PART 3 — THE RICHEST MAN IN TOWN WANTED HER GONE
PART 3 — THE RICHEST MAN IN TOWN WANTED HER GONE
The town inspector entered the Adler at precisely eight o’clock.
His name was Walter Briggs.
He was a thin man with a narrow face, polished boots, and the unpleasant habit of looking at people as though he had already found something wrong with them.
Behind him stood two men.
One carried a clipboard.
The other held a wooden box filled with inspection instruments.
“Who is responsible for this establishment?”
Greta stepped forward.
“I am.”
Briggs glanced at her.
Then at Friedrich.
“Your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps I should speak with him.”
Greta wiped her hands on her apron.
“He knows less about the kitchen than I do.”
Friedrich almost smiled.
Briggs did not.
“I’ve received several complaints concerning this establishment.”
“What kind of complaints?”
“Unsanitary conditions. Improper food storage. Unapproved heating equipment.”
Greta looked toward the oven.
“Who made these complaints?”
“That is not your concern.”
“It becomes my concern when someone threatens my livelihood.”
Briggs opened his folder.
“I have authority to inspect this property.”
“Then inspect it.”
For the next twenty minutes, the men examined everything.
They checked the flour sacks, the water containers, the kitchen floor, and the oven.
Greta answered every question.
She showed them where she stored fresh ingredients, how she cleaned the preparation surfaces, and how she separated raw and cooked food.
Briggs appeared increasingly irritated.
Finally, he opened his notebook.
“This oven is not approved.”
Friedrich stepped forward.
“It was built according to the town’s masonry requirements.”
“By whom?”
“A local bricklayer.”
“Name?”
“Samuel Price.”
Briggs made a note.
“Your operating license may be suspended until further investigation.”
Greta stared at him.
“On what grounds?”
“Public safety.”
She glanced at his folder.
Then she noticed something.
A date.
The inspection report had been prepared three days before the inspection itself.
Greta pointed to it.
“Mr. Briggs, why does this document have the date of last Friday?”
The inspector stiffened.
“Administrative preparation.”
“And why does it already recommend closing our kitchen?”
Briggs closed the folder.
“That’s enough.”
“No,” Greta said calmly. “I believe it’s only beginning.”
Friedrich moved beside her.
“Careful, Mr. Briggs.”
The inspector looked at him.
“Are you threatening an official?”
“I’m asking him to explain why he’s decided the verdict before examining the evidence.”
Briggs turned toward the door.
“You’ll receive written notice.”
Then he left.
Greta watched the carriage disappear.
For several seconds, neither she nor Friedrich spoke.
Finally, Sammy came out of the storeroom.
“Are they going to close us?”
Greta knelt beside him.
“Not today.”
“But what if they do?”
She looked into his frightened eyes.
“Then we make another plan.”
That afternoon, Friedrich rode into town to speak with the bricklayer who had built the oven.
Greta remained at the Adler.
Business continued, but the threat of closure hung over every conversation.
Customers whispered.
Some left early.
Others promised to return.
Around three o’clock, a well-dressed man entered.
Augustus Puit.
Greta recognized him immediately.
He carried himself like someone accustomed to having doors opened before he reached them.
“Mrs. Adler.”
“Mr. Puit.”
He looked around the dining room.
“Quite a transformation.”
Greta continued arranging pastries.
“What can I get you?”
“Coffee.”
She poured it.
Puit sat at the nearest table.
“I hear business is doing well.”
“Better than last month.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
Greta placed the cup in front of him.
“Why?”
“Because Friedrich Adler owes a substantial debt.”
“I know.”
“And October is approaching.”
“I know that too.”
Puit smiled.
“I could make his troubles disappear.”
Greta looked at him.
“Could you?”
“I could purchase the debt, forgive the interest, and allow you both to stay here.”
“What would you want?”
Puit leaned back.
“The bakery.”
Greta said nothing.
“The kitchen, the oven, the recipes. You could even remain employed here.”
Greta almost laughed.
“You want me to work in my own kitchen for you?”
“I want a business arrangement.”
“No.”
His smile disappeared.
“Perhaps you should think carefully before refusing.”
Greta began clearing the table.
“I have thought about it.”
Puit reached for her wrist.
She pulled away immediately.
“Don’t touch me.”
His voice dropped.
“You seem to have forgotten something, Mrs. Adler.”
“What?”
“This town belonged to me long before you arrived.”
Greta met his eyes.
