Chapter 4 - Cyrus Algate at the Gate
Dora gave Caleb an extra biscuit the next morning.
The surprise in his face almost made her laugh.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
“No.”
“You looked worried.”
“I’m fine.”
“Then eat.”
He did.
Dora moved away.
Across the room Reed watched her as though she had lost her senses.
After breakfast he cornered her beside the flour barrel.
“You rewarded him.”
“I fed him.”
“He stole from you.”
“Possibly.”
“We watched him.”
“We watched him remove a sack.”
“That is generally what stealing looks like.”
Dora lowered her voice.
“If Caleb knows we suspect him, whoever is above him disappears.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“He keeps making mistakes.”
Reed studied her for several seconds.
“Remind me never to cheat you.”
“Pay me on time.”
That almost earned another smile.
The dangerous thing about Reed Callaway, Dora was beginning to discover, was that he was easier to like when he stopped trying to appear impossible to like.
She did not want to find him easier to like.
She had come west for independence.
Not complications.
Portland had taught her what happened when women tied their livelihood too tightly to men’s promises.
Her former employer had praised her work for three years, then hired his nephew and offered Dora less money to do more of the same labor.
She had walked away.
The decision had cost her savings, security, and every comfortable habit she possessed.
But it had preserved something she valued more.
Choice.
Callaway Ridge was supposed to be another job.
Nothing else.
By mid-May, however, the ranch kitchen had begun feeling dangerously close to hers.
She knew which board creaked near the pantry.
Which cup Amos preferred.
How Hank took coffee.
Which hand secretly hated onions.
And which evenings Reed stood outside after supper rather than returning immediately to his office.
She also knew the ranch’s financial trouble was deeper than missing salt.
Reed showed her the latest assessment notice.
Dora spread it beside Silas Callaway’s hidden ledger.
“Your grazing acreage increased.”
“It didn’t.”
“According to this, it did.”
Reed pointed toward the east.
“Half that land is dry scrub.”
“But you’re being assessed as if it supports cattle?”
“Apparently.”
“Who certifies acreage?”
“Territorial assessor.”
“Cyrus.”
“Yes.”
She compared figures.
“And these livestock numbers?”
“Wrong.”
“How wrong?”
“Forty-eight head too high.”
“That’s not a counting error.”
“No.”
Dora leaned back.
“Why haven’t you challenged it?”
“I did.”
“What happened?”
“Cyrus produced records bearing my father’s signature.”
“Were they real?”
“I assumed so.”
“Have you seen them?”
Reed paused.
“Copies.”
That answer bothered her.
“Where are the originals?”
“County office, supposedly.”
“Then we need to see them.”
“County seat is nearly two days by wagon.”
“Then we ride.”
He stared.
“You ride?”
“I didn’t walk here from Portland.”
“I meant—”
“I know exactly what you meant.”
Reed had the sense to stop.
They planned to leave in four days.
Dora told nobody why.
She only informed Hank that he would be responsible for checking the pantry seals.
Hank accepted without argument.
Caleb listened from across the yard.
That was intentional.
The next night, nothing disappeared.
The night after that, nothing disappeared.
On the third night Reed found a nail beneath his saddle blanket.
Not positioned to injure the horse immediately.
Positioned to make riding increasingly uncomfortable until the animal bucked or went lame.
Reed showed it to Dora.
“They don’t want us leaving.”
“Or they want us afraid to.”
“You still think we should wait?”
“No.”
“What changed?”
“They touched the horse.”
He looked surprised by the hardness in her voice.
Dora loved animals for the same reason she liked kitchens.
Neither respected titles.
A horse cared whether a person was steady.
A stove cared whether a person understood heat.
Simple truths appealed to her.
She wrapped the nail in cloth.
The next morning, she changed the plan.
Instead of leaving openly, Reed rode north before sunrise pretending to check cattle.
Dora stayed.
She cooked breakfast.
At nine, she packed a small bag and left through the eastern drainage on Hank’s mare.
Reed waited beyond the ridge.
“You’re late.”
“I baked bread.”
“You’re escaping a fraud conspiracy and worried about bread?”
“Eleven men still need lunch.”
Reed shook his head.
