Caleb walked toward him.
“How’d Austin go?”
Harrison dismounted.
“Bank denied the extension.”
Silence.
The good mood vanished.
Abigail stood in the cookhouse doorway.
Harrison looked around at his men.
“Thirty days.”
One cowboy swore.
Harrison continued.
“Unless we produce twelve thousand dollars toward the note.”
Twelve thousand.
Impossible money.
Caleb rubbed his jaw.
“What about the west herd?”
“Already pledged.”
“Horses?”
“Not enough.”
“Equipment?”
“Sell equipment, we can’t run cattle.”
Harrison looked older than he had three days earlier.
“I’m sorry.”
He walked toward the house.
The ranch hands returned to work more slowly.
Abigail looked at Caleb.
Wyatt’s last words came back.
This ranch is still broke.
The sabotage had failed.
The larger threat remained.
For the first time since arriving, Abigail understood why Silas Crane wanted Caldwell Ranch so badly.
A ranch already near default did not need much pressure.
One legal scandal.
One rustling accusation.
One frightened bank.
Then Crane could buy the land cheap.
The question was why.
Abigail walked to the north fence that afternoon.
Beyond Caldwell land lay a long dry valley.
Sparse grass.
Rocky ground.
Nothing obvious.
Caleb found her there.
“You planning escape?”
“No.”
He stood beside her.
“Then what?”
“Why does Crane want this ranch?”
Caleb frowned.
“Land.”
“He has land.”
“Men always want more.”
“That isn’t enough.”
“You think there’s something specific?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Wyatt risked jail.”
“Two hundred dollars.”
“And a foreman job.”
“Some men are cheap.”
Abigail looked west.
“Crane staged stolen livestock and planted evidence inside a ranch cookhouse.”
She shook her head.
“That is too much effort for pasture in a drought.”
Caleb considered.
“You think Harrison knows?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if he knew the land had hidden value, he’d use it at the bank.”
Caleb looked toward the valley.
“What hidden value?”
Abigail shrugged.
“That’s the question.”
The answer came from the least likely place.
Her father’s recipe book.
Two days later, Abigail was cleaning spilled flour from the kitchen table when the leather-bound book slipped from a shelf and fell open.
A folded paper came loose from the back binding.
She picked it up.
Not a recipe.
A map.
Hand-drawn.
Old.
Marked with property lines and water routes.
Her father had spent years traveling as a camp cook before Abigail was born.
He had worked ranches across Texas, New Mexico, and Oklahoma.
One name appeared in the corner.
Caldwell Spring Route.
Abigail stared.
She found Caleb immediately.
He studied the map.
“Where did this come from?”
“My father.”
“You sure this is our land?”
“Yes.”