Not always.
Often enough.
By midnight she had covered the table with paper.
Reid entered wearing a wool shirt and looking half asleep.
“You’re still awake?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You’re being overcharged.”
That woke him.
“What?”
She pointed.
“Prescott.”
He leaned closer.
“I’ve bought there twelve years.”
“I know.”
“Everyone buys there.”
“That doesn't make arithmetic honest.”
He pulled chair.
“How much?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Estimate.”
She looked toward him.
“In three years?”
“Yes.”
“Possibly four hundred dollars.”
Reid stared.
Four hundred dollars was not inconvenience.
It was several months’ ranch labor.
Two breeding cows.
A winter’s grain.
“How?”
She showed him.
His expression tightened.
“Could be clerical.”
“Yes.”
“You don't think so.”
“I don’t know.”
He smiled faintly.
“You say that when you think something is wrong.”
“I say it when I don't know.”
“What do we do?”
“Nothing.”
Reid blinked.
“Nothing?”
“Not yet.”
“You just told me somebody may have taken four hundred dollars.”
“And if they did, they’ve been doing it for years.”
“They won’t stop because you walk in angry.”
He stared.
“What do you suggest?”
“Count.”
So they counted.
Every delivery.
Every weight.
Every payment.
For two months.