The missing herd nearly destroyed Caleb.
Not financially.
Not yet.
Emotionally.
He stood at the broken northern fence while six cowboys searched tracks in the dust.
Two hundred cattle.
Possibly more.
Gone.
The bank note was due in five weeks.
Without those cattle, Ironwood could not cover it.
Caleb crouched and touched a severed wire.
"Cut clean."
Wyatt stood behind him.
"Rustlers must've come overnight."
Caleb rose slowly.
"Must have."
Beatrice watched Wyatt.
The foreman did not look at her.
That interested her.
Billy found hoofprints heading northwest.
Caleb organized a search party.
Wyatt volunteered immediately.
"No."
Every man turned.
Caleb's voice stayed calm.
"You remain here."
Wyatt stared.
"I know that country better than anybody."
"That's why I'm leaving you in charge."
A compliment.
Perhaps.
But Beatrice saw the suspicion beneath it.
So did Wyatt.
Caleb left with ten men.
For two days there was no word.
Ironwood became tense.
Beatrice continued feeding the remaining crew, but the usual laughter vanished.
Every meal ended with men glancing toward the ridge.
On the third morning, a rider appeared.
Billy ran from the barn.
"Boss is back!"
Caleb returned dusty, furious, and empty-handed.
The tracks had vanished in rocky ground near Black Gorge.
Whoever stole the cattle knew exactly how to lose pursuers.
At supper, Caleb ate almost nothing.
Beatrice waited until the cookhouse cleared.
"How bad?"
He stared at his coffee.
"Bad."
"How bad?"
"If we don't recover them, I lose the ranch."
Beatrice sat opposite him.
"When?"
"Bank's due October first."
"Amount?"
"Four thousand eight hundred."
She exhaled.
"Available cash?"
"Maybe twelve hundred."
"Receivables?"
"About nine hundred, if every buyer pays."
"Other livestock?"
"Horses. Breeding stock. Cattle I can't sell without destroying next year."
Beatrice folded her hands.
"Then we need three thousand dollars."
Caleb gave a tired laugh.
"You say that like we're short on flour."
"Problems become smaller when measured."
"Not this one."
"Especially this one."
He looked at her.
She continued.
"How much are you spending monthly on purchased food?"
"Don't know."
"I do. Four hundred twelve dollars."
Caleb blinked.
"That's impossible."
"It is irresponsible, but not impossible."
"How?"
"Because your invoices are padded, your stores were unmanaged, and half the men bought food independently whenever supplies ran low."
He leaned forward.
"We can cut it?"
"In half."
"That saves two hundred."
"A month."
"We have five weeks."
"I'm aware."
She turned another page.
"Your leather account is absurd."
"We need tack."
"You bought forty saddle blankets in June."
"We didn't."
"I know."
Caleb's eyes darkened.
Beatrice continued.
"Your blacksmith bill contains shoes for horses that don't exist. You were charged freight twice on three separate seed shipments. Somebody has been bleeding Ironwood slowly because small losses are easier to hide than one large theft."
"Wyatt."
"I didn't say that."
"You're thinking it."
"I'm thinking we need proof."
Caleb looked toward the dark window.
"I've known him twelve years."
"Then if he's innocent, proof will protect him too."
That silenced Caleb.
The following morning Beatrice did something Wyatt had not anticipated.
She made herself indispensable outside the kitchen.
With Caleb's permission, she took over ranch accounts.
Every purchase required her mark.
Every delivery was counted.
Every cowboy signed for supplies.
Within four days, expenses dropped.
Within a week, a curious thing happened.
Three vendors stopped visiting.
Beatrice rode into Bitter Creek with Caleb.
At the general store, Mr. Harlan became nervous when she asked about old invoices.
"I just bill what Ironwood orders."
"Who places the orders?"
"Mr. Sullivan mostly."
"Did he order forty saddle blankets?"
Harlan swallowed.
"I'd have to look."
Beatrice smiled pleasantly.
"I'll wait."
The storekeeper disappeared into his office.
Ten minutes later he returned with a ledger.
The answer was no.
Ironwood had purchased seventeen.
The invoice in Caleb's books said forty.
Outside, Caleb leaned against the hitching post.
"That's enough."
"For what?"
