“Where would stolen goats be butchered without anyone seeing?”
Caleb thought.
“Creek bottom.”
“Too muddy?”
“Dry this year.”
Another ranch hand spoke.
“Old line shack.”
Caleb turned.
The man pointed north.
“Been empty since spring.”
Wyatt interrupted.
“This is nonsense.”
Abigail watched him.
There.
Too quick.
Too defensive.
She asked, “You use the line shack?”
“No.”
“Then why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
“Sounds like you do.”
Wyatt’s face tightened.
Caleb said, “Amos.”
The older cowboy looked up from his bowl.
“Take two men. Check the line shack.”
Wyatt stepped forward.
“Over a cook’s guess?”
Caleb looked at him.
“Over mine.”
Three men left.
The remaining cowboys stood around the supper table.
Nobody ate.
Abigail hated that most.
The stew cooled.
Her work sat untouched because someone had poisoned trust instead of food.
Caleb moved near her.
Quiet enough that only she could hear.
“You believe Wyatt did this.”
“I believe he knows more than he should.”
“He tried the salt.”
“Yes.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened.
“I should’ve sent him away then.”
Abigail looked at him.
“You couldn’t know.”
“I knew enough.”
Something in his voice made her turn.
He was blaming himself.
The hard foreman who had laughed at goat meat now looked genuinely troubled because somebody had tried to ruin her.
Abigail almost touched his arm.
Stopped herself.
Too many eyes.
Instead she said, “Don’t make this about saving me.”
Caleb glanced at her.
“What should I make it about?”
“Finding the truth.”
His mouth moved slightly.
“There’s the woman I expected.”
She frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Caleb.”
He smiled despite himself.
“It means you’re terrifying when you get calm.”
She almost smiled.
Then hoofbeats came fast from the north.
All heads turned.
Amos returned first.
Two cowboys behind him.
Between them rode a fourth horse carrying something across the saddle.
A bloody skin.
Goat.
The yard erupted with voices.
Amos dismounted.
“We found the butchering place.”
Caleb stepped forward.
“Where?”
“Line shack.”
Wyatt went pale.
Abigail saw it.
Caleb did too.
Amos continued.
“Two more hides.”
“Anything else?”
The old cowboy looked toward Wyatt.
“A knife.”
Silence.
Wyatt’s hand drifted toward his belt.
His sheath was empty.
Amos tossed a knife onto the table.
Bone handle.
Small notch near the base.
Every man on the ranch recognized it.
Wyatt had used it at meals for months.