had been worth two hundred dollars, three sleepless nights, and a perfectly good boot nearly swept downstream.

Clara unfolded the paper.

She read the first line.

Then she covered her mouth.

Jack held his breath.

“Well?” he whispered.

Clara looked up at him, tears shining in her eyes.

“It’s my mother’s recipe.”

Jack blinked.

“Her what?”

“Her bean recipe.”

Silence filled the restaurant.

Outside, a chicken clucked beneath the window.

Jack stared at the paper.

“Beans?”

Clara nodded.

“Beans.”

“The kind you eat?”

“Yes.”

“Not the name of a gold mine?”

“No.”

“Not a secret code?”

“No.”

Jack slowly removed his hat.

“Ma’am, I have been chased across mountains by dangerous men because of a recipe for beans?”

Clara looked at him with confusion.

“Chased? Why would anyone chase you?”

Before Jack could answer, Clara noticed something written at the bottom of the page.

She turned pale.

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

Jack leaned forward.

“What?”

“There’s a message from my brother.”

Her hands began to shake.

She read the final sentence aloud.

“Clara, if this recipe reaches you, please don’t trust the man who delivered it. He is being followed.”

Jack felt the blood drain from his face.

At that exact moment, heavy footsteps sounded outside the restaurant.

Then someone knocked three times.

And a familiar voice called through the door.

“Mr. Mercer. We need to talk about that envelope.”