The log split cleanly.
Abigail looked at him.
“Better?”
“Much.”
For the next several days, they settled into an uneasy rhythm.
She cooked.
He repaired fences.
She cleaned the cabin.
He worked cattle.
She began keeping his accounts.
That was when she discovered the second problem.
Caleb was being cheated.
Not dramatically.
Not enough to notice in one transaction.
But enough.
His feed supplier charged him twelve percent more than the published rate.
His cattle buyer had been weighing animals below the actual scale.
His banker had added a fee Caleb had never agreed to.
Abigail laid the papers across the table.
“You're losing money.”
Caleb looked down.
“I know business is bad.”
“No.”
She pointed.
“Business isn't bad.”
She tapped the papers.
“You are being robbed.”
Caleb's expression hardened.
“By whom?”
She showed him.
“Mercer.”
Caleb knew the name.
Silas Mercer owned the general store, the feed warehouse, the largest cattle-buying operation in three counties, and half the town.
“He's been buying from me for years.”
“Exactly.”
“He's fair.”
“He is not.”
Caleb picked up the scale records.
“What makes you think this is wrong?”
“I compared his receipts with the railroad scale.”
Caleb stared at her.
“How?”
“I wrote to the railroad office.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“You've been here three days.”
“Yes.”
He slowly lowered the paper.
Abigail looked at him.
“Caleb, I didn't come here to take your ranch.”
“I know.”
“I came because I answered your letter.”
“And?”
“And if this is going to be my home, I intend to help keep it.”
The word my struck him harder than expected.
Not because he disliked it.
Because he liked it.
That frightened him.
Three weeks passed.
Something changed.
Caleb began speaking more.
Abigail began laughing more.
One evening, while they sat on the porch, she asked about his family.
He told her about his father.
A hard man.
Honest.
His mother.
Gentle.
His younger brother, Daniel.
Caleb stopped.
Abigail waited.
“Daniel died when he was seventeen.”
“How?”
“River accident.”
She lowered her eyes.
“I'm sorry.”
Caleb nodded.
“He could swim.”
“That sounds like it makes it worse.”
“It does.”
They sat in silence.
Then Abigail said, “My father died too.”
Caleb looked at her.
“Three years ago.”
“What happened?”
“He fell from a roof.”
“I'm sorry.”
“He wasn't supposed to be on it.”
“Why was he?”
“Because I told him I could repair it.”
She looked toward the dark fields.
“He wanted to help.”
Caleb understood.
“You blamed yourself.”
“For years.”
“And now?”
“I know better.”
He watched her.
“What changed?”
“My mother told me something.”
“What?”
“She said grief likes to pretend it is responsibility.”
Caleb said nothing.
Abigail turned toward him.
“You don't have to carry everything because you survived.”
The wind moved through the grass.
For a moment, Caleb wanted to tell her everything.
The debts.
The loneliness.
The fear that the ranch would die with him.
The reason he had answered the matrimonial register.
Instead he said,
“Good night, Abigail.”
She smiled faintly.
“Good night, Caleb.”
Neither of them noticed the rider watching from the ridge.
But someone was watching.
And he had been watching for days.
His name was Silas Mercer.
And Caleb Rourke's new bride had just become a problem.
THE MAN WHO OWNED THE VALLEY
Silas Mercer arrived at Broken Antler on a Monday morning.
He came in a black coat despite the heat, riding a dark gelding with silver tack.
He was fifty-two, clean-shaven, broad around the middle, and carried himself like a man accustomed to rooms becoming quiet when he entered them.
Caleb met him near the barn.
“Morning, Mercer.”
“Rourke.”
Mercer's eyes moved past him.
Abigail was hanging laundry.
Mercer smiled.
“So that's her.”
Caleb's jaw tightened.
“That's Abigail.”
Mercer removed his hat.
“Mrs. Rourke.”
“Not yet.”
Abigail looked over.
Mercer smiled wider.
“Not yet?”
“We haven't married.”
Mercer laughed.
“Well, then congratulations are premature.”
Abigail approached.
“Can I help you?”
“I was speaking with Caleb.”
“I noticed.”
Mercer looked at her.
“You're the Nebraska woman.”
“Yes.”
“I heard you keep books.”
“I do.”
“I hear you're questioning my business practices.”
Caleb stepped forward.
“That's enough.”
Abigail raised one hand.
“It's fine.”
She looked at Mercer.
“I noticed discrepancies.”
“Discrepancies?”
“On cattle weights.”
Mercer laughed.
“Perhaps you don't understand ranching.”
“Perhaps.”
She smiled.
“But I understand arithmetic.”
Mercer's smile vanished.
“You should be careful.”
“About arithmetic?”
“About accusing a respected businessman.”
Abigail folded her hands.
“I didn't accuse you.”
“You implied theft.”
“No.”
She looked directly at him.
“I said your scales don't match the railroad scales.”
Mercer stared.
“That isn't my fault.”
“Then you'll have no objection to an independent weighing.”
He said nothing.
Caleb watched him.
Mercer finally laughed.
“You've been here less than a month.”
“Yes.”
“And already you think you can change how things work.”
“No.”
Abigail's voice remained calm.
“I think things should work honestly.”
Mercer's eyes hardened.
“Be careful, Mrs. Rourke.”
Abigail did not blink.
“I am.”
Mercer turned to Caleb.
“You've chosen an interesting wife.”
“She isn't my wife yet.”
Mercer mounted.
“That may be fortunate.”