“No.”
He looked at her.
She folded her arms.
“You already know how I feel about orders.”
“This is different.”
The hoofbeats grew louder.
The cowboy reached for the gun belt resting nearby.
The ranch woman stood.
“Who is it?”
He buckled the belt.
“I don’t know.”
But his face said otherwise.
Men rode into the yard.
Four.
All armed.
At the center rode a man in a dark coat.
The cowboy stopped in the barn doorway.
The ranch woman stood several feet behind.
The visitor dismounted.
“You look comfortable.”
The cowboy’s voice hardened.
“What do you want?”
“Money.”
“No.”
The ranch woman looked between them.
The stranger smiled.
“You haven’t even heard the amount.”
“I know you.”
That smile thinned.
The ranch woman understood.
Past.
This was the past he avoided discussing.
The stranger looked toward her.
“And who’s this?”
The cowboy moved slightly.
Blocking his view.
“Nobody you need to know.”
The ranch woman nearly objected.
Then realized what he was doing.
Protecting.
The stranger laughed.
“You always did collect strays.”
The cowboy’s body went still.
The ranch woman felt anger flash inside her.
She stepped around him.
“I work here.”
The stranger’s eyes traveled over her.
The cowboy’s jaw tightened.
The ranch woman continued.
“And if you came for money, I keep the accounts.”
The stranger smiled.
“Bookkeeper?”
“Yes.”
“How convenient.”
The cowboy looked at her.
A silent warning.
She ignored it.
The stranger removed folded papers from his coat.
“Your employer owes me five thousand dollars.”
The ranch woman almost laughed.
The cowboy did not.
“For what?”
“Old investment.”
“What investment?”
The stranger looked at the cowboy.
“Tell her.”
The cowboy said nothing.
The ranch woman took the papers.
The stranger looked surprised.
She unfolded them.
Read.
Then read again.
The documents were old.
A partnership agreement.
Debt transfer.
Interest.
Her eyes moved line by line.
Then she looked at the stranger.
“This is worthless.”
Silence.
The cowboy turned toward her.
The stranger’s smile vanished.
“Excuse me?”
“The agreement expired six years ago.”
“That debt survived.”
“No.”
She pointed.
“This clause terminated the obligation when the partnership assets were liquidated.”
The stranger reached for the paper.
She pulled it back.
“You altered this.”
The ranch yard became very still.
The cowboy stared.
The ranch woman pointed toward one line.
“The ink is newer.”
The stranger’s face hardened.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know bookkeeping.”
She looked at the signatures.
“And whoever added this interest schedule used a steel-nib pen manufactured years after the original agreement.”
The cowboy’s eyes widened.
The ranch woman looked at him.
“You still have the original?”
He nodded slowly.
“In a trunk.”
The stranger moved.