They rode most of the day.
The landscape rolled beneath an enormous pale sky.
Sagebrush.
Juniper.
Dark rock.
Dry gullies carved by seasonal water.
Dora had grown accustomed to Portland rain.
The open country still startled her with how far a person could see.
By evening they reached a small way station where they rented two beds separated by a curtain and ate stew that made Dora miss her own cooking.
Reed noticed.
“You’re judging it.”
“I am eating quietly.”
“That is how I know you’re judging it.”
“The potatoes are older than Amos.”
Reed laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound surprised both of them.
For a moment they were simply two tired travelers.
Not employer and employee.
Not ranch owner and cook.
Not two people investigating fraud.
Dora looked away first.
The next afternoon they reached the county office.
A clerk named Edwin Bell peered over spectacles when Reed requested Silas Callaway’s assessment records.
“Older files?”
“Four to six years.”
Edwin disappeared.
He returned twenty minutes later.
Empty-handed.
“They’re not here.”
Reed’s expression darkened.
“What?”
“Callaway file begins three years ago.”
“My father owned the ranch before then.”
“I know.”
“Where are the records?”
“Could have been transferred.”
“Where?”
Edwin swallowed.
“I’d have to check.”
Dora leaned forward.
“Who manages transfers?”
The clerk hesitated.
“Mr. Algate’s office.”
Cyrus.
Again.
Edwin glanced toward the door.
Then lowered his voice.
“You didn’t hear this from me.”
Reed became very still.
“What?”
“Callaway isn’t the only file with missing early assessments.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Guess.”
“Six. Maybe eight.”
Dora and Reed exchanged a look.
“Ranches?” Dora asked.
“Yes.”
“Still operating?”
Edwin thought.
“Some.”
“And the others?”
He looked uncomfortable.
“Sold.”
“To whom?”
“I don’t know.”
Dora did.
Or at least she knew what question came next.
“Who processed those sales?”
Edwin’s face went pale.
He did not answer.
He did not need to.
A door opened behind them.
Cyrus Algate entered the records room.
He removed his hat slowly.
“Well.”
His gaze moved from Reed to Dora.
“I wondered how long it would take.”
Reed stood.
“You knew we were coming?”
Cyrus smiled.
“Reed, very little happens in this territory that I do not eventually hear about.”
Dora saw the danger then.
Not violence.
Something colder.
Confidence.
Cyrus did not look like a man surprised to discover investigators in his records office.
He looked like a man who believed the office belonged to him.
“What happened to my father’s files?” Reed demanded.
“Archival transfer.”
“Where?”
“I would need to check.”
“So check.”
Cyrus’s smile faded.
“I suggest you return to your ranch.”
“I suggest you answer me.”
Cyrus turned his attention to Dora.
“A kitchen can be a very respectable place for a woman with good judgment.”
Dora’s spine straightened.
“And an assessor’s office can be respectable when the books are honest.”
Edwin Bell looked as if he wished to vanish through the floor.
Cyrus stepped closer.
“You have known Mr. Callaway less than a month.”
“Long enough to count.”
Something flashed in his eyes.
Dora saw it.
He knew.
Not everything.
But enough.
Cyrus put on his hat.
“Be cautious, Miss Vance.”
“I usually am.”
“You are very far from Portland.”
“Numbers behave the same everywhere.”
His mouth tightened.
Then he walked out.
Reed watched the door.
“We found the right trail.”
“No,” Dora said quietly.
He looked at her.
She glanced toward Edwin.
The clerk’s hands were shaking.
“We found a trail Cyrus expected us to find.”
Reed frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means the important records aren’t here.”
“Then where?”
Edwin suddenly spoke.
“There might be another set.”
Cyrus’s footsteps stopped somewhere in the hallway.
Edwin dropped his voice to a whisper.
“The duplicate tax books.”
“Where?” Dora asked.
“Old courthouse basement.”
“Can we see them?”
Edwin swallowed.
Then he looked toward the door Cyrus had just passed through.
“Not while Mr. Algate thinks you’re still in town.”
And that was when Dora understood the trip had not failed at all.
May you like
It had merely become dangerous enough that the truth finally had somewhere to hide.
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