Chapter 13 - Fire in the Storehouse
Cyrus Algate did not flee east.
Sheriff Ward learned that by noon.
A stage driver had seen Hiram’s wagon headed west toward the Cascades, but nobody could confirm Cyrus was with him.
Reed believed Cyrus had left the territory.
Dora did not.
“He likes control too much.”
“You know him now?”
“I know his habits.”
“What habit says he stayed?”
“He destroys what can be used against him.”
Reed looked toward the ranch.
“You think he’ll come back.”
“Yes.”
“For what? We copied everything.”
“He may not know that.”
Ward increased watches.
Two men remained near the house at night.
Nobody slept well.
Two evenings passed without incident.
Then rain came.
Rare, cold, hard rain swept across the high desert.
The ranch hands celebrated because pasture needed it.
Dora disliked it because tracks vanished.
At midnight the dogs barked.
Then stopped.
Dora opened her eyes.
Smoke.
She smelled it before hearing anyone shout.
She ran into the hall.
“Fire!”
The storage building behind the kitchen was burning.
This fire was not a warning.
Flames climbed the wall.
Reed ran barefoot into the yard.
Hank organized the bucket line.
Rain slowed the spread but could not stop the blaze inside.
Dora grabbed Reed’s arm.
“Records.”
“Where?”
“Kitchen flour tin.”
He stared.
“You still keep them there?”
“Where else?”
They rushed inside.
Smoke entered beneath the back door.
Dora pulled the copy packet from the flour barrel.
Another set rested beneath the bread box.
She handed both to Reed.
A crash sounded outside.
The storage roof partially collapsed.
Nobody was inside.
Good.
Food could be replaced.
People could not.
By dawn, the fire was out.
The storehouse was ruined.
Most preserved goods were gone.
Winter stores.
Flour.
Salt.
Smoked meat.
Dried fruit.
Coffee.
Months of work.
Dora stood in the mud staring at the wreckage.
Reed approached.
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t.”
“It was your kitchen.”
“It’s your ranch.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“You built those stores.”
Dora swallowed.
Oddly, the destroyed food hurt more than stolen papers.
Each jar represented labor.
Each smoked cut represented planning.
She walked into the wet ashes.
Near the rear wall she found a broken bottle.
Lamp oil.
Then footprints.
Rain had damaged them.
One detail remained.
Polished boot heel.
Not ranch work.
Ward examined the print.
“Could be Cyrus.”
“Could be anyone,” Dora said.
Reed glanced at her.
“You finally sound cautious?”
“I want proof.”
They found it near the south fence.
A horse had lost a shoe.
Distinctive.
One ranch hand recognized the pattern.
“Algate’s bay throws that foot outward.”
Ward mounted.
He and two deputies followed the road.
They returned empty-handed.
Cyrus had disappeared again.
But he had made a serious mistake.
He burned Dora’s food.
The neighboring ranches responded with food of their own.
By afternoon wagons arrived.
Flour.
Beans.
Salt.
Coffee.
Cured meat.
Preserves.
Margaret Shaw brought twelve jars of peaches.
Esther Baines sent potatoes.
George Wilkes, hundreds of miles away, wired money through Ruth.
Dora stood among the supplies stunned.
“You don’t need all this,” Reed said softly.
“It isn’t for me.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No.”
“It’s because you fed everyone when they came here.”
Dora looked at the people unloading sacks.
She had spent her adult life saving money so she would never depend on anyone.
Yet here was another kind of security.
Not dependence.
Reciprocity.
She had given food.
They brought food.
A future could be built that way too.
Two days later Eleanor Finch returned.
She brought state marshals.
Malcolm Renn had been suspended pending investigation.
Thomas Vale’s testimony had been formally recorded.
Warrants were issued for Cyrus and Hiram.
Silver Basin’s assets were frozen.
Ranchers gathered in the yard to hear the announcement.
Nobody cheered immediately.
Years of fear did not vanish at the sound of legal language.
Then Esther Baines began crying.
Her husband had died believing he lost their ranch through incompetence.
Eleanor told her the foreclosure would be reviewed.
Esther covered her face.
Dora embraced her.
That broke the crowd open.
People laughed.
Cried.
Shook hands.
Reed stood apart.
Dora joined him.
“This should feel better,” he said.
“It will.”
“I keep thinking about my father.”
“That will take longer.”
“And the ranch isn’t fixed.”
“No.”
“Debts still exist.”
“Some.”
“Buildings need repairs.”
“Yes.”
“Winter stores burned.”
“I noticed.”
He looked at her.
“You’re terrible at comfort.”
“I’m excellent at realistic optimism.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means things can be difficult and still improve.”
Reed smiled.
Then his smile faded.
“What happens after the investigation?”
Dora knew what he meant.
Her month was over.
She had forty dollars.
Enough to leave.
Enough to rent another room.
Enough to search for something that was fully hers.
“I haven’t decided.”
Reed nodded.
He did not ask again.
That restraint made staying harder to resist.
The next weeks changed Callaway Ridge.
Fraudulent assessments were suspended.
Supplier accounts were audited.
Several debts vanished once false charges were removed.
The ranch had more money than Reed believed.
Not wealth.
But breathing room.
He replaced broken equipment.
Paid overdue wages.
Ordered lumber for the storehouse.
Dora redesigned the pantry.
“If we rebuild, we do it properly.”
Reed leaned against the doorway.
“Meaning?”
“Stone foundation. Ventilation. Separate salt storage.”
“Anything else?”
“Larger smokehouse.”
“Of course.”
“And shelves that don’t lean.”
“You have strong feelings about shelves.”
“I have strong feelings about everything.”
“I noticed.”
They smiled.
The closeness between them continued growing in spaces neither named.
Hands brushing while carrying pans.
Long talks after supper.
Reed bringing her wildflowers and pretending he found them accidentally.
Dora repairing the tear in his work shirt without being asked.
Nothing dramatic.
Everything important.
Then one evening Ruth rode in.
She carried a letter.
“Cyrus was seen.”
Ward stood immediately.
“Where?”
“Near Fort Rock.”
Reed frowned.
“Why would he go south?”
Ruth handed Dora the letter.
A rancher had spotted Cyrus meeting a wagon.
The wagon belonged to Silver Basin.
It was carrying boxes.
Records.
Dora understood.
Cyrus had not returned to burn the storehouse merely from revenge.
He had been retrieving something.
“What was stored here before I came?” she asked Reed.
“Tools. Extra supplies.”
“Records?”
He hesitated.
“My father kept old boxes out there.”
Dora’s stomach tightened.
The fire may have destroyed evidence neither of them knew existed.
But Cyrus had taken something first.
“What would be in the boxes?” she asked.
Reed thought.
“Old deeds.”
“Originals?”
“Possibly.”
Ruth looked grim.
“If Cyrus has deeds, he can destroy proof of ownership changes.”
Eleanor had warned them the case against Silver Basin would depend partly on showing fraudulent transfers.
Cyrus still held leverage.
Sheriff Ward prepared to ride south.
Dora looked at the new supplies stacked against her temporary kitchen wall.
The ranch had survived fire.
It had survived fraud.
But Cyrus was not finished.
May you like
And neither was she.
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