“A spur through Bitter Creek.”
“Closer than people think.”
Her father had talked about that.
A rail line could transform cattle prices.
“That has what to do with Hart Ranch?”
“Water.”
Evelyn’s eyes shifted toward the west pasture.
A spring ran year-round beyond the cottonwoods.
Even in drought.
Samuel had guarded it obsessively.
Jonah continued.
“Steam engines need water.”
“A lot of it.”
“There are only three dependable sources along proposed southern alignment.”
“One belongs to town.”
“One is controlled by Crowell’s brother-in-law.”
“And one sits on Hart Ranch.”
The kitchen seemed colder.
Evelyn unfolded the foreclosure letter again.
Thirty days.
She read it with new eyes.
“How much would the bank gain?”
“If it forecloses?”
“Yes.”
“Depends who buys.”
“You know.”
Jonah looked at her.
“There’s already a buyer.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“Bitter Creek Development Company.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“You aren’t meant to.”
“Who owns it?”
“Silas Crowell.”
Evelyn stopped moving.
Then she laughed once.
A low, ugly sound.
“He takes a paid mortgage, pretends it remains open, forecloses, then sells my land to himself.”
“Through a company.”
“And railroad pays him.”
“That appears to be plan.”
“Appears?”
“I don’t have enough proof yet.”
Evelyn shoved away from table.
The chair legs scraped.
Jonah watched as she paced.
Her heavy skirt brushed against cabinets.
For years, people in Bitter Creek had treated her as though her size were the most notable fact about her.
At church.
At the store.
At auctions.
Some men made jokes.
Some women offered advice.
Silas Crowell had always been more polished.
Never mocked openly.
He had called her “Miss Hart” and spoken slowly, as if kindness required reducing speed.
After Samuel died, he had brought papers to ranch himself.
He had praised Evelyn’s “courage.”
Then offered to help sell.
She had refused.
Now she understood why.
“How do I prove this?”
Jonah answered:
“That receipt helps.”
“Helps?”
“Crowell will say forged.”
“Is it?”
“No.”
“Then he can choke on it.”
“He has bank ledgers.”
“People believe ledgers.”
Evelyn turned.
“You were a clerk.”
“Yes.”
“You can testify.”
Jonah’s expression changed.
“Crowell will say I stole bank documents.”
“Did you?”
He paused.
Evelyn stared.
“Jonah.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A copybook.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“What copybook?”
“The daily transaction book from the week your father paid.”
“Where?”
“Not here.”
“Where?”
“Helena.”
Evelyn pressed fingers to forehead.
“Why Helena?”
“Because after I questioned missing payment, Crowell fired me.”
“I took copies before leaving.”
“You stole.”
“I copied.”
“You took bank property?”
“One notebook.”