Chapter 4 - One Hundred Forty Dollars
Nathan kicked the door open.
Wade was alive.
The bullet had gone into the ceiling.
He stood beside his bunk holding a revolver, shaking.
“Put it down,” Nathan said.
Wade obeyed.
The truth emerged quickly.
Wade had not sabotaged the ranch.
Someone had planted the blue cloth.
His coat had been hanging outside the bunkhouse for days.
The gunshot happened because Wade heard somebody at the window and grabbed his revolver.
When the shadow moved, he fired.
Margaret believed him.
Cyrus did not.
But Nathan found boot prints beneath the window matching those near the feed shed.
Somebody wanted suspicion inside Brooks Ranch.
That frightened Margaret more than Tillett.
An enemy outside a gate was simple.
An enemy who understood the ranch was not.
Still, work continued.
Margaret inspected every preserved cut herself.
Weeks passed.
When the first cured batch was ready, she weighed the loss.
Then compared it with previous years.
Nathan watched her calculate.
“Well?”
She pushed the ledger toward him.
“One hundred forty dollars.”
His brow furrowed.
“What?”
“Saved.”
“From what?”
“Not letting meat rot.”
Nathan sat.
“One hundred forty?”
“Approximately.”
He looked toward the curing shed.
“My father lost that much every winter?”
“Perhaps.”
Nathan rubbed his jaw.
Margaret saw the familiar pain.
“Your father did what he knew.”
Nathan looked at her.
“There is no shame in not knowing,” she continued. “The shame is knowing and refusing to change.”
He nodded.
That night Nathan brought two cups of coffee to the porch.
Margaret accepted one.
For once they didn't discuss money.
Nathan told her about his mother.
Margaret told him about Kansas.
Not Thomas's death.
Not yet.
Just wheat fields.
A small white house.
A pear tree that never produced enough pears.
Nathan laughed.
Margaret discovered she liked the sound.
Then Nathan asked why she had answered his advertisement.
She stared into her coffee.
“Because you were honest.”
“I advertised for a woman who could salt beef.”
“Exactly.”
He laughed again.
“You didn't pretend marriage was romance. You needed help. I needed somewhere useful to go.”
Nathan looked toward the dark fields.
“Useful isn't the same as wanted.”
Margaret's hand tightened around the cup.
“No.”
“You should be both.”
She didn't answer.
Nathan didn't push.
The next morning Cyrus called them to the main corral.
The prized Brooks bull had stopped eating.
Cyrus diagnosed fever.
Margaret watched from outside.
Something bothered her.
The bull strained.
Shifted.
Kicked at its belly.
Cyrus administered treatment.
By evening, the animal worsened.
The following day, worse again.
Margaret finally said, “That's not fever.”
Cyrus glared.
“I've doctored cattle longer than you've been alive.”
“He has a stone.”
“You looked at him thirty seconds.”
“And you've treated him three days.”
Cyrus stepped toward her.
Margaret didn't move.
“Is he better?”
Cyrus said nothing.
“Is he better?”
“No.”
“Call the veterinarian.”
“No.”
Nathan arrived.
Cyrus appealed to him.
“This bull belonged to your father.”
“That is precisely why we're not gambling with him,” Nathan said.
Cyrus looked betrayed.
Nathan gave the order.
“Call the vet.”
The veterinarian arrived before dawn.
He examined the bull.
Then straightened.
“Stone.”
Cyrus went motionless.
“Can you save him?”
“Think so.”
The veterinarian worked.
Hours later, the bull stood drinking.
“Another day,” the veterinarian said, “and you'd have lost him.”
He looked around.
“Who caught it?”
Pete pointed.
“Mrs. Brooks.”
The veterinarian tipped his hat.
“You've got a better eye for stock than half the cowmen I know.”
Cyrus walked away.
Margaret watched him go.
That night she found him alone in the tack room.
He held his hat in both hands.
“I would've killed that bull.”
Margaret leaned against the door.
“You were wrong.”
Cyrus gave a bitter laugh.
“You don't waste words comforting a man.”
“Would you believe me if I did?”
“No.”
“Then I won't insult you.”
He looked at her.
“I've hated you.”
“I noticed.”
“I thought I was defending old Brooks.”
Margaret waited.
Cyrus's eyes became wet.
“But his ways were killing this ranch.”
He swallowed.
“I was ashamed you saw what I didn't.”
Margaret pulled out a chair.
“Sit.”
He did.
She unfolded a pasture map.
“You know this land better than I ever will.”
Cyrus frowned.
“I know numbers. You know water. Cattle. Weather. Thirty years of soil beneath your boots.”
She pushed the map toward him.
“I don't need an enemy.”
“What do you need?”
“A partner.”
For the first time, Cyrus smiled at her without mockery.
Then his finger moved to North Creek.
“This is wrong.”
“What?”
“The water mark.”
He pointed.
“Creek hasn't run there in six years.”
Margaret leaned closer.
Cyrus traced another route.
“There used to be a spring here.”
“Used to?”
“Old Brooks sealed it after a collapse.”
Margaret stared at the map.
“If it still runs underground…”
Cyrus nodded.
“We might have water enough for another pasture.”
Nathan watched them from the doorway.
Something in his expression made Margaret look away.
Then Pete came running.
“Mr. Brooks!”
Nathan turned.
Pete held an envelope.
“No stamp. Somebody pushed it under the gate.”
Nathan opened it.
There were only seven words.
STOP CHANGING THINGS OR SHE GETS HURT.
May you like
Nathan raised his eyes.
Across the dark ranch yard, a rider was already disappearing into the night.
