“I usually know.”
“Exactly.”
Billy recovered enough to become Martha’s assistant.
Not in the kitchen.
In accounts.
His handwriting was terrible.
His arithmetic was good.
She made him copy freight numbers.
Four years of them.
Every grain delivery.
Salt shipment.
Tool order.
Feed purchase.
They compared Josiah’s receipts against herd size, consumption schedules, and remaining inventory.
The pattern was unmistakable.
Montgomery had not stolen exactly twenty-five percent every time.
That would have been too obvious.
Sometimes twelve.
Sometimes eighteen.
Sometimes twenty-seven.
The total over three years was devastating.
Enough grain missing to represent hundreds of dollars before interest.
Martha wrote totals on a large sheet.
Josiah stared.
“That much?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible.”
Billy said:
“I checked twice.”
Martha looked at him.
“Three times.”
“Right.”
Josiah walked toward the window.
For years he had blamed himself.
Bad purchasing.
Weak harvests.
Poor management.
He had believed he was becoming the first Caldwell to lose the ranch because he simply was not good enough.
That shame had changed how he moved through the world.
Made him hide bills.
Avoid town.
Work longer instead of thinking differently.
Now he understood he had made mistakes.
But someone had been amplifying every mistake deliberately.
Martha watched his shoulders.
“Do not make the opposite error.”
He turned.
“What?”
“Do not decide none of this is your responsibility simply because Montgomery cheated you.”
His expression hardened slightly.
She continued.
“You signed without weighing.”
“You let one company control your freight and your credit.”
“You did not compare manifests.”
Billy looked alarmed.
Few employees spoke that way to the ranch owner.
Josiah only nodded.
“You’re right.”
Martha softened.
“But being careless is not permission for another man to rob you.”
Josiah stared at the numbers.
“What do we need?”
“A shipment.”
“In winter?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll know we’re suspicious.”
“Not if the order comes from somebody else.”
Billy raised one hand.
Both adults looked at him.
“My uncle runs supplies to the Owyhee mine.”
Martha turned.
“Does Montgomery carry for him?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does your uncle have his own scale?”
“Yes.”
“Certified?”
Billy shrugged.
“Big.”
“That was not the question.”
Billy thought.
“Mine office uses it for ore contracts.”
Martha’s eyes sharpened.
Better.
Ore scales were checked because a few missing pounds multiplied across tons meant real money.
She asked:
“How far?”
“Twenty-two miles.”
Josiah shook his head.
“Road’s bad.”
“Then we wait for clear weather.”
Martha looked at Billy.
“Can your uncle keep his mouth shut?”
“No.”
She frowned.
Billy added:
“But he hates Montgomery.”
“Useful.”
The plan took shape.
Billy’s uncle would place an ordinary grain order through Montgomery Mercantile for two tons.