Dates.
Names.
Water levels.
Witnesses.
The cowboy turned pages.
“You rode three hundred miles with all of this?”
“Most of it.”
“Alone?”
“For part.”
“That was reckless.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“Do not begin.”
“Begin what?”
“Deciding what I should have done after the fact.”
The cowboy stopped.
Fair.
She continued:
“I had companions until the last town.”
“One became ill.”
“The other turned south.”
“I chose to continue.”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
Her expression softened slightly.
“You apologize quickly.”
“I make frequent mistakes.”
“That explains practice.”
He laughed.
They worked until midnight.
The cowboy’s attorney could not reach the ranch in time, so they organized everything themselves.
Original agreement.
Survey.
Affidavit.
Revocation.
Ledger.
His mother’s letter.
The woman insisted the personal letter remain separate.
“Why?”
“Because emotion is not proof.”
He looked offended.
“My mother’s letter explains motive.”
“It also contains insults about your intelligence.”
“Good point.”
They kept it separate.
The foreman returned with coffee.
The cowboy looked toward him.
“You found some?”
“I have private reserves.”
“You watched me ride to town without coffee?”
“I enjoy consequences.”
The Apache woman laughed.
The cowboy stared.
“You two are becoming dangerous.”
The foreman poured her a cup first.
The cowboy looked personally betrayed.
Near one in the morning, the foreman went to the bunkhouse.
The woman remained at the kitchen table.
The cowboy should have offered her the guest room sooner.
He realized too late.
“You must be exhausted.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because you were busy discovering your mother planned legal ambushes from beyond the grave.”
He smiled.
“There’s a guest room.”
“I can sleep in the barn.”
“No.”
“I have slept in worse places.”
“That is not an argument for doing it again.”
She studied him.
Then:
“Guest room.”
“Thank you.”
He stood.
She did too.
For one awkward second they were closer than either expected.
The cowboy noticed a tiny scar near her right eyebrow.
The woman noticed him noticing.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That answer is getting worse.”
He looked away.
“Good night.”
She smiled.
“Good night, cowboy.”
He lay awake another hour.
Not thinking about the syndicate.
He told himself otherwise.
Morning came too soon.
They left before sunrise.
The cowboy.
The Apache woman.
The foreman.
And two ranch hands carrying copies in separate saddlebags.
If one set disappeared, another survived.
The woman had suggested that.
The cowboy asked where she learned such caution.
Her answer:
“From men who called theft paperwork.”