Chapter 7 - Three Drops in the Teacup
The old sawmill stood five miles west of Ridgewater beside a river that had powered its wheel before lightning split the main gear.
Nobody had used the building in twelve years.
Which made it perfect for a kidnapping.
And an ambush.
Martha arrived alone at sundown.
At least, that was what anyone watching the road would believe.
Ethan had left two hours earlier by the northern ridge.
Dr. Ward remained with Ruth.
Three ranch hands watched the property.
Martha carried the false journal beneath her coat.
The real one was hidden beneath Ruth’s mattress.
She entered the mill.
“Walter?”
No answer.
The main room smelled of wet timber and old oil.
Then a lantern appeared above.
Sheriff Morrow descended the stairs.
“You came.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I thought Callaway might chain you to a chair.”
“He considered it.”
Morrow smiled.
“Harlan was right about you.”
“What did he say?”
“That people mistake quiet women for stupid ones.”
Martha looked around.
“Where’s Walter?”
“Alive.”
“Show me.”
Morrow whistled.
Two men brought Phelps from a back room.
His hands were tied.
One side of his face was bruised.
“Martha, go!”
Morrow struck him across the mouth.
Martha did not move.
“Journal first.”
She pulled it out.
Morrow reached.
Martha held it back.
“Walter walks toward me.”
“You’re hardly in a position to negotiate.”
“Then shoot me.”
Morrow’s smile vanished.
“You think Callaway would exchange the real journal after I’m dead?”
Morrow stared.
Martha continued.
“You don’t know whether this is the only copy.”
He considered.
Then gestured.
One man cut Walter loose and shoved him forward.
Walter stumbled toward Martha.
Ten feet.
Five.
Three.
Then another voice came from behind her.
“Stop.”
Dr. Price.
Martha turned.
He looked different without his physician’s coat.
Smaller.
Older.
More desperate.
“You’ve caused considerable trouble.”
“You murdered my mother.”
Price sighed.
“Naomi was always dramatic.”
“You poisoned her.”
“She had pneumonia.”
“You made sure it killed her.”
He smiled faintly.
“Can you prove that?”
Martha hated him for the calmness.
She understood then why her mother had feared him.
Price believed intelligence made him untouchable.
People like him treated conscience as weakness.
Martha held up the journal.
“You were afraid enough to shoot at us.”
“Sheriff Morrow makes his own decisions.”
Morrow’s face tightened.
Price had just thrown him aside without hesitation.
Martha noticed.
So did Morrow.
Interesting.
“Walter told us everything.”
Price looked at Phelps.
“Walter is confused.”
“I’m not,” Phelps said.
Price ignored him.
“Give me the journal.”
Martha opened it.
“Three drops.”
Price froze.
She watched his eyes.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The thing I wanted.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do.”
Martha stepped closer.
“Walter said you used three drops from an unlabeled bottle in Ruth’s medicine.”
Price’s face remained controlled.
But his right hand flexed.
Martha smiled.
“My mother wrote that guilty people often react to details nobody else would understand.”
Price’s jaw hardened.
“Give me the book.”
“Tell me what was in the bottle.”
He drew a pistol.
“Now.”
Martha’s heart jumped.
But she did not move.
Morrow looked surprised.
“Harlan—”
“Quiet.”
Martha stared at Price.
“So much for educated men’s business.”
His eyes sharpened.
“You sound like Naomi.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
A rifle cocked above them.
Ethan’s voice came from the rafters.
“Drop the pistol.”
Every head turned.
Price grabbed Martha.
The gun pressed against her side.
Ethan appeared on the catwalk.
“Let her go.”
Price laughed.
“You always were predictable, Callaway.”
“Maybe.”
Another rifle cocked behind Morrow.
One of Ethan’s ranch hands stepped through a side entrance.
Then another.
Morrow realized what had happened.
They were surrounded.
Price pulled Martha closer.
“You think you’ve won?”
“No,” Martha said.
“I think you’ve become careless.”
She slammed her heel down on his foot.
Price jerked.
Martha twisted away.
The pistol fired into the ceiling.
Ethan jumped from the lower platform and tackled Price.
Morrow reached for his gun.
Phelps shouted.
One ranch hand aimed directly at him.
“Don’t.”
Morrow stopped.
Within seconds, Price was pinned against the floor.
Ethan hit him once.
Then twice.
Martha grabbed Ethan’s arm.
“Enough.”
“He killed your mother.”
“We need him alive.”
Ethan’s fist remained raised.
Martha held his wrist.
“Alive.”
Slowly, he lowered it.
Price began laughing.
Everyone looked at him.
“You think arresting me matters?”
His lip bled.
His smile remained.
“Half this town owes me money.”
Martha stared.
“The town isn’t the law.”
“No?”
Price looked at Morrow.
“You tell her.”
Morrow said nothing.
Price laughed again.
“You have no ledger. No patient records. No laboratory evidence. You have the ramblings of a dead Cherokee woman and the testimony of a frightened assistant.”
Martha felt the false journal beneath her coat.
Price continued.
“You have nothing.”
A new voice came from the doorway.
“I wouldn’t say nothing.”
Dr. Elias Ward entered.
Beside him stood a federal marshal from Denver.
Martha stared.
Ward smiled.
“I sent a telegram.”
Price stopped laughing.
The marshal stepped forward.
“Harlan Price?”
“Yes.”
“You’re under arrest pending investigation into fraud, conspiracy, attempted murder, and several suspicious deaths.”
Price looked at Morrow.
Morrow backed away.
Cowards always searched for exits first.
The marshal ordered both men restrained.
For the first time, Martha allowed herself to breathe.
Then Price looked at her.
“This isn’t over.”
Martha believed him.
That was the worst part.
Because men like Harlan Price rarely built crimes alone.
And the ledger they had discovered—the one stolen from Callaway Ranch—was still missing.
Someone else had taken it.
Someone who had entered Ethan’s house without being seen.
Someone who knew where Ruth slept.
Someone close enough to Callaway Ranch that nobody had questioned their presence.
On the ride home, Martha remained quiet.
Ethan finally asked, “What?”
“The ledger.”
“What about it?”
“Price was already at the sawmill before we arrived.”
“So?”
“So he didn’t bring the ledger.”
Ethan looked at her.
Martha continued.
“Morrow didn’t have it either.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then who does?”
Martha thought of every person who had moved through Callaway Ranch during the past week.
Ranch hands.
Neighbors.
Delivery drivers.
Dr. Ward.
Then she remembered something.
The night Phelps vanished, one person had come to the ranch carrying a covered tray of food.
A woman Ethan had barely acknowledged.
One of the six rejected brides.
The banker’s daughter.
Charlotte Vale.
Daughter of the man Phelps had named as Price’s financial partner.
Martha looked at Ethan.
“I think your seventh bride may not be the problem.”
“What?”
“It’s the sixth one we need to find.”
May you like
And thirty miles south, Charlotte Vale was already boarding a stagecoach with Ruth Callaway’s stolen ledger hidden beneath her dress.
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