James stepped down from the carriage with the restrained agility of a man who, though trained in composure, felt his blood boil at the sight of his patrimony reduced to rubble. The air grew heavy, unmoving. The door of the establishment hung like a half-closed eyelid, broken, useless. The glass panes—once radiant beneath the sun’s light—now lay scattered like shattered tears upon the dusty ground.

Tom Vargas, still mounted, dismounted in silence. His narrowed eyes studied the scene before resting upon James. There was no need for words; the disaster spoke for itself.

“This was no act of chance,” Tom murmured gravely. “This was hatred… and planning.”

James nodded as his steps carried him into the ruined workshop. Shattered display cases, vanished tools, jewels—the fruit of years of toil—stolen without mercy. Clara, still inside the carriage, descended slowly. She observed everything with the eyes of an old child. The image of destruction struck her soul like a memory foretold.

From the hill, concealed behind the undergrowth, a man in a long coat with a vile gaze watched the scene with delight. Henry Blackwell did not need to be near to savor the downfall of his enemy. Between his lips he pressed a dry mint sprig as he loosed a broken, restrained laugh—the hoarse caw of a poisoned crow.

“Ha… ha… ha…” he whispered to himself. “Let’s see if you smile after this, Mister Sunshine.”

But James’s face bore no despair, only tempered strength: the kind fire cannot consume. He turned toward Tom Vargas, whose eyes now measured him with renewed respect.

“I will not kneel before this,” James declared, his voice firm. “They may have destroyed my workshop, but they have not defeated my cause.”

Tom folded his arms, offering an approving glance.
“Well said. The world belongs to those who, even trampled, rebuild themselves with greater elegance than before. Now more than ever, the group needs you.”

James drew a long breath, and in doing so felt something stir deep within: the will to endure, the silent fury of a noble soul refusing to yield.

And Clara, standing among ruins, understood that her fate was already entwined with that of this man. Perhaps not with the romanticism of books, but with the raw truth of one who has learned that love is sometimes forged amid chaos and upheld by promises of rebuilding.

Thus the evening fell, a soft curtain upon a tragic yet unfinished scene. For every ending is also a beginning, and the story was only just beginning to outline its true protagonists.

During the day, they worked to repair the house—at least enough to sleep under its roof that night.

“I won’t leave you alone,” Tom Vargas said with a smile. “Tomorrow we’ll bring men to rebuild your shop. I’ll also provide you with new jewels and materials. Be glad they didn’t leave those stones behind… or they would have taken them too.”

No one knew for certain who had robbed the place. Suspicions fell on gangs known for their efficient modus operandi: raiding trains and banks without bloodshed, using explosives to crack safes. They roamed across the South and Midwest of the United States.

Clara felt a stirring premonition. She longed to speak, yet something urged her to remain silent. James, attentive to her expression, asked:
“Clara, would you like to share your thoughts—or speak of something else?”

“I am but a housewoman; I know almost nothing,” she replied. “But… if these thieves take everything they find, might they also have robbed that pervert who sought to force me into marriage? You told me he too was a jeweler, and that he envied you.”

Tom Vargas frowned.
“Who is this man?”

“He’s the one who entered the bar when we met,” James explained. “He threatened me, but I faced him down. Then he came to the shop after seeing Clara, with… obvious intentions. I didn’t let him cross the line. I don’t think he did this… I suspect common thieves.”

“Have other businesses been robbed recently?” Tom asked.

James paused in thought.
“Four months ago, they struck the bank—at dawn. Perhaps the same men. I’ve noticed suspicious figures around my shop. It’s all I have left. More than accepting the theft, I want to understand why.”

“Cheer up,” Tom said with a smile. “As they say, everything has a solution but death. Fortunately, you are part of the group, and I’ll support you in restoring your shop.”

“Speaking of money…” James strode to a section among the wreckage, shifted a hidden lever that resembled no lock, and opened a small trapdoor in the floor. He descended a concealed stairway and found his safe intact.

Tom Vargas followed, curious.
“Well, well! Cleverly done. I see you don’t keep your money in the bank.”

“Of course not,” James replied. “Especially here, where robberies are common. Sometimes I suspect the banks themselves rob their own coffers to feign holdups.”

Tom chuckled, visibly impressed.

A week later, the shop had been fully restored by the men hired by Tom Vargas. James clasped his hand.
“How can I repay you for this favor?”

Tom held his grip firmly.
“We are a tight, united circle. When one needs help, it is never denied—be it me or another member. We do not compete in generosity. Wealth is fleeting. Riches offer no guarantee of permanence. There are good times… and bad.”

James offered to take him home. Tom accepted, and James asked Clara to accompany them. But before departing, Tom suggested hiring him a bodyguard for business meetings—one with a perfect aim. He chose to remain with James a while longer, sending a telegram requesting a pickup… and that the sharpshooter be brought.

Soon after, with the reply received, Tom introduced the new guard:
“His name is Robert James.”

Meanwhile, Henry Blackwell tended to his business, convinced all was undone. He decided to see if James wept or had resigned himself. He mounted his horse, whistling cheerfully, but that joy crumbled when he saw the shop restored—better than before.

Believing it had a new owner, he entered casually. But there he found Robert James, Tom Vargas, and Clara—who saw him first, and immediately withdrew. James, noticing her, instructed:
“Go to the back.”

Tom sensed something amiss in the visitor, and Robert James grew vigilant: if James had sent Clara away, this man was not to be trusted.

“I know I behaved poorly last time,” Henry said with feigned humility. “But I came to apologize.”

James regarded him coldly.
“Fine. But stay away from the girl.”

Tom and Robert exchanged incredulous glances. None believed in such apologies.

Henry attempted to shake James’s hand, but Robert struck it aside with a sharp blow.
“Friendship is no easy thing,” he said firmly. “It is earned. I’ll be watching you. And tell me… why are you here? They say you too are a jeweler. How fares your business?”

Henry struggled to contain his unease, maintaining a strained smile.
“Well… my business was destroyed,” he replied with feigned serenity, nearly resigned. “Though, as we see, James’s stands untouched. I suppose God watches over him…”

Then, with an air of false amiability, he added:
“I came to propose that he work with me.”

“We’ll keep it in mind,” Tom Vargas replied, unenthused.

Henry nodded slowly and turned toward the door. As he crossed the threshold, a shadow of perversity flickered across his face.

“I’ll send my men… they will seize your girl. Clara will be mine. I swear it.”