"To fire him."
"Not to recover your cattle."
Caleb swore softly.
"You're stubborn."
"So I've been told."
By the time they returned, storm clouds were gathering.
Wyatt stood outside the barn.
His gaze went from Caleb to Beatrice.
"Town trip?"
"Supplies," Caleb said.
Wyatt smiled.
"Would've gone for you."
"I know."
That night rain came hard.
Beatrice woke after midnight to the smell of smoke.
For one confused second she thought the kitchen stove had backed up.
Then someone screamed.
"FIRE!"
She threw on a robe and ran outside.
The records shed was burning.
Flames already climbed through the roof.
Caleb and the men formed a bucket line.
Beatrice stopped dead.
The ledgers.
She had moved most of the current records into Caleb's office.
But the old books—the ones showing years of purchases and cattle movements—were inside.
She started toward the building.
Caleb grabbed her arm.
"No."
"The records!"
"Forget them."
"We need them."
"The roof's going!"
She pulled free.
"Beatrice!"
She ran.
The heat struck her first.
Then smoke.
She covered her mouth, ducked beneath a fallen beam, and found the shelf where the books were stored.
Half had already caught fire.
She grabbed everything she could.
A flaming board crashed behind her.
Outside, Caleb shouted her name.
Beatrice lifted the books against her chest.
She turned.
The doorway was blocked.
For one terrifying second, she saw nothing but flame.
Then a shape came through the smoke.
Caleb.
He wrapped his coat around her.
"What part of 'don't go inside' was confusing?"
"Most of it."
Even choking, she managed the answer.
He nearly laughed.
"Come on."
They escaped seconds before part of the roof collapsed.
Caleb pulled her twenty feet from the building.
Only then did Beatrice realize she was still clutching three ledgers.
One was scorched.
Two were intact.
Wyatt stood among the watching men.
His expression was unreadable.
Beatrice looked directly at him.
"Bad luck," she said.
The words belonged to him.
He understood.
Later Caleb cleaned a burn along Beatrice's forearm.
She sat at the kitchen table while the ranch slept.
"You could've died."
"So could the evidence."
"Evidence isn't worth your life."
"That depends what it's evidence of."
Caleb stopped wrapping the cloth.
"Don't joke."
"I'm not."
His anger softened.
"Why do you always fight like you expect no one else to help?"
Beatrice's eyes lowered.
"Because usually no one does."
The words hit deeper than he expected.
Caleb tied the bandage.
"You're not in Boston anymore."
"No."
"And I'm not Edwin Shaw."
"No."
"Then stop assuming I am."
Beatrice looked at him.
"You're asking me to trust you?"
"I suppose I am."
"Do you trust me?"
Caleb hesitated.
Once, that hesitation would have wounded her.
This time he answered carefully.
"I'm learning."
"So am I."
Neither moved.
The air between them changed.
Not dramatically.
There was no sweeping music, no declaration.
Only Caleb's hand resting near hers on the table.
And Beatrice did not move hers away.
The next morning they examined the salvaged ledgers.
A scorched page revealed repeated payments to a freight company called North Star Transport.
Caleb frowned.
"They don't haul cattle."
"What do they haul?"
"Anything, supposedly. But I've never hired them."
Beatrice pointed.
"You've paid them six times."
"How much?"
"Almost eight hundred dollars."
Caleb's expression hardened.
"Who signed?"
The initials were barely visible.
W.S.
Wyatt Sullivan.
Caleb pushed back from the table.
"Where is he?"
Outside, Billy ran toward the cookhouse.
"Mr. Montgomery!"
He was breathless.
"Wyatt's gone."
Caleb's face changed.
"When?"
"Nobody knows. His horse too."
Beatrice stood.
Billy held out an envelope.
"Found this nailed to the barn."
Caleb tore it open.
Inside was one sentence.
STOP COUNTING THINGS THAT DON'T BELONG TO YOU.
Caleb read it twice.
Then Beatrice saw another detail.
On the paper was a faint printed mark.
A Boston stationer's crest.
She knew it.
Her blood turned cold.
"Caleb."
He looked up.
"That paper didn't come from Montana."
"How do you know?"
She touched the embossed symbol.
"Because Edwin Shaw used the same stationery."