A jagged piece of wire.

It had worked deep into the calf’s cheek.

“Infection would’ve killed it by morning,” she said.

Together, they removed the wire.

Caleb looked at her differently afterward.

Not with gratitude.

With respect.

That evening, while Abby stood near the wash basin, Caleb placed a thick ledger on the table.

“You said your father taught you cattle accounts.”

“He made me keep half of his books.”

“Look at this.”

Abby opened the ledger.

Boone Ranch purchases.

Births.

Deaths.

Sales.

Brands.

She turned several pages.

Then stopped.

“This number is wrong.”

Caleb leaned closer.

“Which?”

“You bought forty-seven head from Redford in March.”

“Yes.”

“This says fifty-three.”

Caleb frowned.

Abby turned another page.

“And here. Twenty-six steers moved through Black Creek.”

“There were nineteen.”

Her heartbeat quickened.

She began calculating.

Again.

And again.

By midnight, the kitchen table was buried beneath records.

Someone had been inflating cattle numbers for years.

Worse, Boone brands listed in shipping records were appearing weeks later under Elias Redford’s mark.

Caleb stared at the evidence.

“Rustling.”

“More than rustling.”

Abby tapped the ledger.

“This requires altered inspection records.”

“That means somebody official.”

A floorboard creaked.

Both looked toward the dark hallway.

Nothing.

Caleb quietly reached for his revolver.

The house remained silent.

Abby lowered her voice.

“Who verifies brands around here?”

Caleb’s expression changed.

“Marshal Hooper sometimes witnesses transfers.”

Abby felt cold despite the summer heat.

They investigated quietly.

Abby proved frighteningly good at it.

Numbers behaved differently from people.

Numbers did not sneer.

Numbers did not lie convincingly.

A falsified figure left fingerprints.

Within another week, Abby found seven suspicious transactions connecting Redford cattle, Boone losses, and inspections signed by Marshal Amos Hooper.

Then she found her father’s name.

GIDEON WHITTAKER — $800.

She stared at the entry until the ink blurred.

Caleb found her sitting alone.

“What happened?”

She pushed the paper toward him.

He read it.

Abby whispered, “Eight hundred dollars.”

Caleb said nothing.

“My father received eight hundred dollars from Elias two weeks before my wedding.”

“Abby—”

“He sold me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know exactly what this looks like.”

She stood so quickly the chair fell backward.

“All those years he told me I should be thankful any man wanted me. Every letter Elias sent passed through Father first.”

Her voice cracked.

“He knew.”

Caleb approached.

Abby stepped away.

“Don’t.”

He stopped.

“I don’t need pity.”

“I’m not offering pity.”

“What are you offering?”

Caleb’s answer came without hesitation.

“Whatever you need.”

She looked at him.

That was the problem.

Abby was beginning to know exactly what she needed.

And his name was Caleb Boone.

So she walked away before she could admit it.

Two nights later, someone tried to kill them.

Abby smelled smoke first.

She woke coughing.

Orange light flashed across the bedroom wall.

“Caleb!”

She ran barefoot into the hallway.