“Not like this.”
Both men looked at her.
She pointed toward the weeds she had collected.
“These aren’t scattered.”
“What do you mean?”
“I checked twenty places.”
She walked toward the field edge.
“They’re thickest along this side.”
Tomás followed.
Clara continued.
“Then almost none farther in.”
Gideon crouched.
Tomás looked from one patch to another.
It became obvious once she showed him.
A band.
Almost a line.
The toxic plants appeared heavily concentrated near the fence before thinning toward the field center.
Gideon stood.
“That’s strange.”
Tomás felt something cold settle beneath the heat.
“Could someone plant it?”
Gideon looked at him.
“Could.”
Clara said nothing.
Tomás turned toward her.
“What?”
She looked at the fence.
“Did anyone know you were putting the herd here?”
“Everyone who knows this ranch.”
“Who knew it was your last good feed?”
He did not answer.
Clara waited.
Gideon looked between them.
Tomás exhaled.
“The bank.”
“Who at the bank?”
“Mr. Harlan.”
“Anyone else?”
“Feed supplier.”
“Neighbors?”
“Probably.”
“Anyone who wants the land?”
Tomás’s face hardened.
Gideon noticed.
“There it is.”
Clara looked toward him.
“Who?”
Tomás hated saying the name.
“Silas Mercer.”
Clara’s expression did not change.
“Relation?”
“None.”
“Neighbor?”
“Three miles east.”
“Why does he want the ranch?”
“Water.”
Gideon snorted.
“Everyone wants water.”
Tomás nodded toward the nearly dry creek.
“The upper spring starts on my north quarter.”
Clara looked at the hills.
“You control downstream flow.”
“Some.”
Gideon corrected him.
“A lot.”
Tomás glared.
The old man shrugged.
“She asked.”
Clara looked back at the cattle.
“How much is the ranch worth without your debt?”
Tomás almost laughed.
“Depends whether it rains.”
“How much?”
“Maybe nine thousand.”
“And debt?”
“Thirty-seven hundred.”
Gideon whistled.
Clara did not.
“What happens if the bank takes it?”
“Auction.”
“Mercer can bid.”
“Yes.”
Clara looked again at the field.
“Convenient.”
Tomás felt anger rise.
“You think he poisoned cattle?”
“I think six cattle died in the exact field you needed to save the ranch.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“No.”
Clara met his eyes.
“But if I spent fifteen years in Chicago believing coincidence every time somebody profited from a dead animal, I would have lasted fifteen days.”
Gideon smiled.
“Definitely like her.”
Tomás ignored him.
“What do we do?”
Clara looked at Gideon.
“Can the sick cattle survive?”
“Maybe.”
“How?”
“Get everything out of them if possible. Oil sometimes helps. Water. Keep them quiet. Depends how much they ate.”
Clara nodded.
“Then we work.”
Tomás looked at her.
“You don’t have to—”
She turned on him.
“Stop.”
He froze.
“Stop what?”
“Giving me permission to leave every time something becomes ugly.”
Her voice was not loud.
That made it worse.
“I offered once.”