Chapter 7 - The Midnight Audit
The wind howling down the Sierra Blanca canyons rattled the corrugated iron roof of the Calder & Sons main mill office like a handful of gravel. Inside, the only illumination came from a single green-shaded kerosene lamp casting a harsh, yellow circle over a massive oak drafting table.
Ria held the chimney of the lamp steady while Trace turned the heavy brass dial of the floor safe tucked into the corner behind the accountant's desk. The combination was a sequence his father had taught him when he was twelve years old—left to fourдцать, right to twelve, left to sixty-five.
With a heavy, mechanical clack, the steel bolt slid home.
Trace pulled the heavy iron door open, sending a puff of cool, dust-laden air into the room. Inside sat several thick tin boxes, banded in rusted iron, and a stack of leather-bound record books marked with red wax seals.
"This is it," Trace whispered, pulling out the topmost ledger. The cover was cracked leather, embossed with gold lettering that had faded into near-invisibility: Calder Mills — Internal Audit, 1884–1889.
Ria set the lamp down on the table and pulled up a wooden stool. "Open it."
Trace cracked the stiff binding. The smell of aged parchment, ink, and dried glue rose between them. He flipped past the routine shipping manifests and timber tallies until he reached the back pages—the restricted financial summaries that were never submitted to the general board of directors.
Ria leaned in close, her shoulder brushing against his arm as her eyes scanned the handwritten columns of figures.
"Look at this entry," Ria said, pointing a slender finger at a line dated November 1886. "A draft of five thousand dollars drawn from the primary reserve and paid directly to an account in Santa Fe under the name Blackwell & Associates."
Trace's breath hitched. "That was right after my father took a severe fall from his horse. He was bedridden for three months."
"And during those three months, Mara was given temporary signing authority," Ria continued, her voice hardening with realization. "She didn't just invest in regional rail spurs. She systematically drained the operational buffer so that when your father died, the ranch would look like it was teetering on bankruptcy unless the board took control."
Trace slammed his palm flat against the wooden table, the sharp crack echoing off the timber walls. "She's been bleeding the company for a decade and blaming the shortfall on market fluctuations."
Before Ria could answer, a sharp sound echoed from the outer hallway—the distinct, metallic click of a doorknob turning.
Both of them froze.
The mill office was locked. The night watchman didn't make his rounds through this wing until two in the morning, and it was barely midnight.
Trace moved with instinctive, silent speed, blowing out the kerosene lamp and plunging the room into total darkness save for the pale wash of moonlight through the high window. He reached into his coat and drew his Colt revolver, his body positioning itself protectively between the desk and the door.
The heavy oak door slowly creaked open.
A shaft of lantern light cut across the floorboards. In the doorway stood a tall, thin silhouette wearing a dark overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat.
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"I know you're in here, nephew," Mara Blackwell's cold, steady voice cut through the shadows. "And you're wasting your time looking for papers that won't save you on Thursday."
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