Chapter 4 - Josephine Cutler’s Secret
Lucien wanted to confront Gideon Crowe immediately.
Josephine refused.
They argued in the alley beside the Bitter Creek Hotel.
"You saw the cloth."
"I saw red cloth."
"Same material."
"Probably."
"And kerosene."
"Sold by the largest merchant in town."
Lucien's jaw tightened.
"You defending him?"
"I'm protecting you from doing something stupid."
His eyes narrowed.
"Careful."
Josephine stepped closer.
"You keep saying that as though I'm eventually going to become frightened."
Against his irritation, Lucien almost smiled.
Almost.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Learn."
"Learn what?"
"Who bought seven cans of kerosene."
Lucien paused.
Josephine pointed across the street.
"The merchant keeps records."
"He's not going to hand them over."
"He doesn't need to."
She crossed Main Street before Lucien could stop her.
Bitter Creek Mercantile belonged to Horace Weller, a round man with gold spectacles and a heroic distrust of credit.
Josephine bought flour.
Coffee.
Molasses.
More salt.
While Horace calculated the total, Josephine casually placed a brass cap on the counter.
"I need another container using this fitting."
Horace examined it.
"Standard New Haven can. Haven't stocked those in weeks."
Lucien stayed quiet.
Josephine asked, "Who bought the last shipment?"
Horace frowned.
"Why?"
"Because I need one."
"I can order another."
"That wasn't my question."
Horace glanced between them.
Then recognition dawned.
"You're Hatcher's new wife."
"So I'm told."
Horace's curiosity defeated his caution.
"Sold six cans to Ironwood last month."
Lucien spoke.
"My invoice says seven."
Horace blinked.
"No. Six."
Josephine and Lucien exchanged a look.
"You're certain?" she asked.
"I keep my books."
Horace turned and removed a ledger.
There it was.
Six cans.
Lucien had paid for seven.
Someone had altered the ranch copy.
But why?
Josephine leaned forward.
"Any other New Haven cans sold around the same time?"
Horace traced the ledger.
"Four to the livery. Two to the hotel. Twelve..."
He stopped.
Lucien's voice went low.
"To whom?"
Horace adjusted his spectacles.
"Red Hollow Ranch."
Twelve cans.
Purchased two days before the smokehouse fire.
Lucien's expression became stone.
Josephine thanked Horace and left.
Outside, Lucien said, "Enough?"
"Enough to be suspicious."
"Josephine—"
"Not enough to accuse."
He turned sharply.
"What would be enough for you?"
"A witness. A letter. Payment record. Something connecting Crowe to someone at Ironwood."
Lucien stared at her.
"You think one of my men is being paid."
"I think somebody changed your invoice."
That silenced him.
Because invoices at Ironwood passed through very few hands.
Lucien.
Jeb.
And the ranch bookkeeper, Walter Pritchard.
Walter had worked at Ironwood for nine years.
A quiet man in his forties.
Never caused trouble.
Never missed work.
Lucien trusted him.
Which was precisely why Josephine worried.
They rode home late.
Halfway through the pine trail, snow began falling.
At first lightly.
Then harder.
The temperature dropped.
Lucien found an abandoned line shack before darkness.
Inside were a stove, two bunks, and enough dry wood for the night.
He lit the stove.
Josephine removed wet gloves.
"This wasn't part of the marriage advertisement."
"What?"
"Being trapped in a shack with you."
Lucien glanced at her.
"You can sleep outside."
"I'll consider it."
He laughed quietly.
For a while they said nothing.
Then Lucien asked the question he had asked before.
"Where did you learn to butcher?"
Josephine stared into the stove.
"My father."
"Thought you said your brother."
"I said my brother owned the shop."
Lucien waited.
Josephine knew he would.
Eventually she spoke.
"My father, Elias Cutler, ran a meat market outside Omaha. Small place. We cured hams, smoked sausages, rendered lard. My mother kept the books."
