He reached into the packet.
Pulled out a ledger copy.
“The late owner found irregular withdrawals before she died.”
“What kind?”
“Cattle sales that never reached her account.”
The cook looked at the figures.
She recognized the dates.
“I remember these.”
“You do?”
“I prepared meals for the buyers.”
She traced one line.
“Twelve steers.”
Another.
“Eight.”
Another.
“Twenty-six yearlings.”
The rancher watched her.
“Money never reached the ranch.”
The cook's expression hardened.
“Her brother?”
“Possibly.”
“He wasn't here.”
“No.”
“Then someone here helped him.”
The cook looked toward the bunkhouse outside.
The foreman.
The late owner's foreman had disappeared two weeks after the funeral.
Everyone said he went south.
The cook suddenly remembered something.
“He asked me where the old cattle books were.”
“When?”
“Three days before he left.”
The rancher leaned forward.
“What did you tell him?”
“That the owner kept them in the study.”
“Are they there?”
“I don't know.”
They rose.
The study door was locked.
The patriarch had claimed the room immediately after arriving.
The cook stared at the lock.
The rancher asked, “Your house.”
She understood.
He did not mean he would break it.
He meant the choice belonged to her.
The cook looked toward the stairs.
Then toward the kitchen.
“There's an iron key in the pantry.”
The late owner had kept duplicates.
The patriarch apparently did not know.
The cook retrieved it.
The door opened.
The study smelled of cigar smoke now.
That angered her more than expected.
The late owner hated cigars.
Papers covered the desk.
Drawers had been emptied.
The cook crossed slowly toward the ledger cabinet.
Unlocked it.
Empty.
The rancher swore quietly.
The cook looked toward the fireplace.
Ash.
Too much ash.
She moved closer.
Among the gray powder lay partially burned scraps of paper.
The rancher knelt.
He lifted one carefully.
Numbers remained visible.
Cattle entries.
The cook's stomach dropped.
“They burned them.”
“Some.”
She pointed toward the cabinet.
“The oldest ledgers were thick leather-bound books. They would take time to burn.”
The rancher examined the fireplace.
“Then perhaps they moved them.”
Footsteps sounded behind them.
The patriarch stood in the doorway.
“What are you doing in here?”
The cook turned.
“My study.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Until a court says otherwise—”
“A court already did.”
“You are enjoying this.”
The accusation surprised her.
“Enjoying what?”
“Humiliating me.”
The cook looked at him for several seconds.
Then she laughed softly.
Not because anything was funny.
Because the hypocrisy was too perfect.
“This morning you sent me outside with bread.”
The patriarch's expression stiffened.
“You laughed while your family ate the meal I made.”