He had expected resolution.
Instead, Clara seemed to permit contradiction.
Angry and listening.
Afraid and staying.
Attracted and waiting.
He liked that.
That night, they moved closer in bed.
Not much.
Enough that their shoulders touched.
Tomás whispered, “Clara?”
“Yes?”
“If we lose the ranch…”
She sighed.
“You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Sending me away before anything happens.”
“I’m asking.”
“No. You’re preparing to decide what I should do.”
Tomás stared into darkness.
“What if I have nothing?”
Clara turned toward him.
“You think I married acreage?”
“I think you came for a home.”
“Yes.”
“And if the bank takes it?”
She was quiet.
Then said, “Then we find another.”
Tomás’s throat tightened.
“You make that sound simple.”
“It won’t be.”
“Then why—”
“Because hard and impossible are not synonyms.”
He looked toward her silhouette.
“Where did you learn that?”
“Chicago.”
She reached beneath the blanket.
Found his hand.
“Sleep.”
Tomás did.
The next morning, Clara rode into Dry Creek alone.
Tomás objected.
She ignored him.
At the general store, she purchased needles.
At the pharmacy, she asked what injectable substances could kill cattle quickly.
The pharmacist stared.
She smiled.
“My husband’s cattle were killed. I am investigating murder.”
The man almost dropped a bottle.
By afternoon she had a list.
Strychnine.
Certain veterinary medicines in high doses.
Concentrated arsenic compounds.
A few other possibilities.
Then she visited the blacksmith.
“Who repairs veterinary syringes?”
He frowned.
“Doctor has one.”
“Anyone else?”
“Mercer’s foreman bought one last winter.”
Clara’s pulse changed.
“Name?”
“Earl Danner.”
“Still works there?”
“Far as I know.”
She did not smile.
Evidence.
Not proof.
But closer.
Outside, she noticed a man watching from across the street.
Earl Danner.
She recognized him from Silas’s ranch because he had stood behind Mercer at the wedding.
He looked away too late.
Clara entered the mercantile.
Waited.
Then left through the rear door.
She circled to the alley.
Earl was gone.
When she returned to the ranch near sunset, Tomás was furious.
“You rode alone.”
“Yes.”
“He could have followed you.”
“Who?”
“Mercer.”
“He didn’t.”
“You don’t know.”
“His foreman watched me.”
Tomás went still.
“What?”
Clara told him.
Every detail.
By the end, his anger had shifted direction.
“We go to the sheriff.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tonight.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because we have a suspicious receipt, a syringe purchase from last winter, puncture wounds, and a man watching me.”
“That is enough for questions.”
“Yes.”
Clara dismounted.
“But first we move the cattle.”
Tomás frowned.
“Where?”
“Barn lot.”
“No grass.”
“We feed purchased hay.”
“We can’t afford—”
“We can’t afford more deaths.”
He knew she was right.
Again.
It was becoming irritating.