“That is none of your concern.”
“It became my concern when I married you.”
“You were brought here to tend the yard!”
“And you have a yard that is dying because someone has been taking money from you.”
Griffin slammed his palm against the table.
“Enough!”
Martha stood slowly.
Her expression had changed.
There was no embarrassment in her eyes, no apology, and no fear.
“Your shame is misplaced, Mr. Tucker. You are not failing because you are a poor rancher. You are failing because Harrison Caldwell is stealing from you.”
Griffin went still.
“What did you say?”
She tapped the receipts with one gloved finger.
“Your cattle weights are false. Your interest charges do not match the agreement. And several payments you made were never credited to your account.”
He shook his head.
“That’s impossible.”
“Then explain this.”
She pushed a document toward him.
Griffin recognized his signature.
He also recognized the amount he had borrowed.
But the balance was almost twice what he remembered.
Martha placed another paper beside it.
“Your last cattle shipment weighed one thousand eight hundred and forty pounds according to the buyer’s receipt.”
“Yes.”
“Caldwell’s office recorded one thousand four hundred and twenty.”
Griffin stared.
“That cannot be right.”
“It is not right.”
She opened the ledger and turned several pages.
“I compared every receipt you kept with the statements he sent. There are discrepancies in seven shipments. The interest has been compounded monthly despite the agreement specifying annual calculations. And your payment from July is missing entirely.”
Griffin felt the room tilt.
He had never been good with figures.
His father had handled the books before his death, and Griffin had been left to manage them afterward.
He could read a cattle trail better than most men in Wyoming.
He could mend a broken wagon axle in the dark.
But numbers on paper had always seemed to swim before his eyes.
“How do you know all this?” he whispered.
Martha looked at him.
“Because I know how to read a ledger.”
Outside, the sound of approaching horses interrupted them.
Three riders came through the yard.
The first was a broad-shouldered man in an expensive black coat.
Harrison Caldwell.
Behind him rode a deputy sheriff and two armed men.
Caldwell dismounted with a smile.
“Evening, Tucker. I trust you have the money.”
Griffin stepped onto the porch.
“I need more time.”
Caldwell removed his gloves.
“You have had plenty.”
“I found some mistakes in the accounts.”
Caldwell’s smile disappeared for half a second.
“What mistakes?”
Martha emerged from the cabin carrying her velvet ledger.
“Mr. Caldwell, I believe you and I have some accounting to discuss.”
The rancher looked at her.
Then he laughed.
“Who is this?”
“Martha Tucker. His wife.”
Caldwell looked her up and down.
“Well, Tucker, you certainly found yourself a substantial housekeeper.”
The two armed men chuckled.
Martha did not move.
“Open your books, Mr. Caldwell.”
Caldwell’s eyes narrowed.
“You have no business interfering.”
“That is precisely what I intend to establish.”
He turned toward Griffin.
“Your deed, Tucker. I have the foreclosure papers. We can make this painless if you stop wasting my time.”
Griffin looked at his wife.
She opened her ledger wider.
And for the first time since his father died, Griffin felt that someone had arrived at the Broken Spur who was not afraid of Harrison Caldwell.
