Something inside Tessa hardened.
“What reasons?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“No.
You’ll tell me now.”
Clay studied her face.
Then he nodded.
“When I was sixteen, I stole a horse from your father.”
Tessa blinked.
That was not what she had expected.
Clay almost smiled.
“Not one of my better decisions.”
“What happened?”
“He caught me twelve miles south of Pueblo.”
“And?”
“He fed me.”
Tessa said nothing.
“I’d expected him to turn me over to a sheriff.
Instead, he asked why a boy who looked half-starved had stolen an old ranch horse worth maybe thirty dollars.”
Clay looked toward the creek.
“I told him because thirty dollars was more money than I had ever possessed.”
The faint smile disappeared.
“Your father gave me a job.”
Tessa thought about Jacob Morgan.
Big shoulders.
Quiet voice.
A habit of carrying peppermint candy for children whenever he went to town.
She could imagine it.
Clay continued.
“I worked three drives for him.
After that I signed on elsewhere.
Eventually became a trail boss.
But we stayed in touch.”
“Why did he give you this?”
“He was frightened.”
“My father wasn’t afraid of anything.”
“Everyone is afraid of something.”
Clay pointed toward the receipt.
“He thought somebody at Bledsoe Pioneer Bank was cheating him.”
Tessa laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“Harlon Puit?”
“He didn’t know.”
“He signed the receipt.”
“That doesn’t mean he stole the money.”
Tessa looked again at the paper.
The foreclosure statement she had received showed every principal reduction ever made on her father’s loan.
She knew them by memory.
This payment was not among them.
Four thousand eight hundred dollars.
Nearly enough to have changed everything.
“This could be a mistake.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Clay reached into his pocket again.
This time he produced two more receipts.
$2,100.
$1,700.
Both were signed.
Both were absent from the account statement Tessa had received.
Her knees suddenly felt weak.
She lowered herself onto the porch bench.
“Eight thousand six hundred dollars.”
“Yes.”
“If these had been credited—”
“You would never have been in default.”
Tessa looked toward the land.
Four weeks of humiliation.
Eleven sleepless nights calculating figures.
The auction.
People watching.
Her ranch disappearing bid by bid.
All of it suddenly seemed to be built upon three pieces of paper trembling in her hands.
“Why didn’t you bring these to me before?”
“Because receipts aren’t enough.”
“They’re signed.”
“And Puit can say the payments were credited to another account.
Or the receipts were altered.
Or your father owed another note.”
“He didn’t.”
“You know that.
I know that.
A judge needs more.”
Tessa looked sharply at him.
“And you have more?”
“Not yet.”
“Then what exactly are we doing?”
Clay’s eyes moved toward the distant road.
“Waiting for the men who stole your ranch to show us what they’re really after.”
They came before dark.
Harlon Puit rode in first.
Sturgis followed.
The land agent had removed his town coat and wore a revolver low against his right thigh.
Tessa noticed it immediately.
So did Clay.
The two men dismounted beside the hitching rail.
Harlon looked annoyed to find Tessa still there.
“Miss Morgan.”
“Mr.
Puit.”
His attention moved toward Clay.
“Barrett.”
Clay remained against the porch post.
“What brings you eleven miles out of town?”
Harlon smiled.
“Professional courtesy.”
“Never knew courtesy needed a revolver.”
Sturgis’s face tightened.
Harlon ignored the remark.