"Sounds successful."
"It was."
"What happened?"
Josephine's fingers tightened around her tin cup.
"My father died."
Lucien said nothing.
"My brother Thomas inherited the shop. He was good with people and terrible with money."
"What did he do?"
"Borrowed."
The wind pressed snow against the shack.
Josephine continued.
"He expanded too quickly. New smokehouse. New wagons. Better storefront. Then beef prices moved against him."
Lucien understood immediately.
"Bank?"
She nodded.
"He borrowed more to cover the first loans."
"And lost everything."
"Eventually."
Lucien recognized the bitterness in her voice.
Not toward Thomas.
Toward herself.
"You tried saving it."
Josephine looked at him.
"How do you know?"
"Because that's what you're doing here."
She gave a small, humorless smile.
"I worked eighteen months without taking wages. Developed preservation methods. Sold to railroad camps. We nearly recovered."
"Nearly?"
"Thomas trusted the wrong man."
Lucien's attention sharpened.
"A supplier offered him credit. Told him he could double the business. Thomas signed contracts without reading all the terms."
Josephine stared at the fire.
"Three months later, we learned the supplier had purchased one of Thomas's debts. He called it early."
Lucien felt a coldness unrelated to winter.
"What happened to your brother?"
"He left."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"You haven't seen him?"
"Four years."
Lucien absorbed that.
"Your mother?"
"Died the winter after."
"I'm sorry."
Josephine nodded once.
That was all.
Lucien looked at her differently now.
The knives.
The curing salt.
The accounting.
The instinctive distrust of lenders.
Josephine hadn't come to Ironwood simply because she needed a husband.
She had come carrying the remains of a life she had already watched disappear.
"Why answer my advertisement?"
She smiled faintly.
"Because it was terrible."
Lucien frowned.
"That's why?"
"Most advertisements promised love, comfortable homes, respectable husbands, churches nearby."
"And mine?"
"Yours promised hard work, no luxuries, and a man who didn't expect affection."
Lucien looked offended.
"When you say it that way—"
"It sounded honest."
She turned toward him.
"I had thirty-eight dollars left."
That surprised him.
"The Omaha rooming house wanted rent. Sewing work barely covered food. Your advertisement offered passage and a place where useful skills mattered."
"So you came."
"I came."
Lucien leaned back against the wall.
"And marriage in name only."
"That was important."
He looked at her.
"Still is?"
Josephine met his eyes.
For a moment neither spoke.
The fire popped between them.
Then Josephine looked away.
"Ask me after winter."
Lucien's pulse changed.
He hoped she hadn't noticed.
She had.
The next morning they returned to Ironwood.
Walter Pritchard was waiting outside the ranch office.
He seemed nervous.
Too nervous.
"Mr. Hatcher, we have a problem."
Lucien dismounted.
"What now?"
Walter held out an envelope.
A bank seal marked the front.
Lucien tore it open.
Josephine watched his face.
The color drained from it.
"What?"
Lucien handed her the paper.
The First Territorial Bank of Bitter Creek was demanding an immediate inspection of Ironwood's collateral.
Not February.
Now.
And at the bottom was a sentence Josephine recognized from her own past.
Failure to demonstrate adequate maintenance of secured livestock may result in acceleration of the outstanding obligation.
Her stomach dropped.
Someone had reported the ranch cattle were being slaughtered improperly.
Someone was trying to convince the bank Lucien was destroying collateral.
The three heifers.
The smokehouse.
The new business.
Every move Josephine had made to save Ironwood could now be used against them.
She turned toward Lucien.
"When is the inspection?"
Walter swallowed.
"Tomorrow."
Josephine looked across the ranch.
Twenty-two men were stronger.
The smokehouse was repaired.
Orders waited in Bitter Creek.
For the first time, Ironwood had hope.
May you like
And someone had just found a way to turn that hope into evidence against them.
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