“What do we need?”
“Their contracts.”
“They won’t hand them over easily.”
“No.”
“Blackwood has half this county convinced nobody understands money except him.”
“That helps us.”
“How?”
“Arrogance leaves patterns.”
Cole looked at her.
Something passed between them.
Not romance.
Not yet.
Recognition.
Two people suddenly realizing the person across the table was far more useful than anyone had warned them.
Cole nodded.
“Where do we start?”
Abigail opened another ledger.
“With the rancher most likely to hate Blackwood more than he fears him.”
Cole smiled.
“I know exactly the man.”
His name was Amos Bell.
He owned a struggling cattle operation eight miles west.
He was sixty-two, half deaf in one ear, and suspicious of anyone carrying paper.
Cole persuaded him by saying only one sentence.
“My wife thinks Blackwood may have been cheating both of us.”
Amos looked at Abigail.
His eyes dropped briefly to her body.
Then back up.
Abigail noticed.
She always noticed.
He scratched his beard.
“She a banker?”
“No,” Cole said.
“Lawyer?”
“No.”
“What is she?”
Abigail answered.
“Patient.”
Amos frowned.
She held out her hand.
“May I see your loan papers?”
He did not agree immediately.
That pleased her.
Trust should not come quickly when money was involved.
Eventually he brought out a tin box.
Abigail spent two hours at his table.
She found three discrepancies.
Then a fourth.
Amos stopped joking.
“You saying I paid more than they credited?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“I need the full record.”
He disappeared into another room.
Returned with old receipts.
Abigail calculated again.
“Two hundred and eighty-three dollars.”
Amos went pale.
“That was three calves and half a wagon of feed.”
Cole’s jaw tightened.
Abigail asked, “Who else refinanced through Blackwood after eighteen eighty-four?”
Amos named six men.
Cole knew five.
By the end of the week, Abigail had reviewed four additional accounts.
Every one contained discrepancies.
Not identical.
That would have been too obvious.
Blackwood was careful.
Different amounts.
Different clauses.
Different dates.
The same direction.
Always toward the bank.
Abigail created a master chart.
Cole watched her work one night.
Her hair had come loose.
A curl lay against her cheek.
Ink stained two fingers.
She was muttering arithmetic under her breath.
Cole stood in the kitchen doorway longer than necessary.
Abigail looked up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“That is generally where someone apologizes.”
“I’m not sorry.”
Her cheeks warmed.
Cole entered.
He placed a plate beside her.
Bread.
Cold beef.
Cheese.
“You didn’t eat supper.”
“I was working.”
“So was I.”
“That is not an argument.”
“It is if neither of us intends to die over a ledger.”
Abigail looked at the food.
Old instinct tightened her stomach.
She had already eaten lunch.
Large lunch.
Cole must have noticed.
Maybe he thought—