PART 2 — THE LITTLE LEATHER BOOK THAT COULD DESTROY A RANCH

Lester Oler’s hand stopped halfway to the drawer.

For several seconds, nobody in the saloon moved.

Then he smiled.

“I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else, Mrs. Platt.”

Bertha didn’t blink.

“No, Mr. Oler. I’ve spent weeks watching thirty men ride five miles every evening to eat food they never needed. I know exactly who you are.”

A few cowboys shifted in their chairs.

Buck stepped away from the bar.

“Bertha, you’ve made enough trouble. Go back to the ranch.”

She turned toward him.

“Funny. You never seemed concerned about trouble when you were throwing perfectly good food into the hog trough.”

Andrew moved beside her.

“Let her finish.”

Buck’s jaw тιԍнтened.

Oler gave a nervous chuckle. “This is a private business, Mr. Coburn.”

“So is my ranch,” Andrew replied. “And somehow your business has been costing me money.”

That wiped the smile from Oler’s face.

Bertha looked at the cigar box.

“Lonnie saw you open that drawer after Buck left. He heard you discussing thirty mouths and three dollars.”

At the mention of Lonnie’s name, Buck’s expression changed.

“You’ve been listening to that boy?”

“I’ve been listening to everyone,” Bertha answered. “Especially the men you thought were too frightened to speak.”

Old Elroy Pike rose slowly from a table near the back.

“I heard it too,” he said.

Buck spun around.

“You keep your nose out of this, Elroy.”

Elroy adjusted his hat.

“I’ve kept my nose out of plenty of things on this ranch. That’s why you thought you could get away with them.”

Oler finally pulled the drawer open.

He removed a small leather ledger and held it against his chest.

“This book contains private accounts. You have no right to demand it.”

Andrew stepped forward.

“Then show me the account for Coburn Ranch.”

Oler hesitated.

That hesitation told everyone more than an explanation could.

Bertha reached into her coat and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

“I brought something too.”

It was a copy of the ranch’s monthly supply order. Bertha had found it among the kitchen papers several days earlier. The figures had never made sense to her. The ranch had been paying for thirty meals every evening, yet the food she prepared remained untouched.

She placed it on the counter.

“Look at the dates. Every time Buck took the men to town, the ranch was charged for supper here. And every time I cooked at home, the ranch paid for those ingredients too.”

Andrew studied the paper.

His face grew still.

“Two supper bills for the same thirty men?”

Oler said nothing.

Buck finally stepped between them.

“It’s a misunderstanding. I arranged a meal allowance so the boys could eat where they wanted. It was easier than having them complain about the cook.”

Bertha looked at him.

“Then why did you tell them not to eat my food?”

Buck’s mouth opened.

No answer came.

Young Lonnie, who had arrived with Elroy and several other hands, stood near the entrance.

“I know why,” he said quietly.

Every head turned.

Lonnie swallowed.

“Because if we ate at the ranch, Mr. Oler wouldn’t get the money. And Buck wouldn’t get his share.”

A murmur swept through the room.

Buck’s face darkened.

“That’s a lie.”

“Then open the book,” Andrew said.

Oler looked from Andrew to Buck.

For the first time, the saloonkeeper seemed to understand that the man who had protected his little arrangement was no longer in control.

Slowly, he opened the ledger.

There were pages of names, dates, and payments.

Beside each date appeared the number thirty.

Beside each number was a charge of three dollars.

And beside the charges were two sets of initials.

B.T.

L.O.

Andrew stared at the figures.

“How long?”

Oler licked his lips.

“Nearly eight months.”

“Eight months?” Andrew repeated.

Bertha felt the room go quiet around her.

Eight months of food wasted. Eight months of men being told her cooking wasn’t worth eating. Eight months of money disappearing from the ranch while Buck made sure nobody questioned why.

Andrew turned another page.

Then another.

His finger stopped at a final column.

“What is this payment?”

Oler said nothing.

Andrew looked closer.

It was a payment made every month to a man named Silas Vane.

Elroy frowned.

“Vane? He’s the fellow who tried to buy the north pasture last spring.”

Andrew slowly raised his eyes.

“Buck, what does a land speculator have to do with my payroll?”

Buck took one step backward.

“Nothing.”

“Then why is he receiving money from my ranch account?”

The saloon had become completely silent.

Buck glanced toward the door.

Andrew noticed.

“Don’t even think about it.”

But before anyone could move, the saloon doors swung open.

A tall stranger entered, carrying a black leather case.

He looked at the ledger on the counter, then at Andrew.

“Looks like you’ve found the wrong account, Mr. Coburn.”

Andrew turned.

“Who are you?”

The stranger removed his gloves.

“Silas Vane.”

Elroy muttered something under his breath.

Vane placed the leather case on the counter.

“I came to collect the final payment. Buck promised me the north pasture would be mine before the first snow.”

Andrew stared at him.

“You’re buying land that isn’t for sale?”

Vane gave a thin smile.

“Not anymore.”

He opened the case and removed a document bearing Andrew’s name.

Bertha leaned closer.

It appeared to be a deed.

Andrew took it, scanned the first lines, and suddenly went pale.

“This isn’t my signature.”

Vane’s smile disappeared.

“Your foreman ᴀssured me it was.”

Everyone turned toward Buck.

Buck looked at the floor.

And then Bertha noticed something strange.

The date on the document was three days before she had arrived at the ranch.

She looked at Andrew.

“Mr. Coburn… if this paper is false, why did Buck need the men away from the ranch every evening?”

Andrew didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he turned the document over.

On the back was a handwritten note.

Five words.

THE ORIGINAL IS IN THE COOKHOUSE.

Bertha felt her stomach тιԍнтen.

The cookhouse.

The place where she had spent every evening setting thirty plates.

The place Buck had tried so hard to keep her away from the truth.

Andrew folded the document carefully.

“Everyone returns to the ranch. Now.”

But Vane stepped in front of the door.

“I’m afraid you won’t be going anywhere until we settle our agreement.”

Andrew looked at him coldly.

“There is no agreement.”

Vane glanced toward Buck.

“Then perhaps your foreman should explain why he has been searching your cookhouse after midnight.”

Bertha went still.

She remembered the flour scattered across the floor one morning.

The back door she knew she had locked.

And the small patch of loose earth beneath the old pantry shelves.

She had thought it was a mouse.

Now she understood.

Someone had been digging.

And whatever Buck was looking for had been hidden beneath the very kitchen where she cooked every night.

But when Bertha finally returned to the ranch and lifted the loose pantry board, she found something far more frightening than a forged deed: a letter written in her mother’s handwriting.

Her mother had been ᴅᴇᴀᴅ for eleven years.

And the letter began:

“Bertha, if you are reading this, then Buck Thorp has finally found the land I hid from him…”