“Then perhaps you should have taken better care of it.”
For a moment, Puit stared at her.
Then he stood.
“You’ll regret that.”
He placed a coin on the table and walked out.
Greta watched him leave.
Her hands were trembling.
But she refused to let him see.
That evening, Friedrich returned with troubling news.
“The bricklayer confirmed the oven meets the requirements,” he said.
Greta smiled.
“Good.”
“But the inspector has ordered another examination.”
“Why?”
“Puit filed a complaint saying we contaminated a shipment of flour.”
Greta stared.
“That is nonsense.”
“I know.”
“Then we show them the flour receipts.”
Friedrich placed a folded document on the table.
“That’s the problem. The delivery records are missing.”
Greta frowned.
“Missing?”
“The storekeeper says someone collected the original paperwork this morning.”
“Who?”
“He doesn’t know.”
Greta looked toward the storeroom.
Then she noticed the flour sacks.
One had been opened.
The top was folded differently from how she had left it.
She walked over and examined the contents.
There was something mixed into the flour.
Tiny dark particles.
Her stomach тιԍнтened.
“Friedrich.”
He came closer.
“What?”
“Don’t touch that.”
She took a small spoon and collected a sample.
The particles were not dirt.
They looked like ground charcoal mixed with something oily.
Friedrich’s face darkened.
“Someone tampered with the flour.”
Greta looked toward the kitchen door.
“Puit.”
“Probably.”
She swallowed.
“If I had used this flour, the inspector could have claimed our food was unsafe.”
Friedrich nodded.
“And if anyone became ill, the consequences would be worse.”
Greta covered the sack.
“Where did this shipment come from?”
“Benson’s supply warehouse.”
“Then we’re going there tomorrow.”
The following morning, Greta visited the warehouse.
The owner, Mr. Benson, looked uncomfortable when she asked about the flour.
“I delivered exactly what was ordered.”
“Who collected it?”
He checked his ledger.
“Your husband.”
Friedrich had been at the ranch the entire morning.
Greta stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
Benson shrugged.
“Your husband’s signature is here.”
He showed her a receipt.
The signature looked convincing.
But Greta immediately noticed something.
Friedrich always wrote his surname with a long, curved final letter.
This signature ended abruptly.
Someone had copied his name without understanding how he wrote it.
“Who brought you this order?”
Benson hesitated.
“A young man.”
“What did he look like?”
“Dark coat. Brown hat. Had a scar near his mouth.”
Greta remembered the man who had accompanied the inspector.
The second man carrying the wooden box.
She returned to the Adler and told Friedrich everything.
He listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he walked to the back office and opened a locked drawer.
Inside was a stack of old letters.
One was addressed to him in handwriting he immediately recognized.
He unfolded it.
His expression changed.
“What is it?” Greta asked.
Friedrich handed her the letter.
It was from his older brother, Matthias.
Matthias had disappeared nearly four years earlier after becoming involved in a mining dispute.
The letter contained only a few lines.
Friedrich,
Puit is not merely buying debts. He is manufacturing them. The land beneath the northern road contains something valuable, and he intends to own every parcel before anyone discovers it.
Do not trust the bank.
Do not trust the sheriff.
And most importantly, do not let him purchase your saloon.
The letter was dated almost four years earlier.
Greta looked up.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
Friedrich sat down.
“Because I thought Matthias was ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.”
“Did he have proof?”
“He said he had found documents.”
“Where?”
Friedrich shook his head.
“He never told me.”
Greta read the letter again.
Then she noticed the final sentence, written in a different ink.
The woman who understands the bread will understand the land.
Greta frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“I have no idea.”
She looked toward the ceramic jar sitting on the kitchen shelf.
Her grandmother’s sourdough starter.
Then another memory came to her.
When Greta was little, her grandmother used to bake special loaves before traveling to neighboring farms.
She had a strange habit of marking the bottom of certain loaves with small symbols.
A circle.
A cross.
Sometimes a tiny star.
Greta had always thought they were simply family traditions.
But now she remembered something else.
Her grandmother had told her never to throw away the old wooden board used for shaping bread.
Greta had brought that board across the Atlantic.
It was stored beneath her bed.
“Friedrich,” she said slowly.
“I think my grandmother knew something about this.”
That evening, Greta retrieved the old wooden board.
It was worn, darkened by years of flour and use.
On its underside were several shallow carvings.
She brushed away the dust.
