Chapter 4 - Shadows in the Ledger
The storm kept us snowbound for two days. Inside the ranch house, the fire crackled day and night, turning the front room into a warm refuge filled with the smell of dried sage, pine wood, and roasting venison. Eli had taken to following Maren everywhere, sitting on the floor by her heavy boots while she carved small wooden animals out of scrap pine with a pocketknife that had belonged to Clara.
I spent those two days going over the ranch ledgers at the oak desk, trying to make sense of the figures left behind by our previous foreman before Doyle took over the books. Something didn't add up. Supply purchases for barbed wire, grain, and horseshoe nails were double what they should have been for a ranch our size, yet our inventory cabinets were half empty.
Maren noticed me staring at the old pages by the light of a single tallow candle. She walked over, her heavy footsteps silent on the braided rug, and placed a cup of hot black coffee beside my elbow.
“Trouble with the numbers?” she asked, looking down at the columns of ink.
“Doyle's been skimming,” I muttered, pointing to a series of altered entries from the past spring. “He marked down three shipments of cedar posts that never arrived, and pocketed the difference from the Oakhaven bank account. If the bank calls our note due early next month, we won't have the cash reserves to cover it because of these ghost orders.”
Maren’s brow furrowed. She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing mine—a solid, comforting warmth. “He's trying to starve the ranch out. If you default on the bank loan, who holds the mortgage?”
I looked up at her, the realization hitting me like a cold splash of well water. “Mrs. Miller. The storekeeper's husband is the bank president in Oakhaven. They’ve been trying to buy up the lower creek pastures for three years to expand their grazing land.”
The pieces fell into place with terrifying clarity. Doyle wasn't just a bitter hand angry about a woman working on a ranch; he was working for the Millers, intentionally bleeding Ironroot dry so they could foreclose on us for pennies on the dollar before winter broke.
Maren straightened up, her expression turning hard as flint. “Then we don't wait for them to foreclose. We find the receipts Doyle tried to hide. Where does he keep his personal trunk?”
“In the bunkhouse,” I said. “Locked.”
“Locks can be picked,” Maren said calmly. “Or hinges can be coaxed.”
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I looked at her, startled by the fierce, protective determination in her eyes. This wasn't just my fight anymore. It was hers, too. She was defending her home—the first real home either of us had known since Clara left us behind.
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