PART 3 — THE SECRET INSIDE THE SUPPLY WAGON

For several seconds, Katrina Foster couldn’t move.

The letter trembled slightly in her hands.

She read the final sentence again.

Do not let Katrina Foster examine the supply wagon.

Why her?

She was the cook.

She had never been involved in the business affairs of either cattle outfit.

She didn’t own a horse, a ranch, or a single share in the companies that had hired her.

Yet someone had taken the time to write instructions specifically about keeping her away from a wagon.

Wilmer took the letter from her.

“That’s enough.”

Katrina looked at him.

“Enough for what?”

“Enough to know somebody is trying to interfere.”

“Then we should examine the wagon.”

Wilmer hesitated.

“Not without understanding what we’re looking for.”

Dr. Price stepped closer.

“Miss Foster may have noticed something important. We shouldn’t dismiss that possibility.”

Wilmer looked toward the doctor.

“You think the supplies are contaminated?”

“I think we need evidence before drawing conclusions.”

Katrina handed Wilmer the letter.

“Then let’s look at the records first.”

She returned to the chuck wagon and pulled out the supply ledger.

Every delivery had been recorded.

Flour.

Salt.

Coffee.

Dried beans.

Preserved vegetables.

Medicinal supplies.

The quanтιтies were written in a careful hand.

But something didn’t make sense.

The first shipment had arrived three weeks before the drive began.

The second had arrived two days before the cowboys started showing symptoms.

And the third shipment had never been recorded in the ledger.

Katrina pointed to the empty space.

“Who received the last delivery?”

Wilmer frowned.

“I’m not sure.”

“Who unloaded it?”

“Jeb and Amos.”

Katrina looked toward the supply wagon.

“Then let’s ask them.”

Jeb approached with a blanket over his shoulders.

He looked exhausted.

“What is it?”

Katrina showed him the ledger.

“Do you remember unloading a shipment two days before the storm?”

Jeb nodded.

“Sure. Flour, beans, coffee, and a few crates.”

“How many?”

“Four, maybe five.”

“Who delivered them?”

Jeb rubbed his forehead.

“Man named Silas. Said he was working for the Double H.”

Wilmer stepped closer.

“Silas what?”

“Didn’t give a last name.”

“Have you seen him before?”

Jeb shook his head.

Katrina looked at Wilmer.

“Where are those crates?”

He pointed toward the rear of the wagon.

“Still there.”

They walked together.

The supply wagon had been parked beside a large cottonwood tree. Snow had gathered around its wheels, and a canvas cover was tied тιԍнтly across the top.

Katrina examined the crates.

The flour and beans appeared ordinary.

The coffee smelled normal.

But one wooden box had been placed separately beneath the wagon seat.

It was smaller than the others.

And it had no label.

“What’s inside?” Katrina asked.

Wilmer shook his head.

“Never seen it before.”

Jeb looked uncomfortable.

“Silas said it contained equipment for the cook.”

Katrina turned.

“For me?”

“That’s what he said.”

She examined the box without opening it.

There was a small mark burned into the wood.

Two crossed lines inside a circle.

Wilmer recognized it immediately.

“That’s the mark of the Cross Tie supply company.”

“Then why isn’t it listed on the manifest?” Katrina asked.

Nobody answered.

Dr. Price stepped forward.

“Don’t open it yet. We should determine whether it contains anything hazardous.”

He sent for a pair of protective gloves and examined the exterior.

The box smelled faintly of something sharp.

Not food.

Not soap.

Something chemical.

He stepped back.

“I want this isolated until we know what we’re dealing with.”

Wilmer ordered the cowboys to move the other supplies away.

Katrina watched carefully.

Then she noticed a small piece of paper caught beneath the box.

She picked it up.

It was a delivery receipt.

The date matched the second shipment.

But the signature at the bottom was unmistakable.

Gregory Vance.

Katrina frowned.

“Who is Gregory Vance?”

Wilmer’s face тιԍнтened.