A series of numbers appeared.
Then a small drawing.
A river.
A mountain.
And a circle surrounding a location just north of Copper Bend.
Friedrich leaned closer.
“That’s the northern road.”
Greta turned the board.
There was another marking.
47 — 12 — 8.
“What do those numbers mean?” she asked.
Friedrich studied them.
“Could be a survey reference.”
He reached into the drawer and pulled out an old map of Copper Bend.
He placed it beside the board.
Then he began comparing the markings.
His face slowly changed.
“Greta.”
“What?”
“These numbers correspond to a mining claim.”
“Whose?”
Friedrich looked at her.
“Your grandmother’s family.”
Greta stepped backward.
“That can’t be right.”
He pointed to the map.
“Your grandmother’s name is listed here. Leisel Weiss. She owned a small parcel of land before the first mining company arrived.”
Greta stared at the document.
Her grandmother had never mentioned owning land in America.
But perhaps she had known something.
Perhaps the sourdough starter had not been the only thing she had preserved.
Friedrich turned another page.
Then he went completely silent.
The land parcel wasn’t simply valuable.
It included the entire northern road, the abandoned silver mine, and a section of land beneath Augustus Puit’s Silver Dollar saloon.
Greta looked at him.
“Why would Puit want our land?”
Friedrich’s voice dropped.
“Because there’s a large silver deposit beneath it.”
Before Greta could answer, someone knocked on the front door.
Three slow knocks.
Friedrich reached for his revolver.
“Stay behind me.”
He opened the door a few inches.
A young man stood outside.
His clothes were torn.
His face was bruised.
And he was holding a small leather envelope.
“Are you Friedrich Adler?”
“Yes.”
The stranger looked past him.
His eyes landed on Greta.
Then he whispered:
“My name is Matthias Adler.”
Friedrich nearly dropped his revolver.
“Matthias?”
His older brother nodded.
“I haven’t got much time.”
He stepped inside and closed the door.
“Puit knows about the land claim. He knows Greta has the original survey.”
Greta’s heart began racing.
“How do you know?”
Matthias looked at her.
“Because I was the one who told him.”
Friedrich seized his brother’s coat.
“You betrayed us?”
“No!”
Matthias pulled a paper from his pocket.
“Listen to me. I worked for him because he promised to help me find the original owner of the land.”
He turned toward Greta.
“Your grandmother wasn’t just a landowner. She was the only person who knew where the original deed was hidden.”
Greta looked at the wooden board in her hands.
Matthias nodded.
“And there’s something else.”
He placed the leather envelope on the table.
Inside was a pH๏τograph of an old wooden building.
Greta recognized it.
It was the abandoned bakery where her grandmother had worked as a young woman in Copper Bend, decades before Greta was born.
On the back was a handwritten message.
The deed is beneath the oven.
Greta felt a chill.
But before anyone could speak, Matthias suddenly rushed to the window.
“Get away from the door!”
A bullet shattered the glᴀss.
Friedrich pushed Greta to the floor.
Another sH๏τ followed.
Then a man’s voice rang out from the street.
“Matthias! Send the woman outside!”
Matthias looked terrified.
He turned toward Greta.
“There’s something I haven’t told you.”
“What?”
“Puit doesn’t just want the land.”
He glanced at Friedrich.
“He knows the silver mine contains evidence of something much worse.”
Friedrich stared at him.
“What evidence?”
Matthias swallowed.
“The original owners didn’t sell their claims. They were forced off the land. Some disappeared. Others were buried beneath the old mine.”
Greta felt sick.
Outside, more horses approached.
Matthias leaned closer.
“And Greta, your grandmother didn’t leave America because she wanted a new life.”
He paused.
“She ran because Puit’s father tried to make sure she never told anyone what happened.”
Greta looked down at the old wooden board.
Then she looked toward the window.
The richest man in Copper Bend had spent years trying to destroy her business.
But now she understood why.
Her bakery was not merely threatening his saloon.
It was standing on top of a secret that could destroy everything he had built.
And the man outside was no longer willing to wait.
Friedrich raised his revolver.
Matthias whispered one final warning.
“Whatever happens, don’t let Puit get his hands on that ceramic jar.”
Greta turned sharply.
“My sourdough starter?”
Matthias nodded.
“There’s something hidden inside its wooden lid.”
Before Greta could ask what he meant, the front door burst open.
And Augustus Puit walked inside.
He was smiling.
END OF PART 3