“He’s the purchasing agent for the Cross Tie outfit.”

“Does he know about this box?”

“He’s the man who approved the supply contracts.”

Dr. Price examined the receipt.

“Then we need to contact him.”

Wilmer looked toward the ridge.

“That’s thirty miles away.”

“Perhaps farther,” the doctor replied. “And we don’t know whether the other camp has received similar supplies.”

Katrina felt her stomach turn.

“Could the food be making the men sick?”

“It’s possible,” Dr. Price said carefully. “But we don’t know yet. The symptoms could have several causes. We need the supplies examined by someone qualified.”

Wilmer nodded.

“Then we’ll send another rider.”

Before he could give the order, a voice came from behind them.

“There’s no need.”

They turned.

A tall man in a dark wool coat was standing near the horse enclosure.

He was unfamiliar to Katrina.

His boots were clean despite the snow, and his hat was decorated with a silver band.

He looked like a man who had never spent a night sleeping on frozen ground.

“Gregory Vance,” Wilmer said.

The newcomer smiled.

“Trail boss.”

His eyes moved toward Katrina.

“And this must be the cook.”

Katrina didn’t return the smile.

“You know my name?”

“Of course. I’ve heard you’ve been making quite a commotion.”

He glanced at the supply wagon.

“I understand you’ve been asking questions about my shipment.”

Katrina crossed her arms.

“Why wasn’t the box recorded?”

“An administrative oversight.”

“Why was it addressed to the cook?”

Gregory laughed.

“Special equipment. Nothing of interest to you.”

Dr. Price stepped forward.

“I’m examining all materials ᴀssociated with the recent illnesses. I need to know what this box contains.”

Vance’s expression changed.

“That’s unnecessary.”

“Then you won’t object to opening it.”

“I most certainly will.”

Wilmer moved between them.

“Why?”

Vance looked directly at him.

“Because I am responsible for the company’s property.”

Katrina spoke quietly.

“Those are our men lying in that tent.”

Vance turned toward her.

“And you are a cook. I suggest you remember that.”

The words landed heavily.

For a moment, Katrina saw the faces of the men who had laughed when she first climbed onto the chuck wagon.

But she also remembered Peter Lawson struggling to breathe.

Amos Bell carrying water through the snow.

Jeb standing beside the sick tent, frightened for the first time in his life.

She stepped forward.

“I remember exactly what I am.”

Then she pointed toward the tent.

“I’m the woman who has been feeding those men, washing their clothes, and keeping them alive while you stand here worrying about a wooden box.”

Vance’s jaw тιԍнтened.

“You have no authority.”

“Neither do you, if you’re hiding something that could hurt them.”

Wilmer reached for the box.

Vance grabbed his wrist.

“Don’t touch that.”

The camp went silent.

Wilmer slowly removed the man’s hand.

“Get out of my camp.”

Vance looked around.

For the first time, he realized that the cowboys were no longer watching Katrina with amusement.

They were watching him.

He backed away.

“You’ll regret this.”

Then he mounted his horse and rode toward the eastern trail.

Nobody stopped him.

Dr. Price waited until the rider disappeared.

Then he examined the box with the ᴀssistance of two men.

Inside were several sealed containers, a folded inventory sheet, and a packet of papers.

The containers were not labeled as food or medicine.

The doctor refused to speculate about their contents and arranged to have them examined by a qualified medical authority.

But the papers were enough to raise serious questions.

One was a list of supply deliveries.

Another contained a handwritten note.

Katrina leaned over Wilmer’s shoulder.

The note read:

Keep the upper creek route open. The men must continue using the lower crossing until the northern shipment arrives.

Below it was a signature.

Gregory Vance.

Katrina looked at the doctor.

“Why would anyone want the men to keep using a water source we already know may be unsafe?”

Dr. Price didn’t answer immediately.

Then he looked at the medical records.

“Because someone may have known about the problem before the first man became ill.”

Wilmer clenched his jaw.

“Are you saying this was deliberate?”

“I’m saying we don’t have enough evidence to make that accusation. But we have enough reason to investigate.”

The next morning, a second rider arrived.

This time it was Amos Bell.

He had been sent to check on the neighboring cattle outfit.

His horse was exhausted, and his face was pale.

“Wilmer!”

The trail boss hurried toward him.

“What happened?”

Amos swallowed.

“Their camp is worse than ours.”

“How many sick?”

“Nearly sixty.”

Dr. Price stepped forward.

“Did you find their physician?”

Amos shook his head.

“ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.”

The words fell over the camp like another storm.

Katrina closed her eyes briefly.

Then she asked the question nobody else had thought to ask.

“Did they use the same supply company?”

Amos nodded.

“Cross Tie.”

“Same creek?”

“No. Different water source.”

Katrina looked at the doctor.

That changed everything.

If two camps using different water sources were experiencing similar illnesses, contaminated water alone might not explain the outbreak.

They needed a complete investigation.

Dr. Price immediately began reviewing the symptoms and the timeline again.

Then Katrina remembered something.

Three days before the first cowboy became sick, she had prepared breakfast using a new sack of flour.

The biscuits had tasted bitter.

She had thought the flour was simply old.

She had thrown the remainder away.

But there was another sack.

Still unopened.

Katrina rushed to the pantry wagon.

She found it beneath two crates of dried beans.

The label had been partly torn away.

She turned it over.

A small stamp remained.

The same crossed lines inside a circle.

Katrina called the doctor.

He examined the sack without opening it.

Then he looked at her.

“Miss Foster, I need you to tell me exactly when you first noticed the unusual taste.”

“Three days before the storm.”

“And who ate those biscuits?”

“Everyone.”

Wilmer stared at the sack.

“Could that explain the illness?”

“Possibly,” the doctor replied. “But we must have it properly tested before reaching a conclusion.”

He ordered the remaining flour isolated and arranged for samples to be sent to an experienced physician.

Then he examined the supply records again.

There was one final detail.

The shipment had been purchased by the Cross Tie company.

But the delivery had been paid for by a private account.

An account belonging to a man named Henry Foster.

Katrina stopped breathing for a moment.

“Henry Foster?”

Wilmer looked at her.

“Do you know him?”

She stared at the signature.

Her father’s name.

Henry Foster had died eleven years earlier in Pennsylvania.

He had never traveled west.

He had never worked for a cattle company.

And yet someone had used his name to purchase the shipment.

Katrina slowly sat down.

The camp seemed to disappear around her.

For years, she had believed her father’s butcher shop had been nothing more than a small family business.

But there had been something he never explained.

A locked wooden drawer beneath his workbench.

A collection of letters he had burned shortly before his death.

And one warning he had repeated whenever strangers came asking about his business:

If anyone ever asks you about the old Foster recipe book, tell them you don’t know where it is.

Katrina had never understood.

Until now.

She looked at Wilmer.

“Where did this shipment originate?”

He checked the papers.

“Cheyenne.”

Katrina’s fingers тιԍнтened around the edge of the table.

“My father lived in Pennsylvania. But he had a brother who disappeared west when I was a child.”

Dr. Price looked up.

“What was his name?”

“Elias Foster.”

Wilmer studied her expression.

“Do you think he’s connected to this?”

Katrina nodded slowly.

“I don’t know. But there’s something I haven’t told anyone.”

She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a small, worn envelope.

Inside was an old pH๏τograph of her father standing beside a younger man.

The younger man had the same distinctive scar above his left eyebrow as Gregory Vance.

On the back, in her father’s handwriting, were six words:

NEVER TRUST THE MAN WHO STOLE THE FORMULA.

Katrina looked toward the eastern trail.

The storm had finally pᴀssed.

But the danger had only begun.

And somewhere in the West, a man who had once known her father was waiting to discover that Henry Foster’s daughter was no longer a frightened little girl.

She was the only person who might be able to uncover the truth behind the shipments—and the reason someone had gone to such extraordinary lengths to keep her away from them.