The banker looked horrified.
“You cannot simply pay another customer’s mortgage without authorization.”
“I can pay money owed to you.”
“This is highly irregular.”
“Write the receipt.”
“Mr.—”
“Write it.”
The banker hesitated.
The rancher’s voice lowered.
“If I ever hear you added false penalties to force another foreclosure, every dollar belonging to my ranch, freight company, and railroad interests leaves this building.”
The banker’s face lost color.
“You would destabilize the entire bank.”
“Then behave like the stability matters.”
He pointed toward the receipt book.
“Stamp it.”
The banker did.
The rancher took the paper.
Then the ledger caught his attention again.
One notation.
A survey entry.
He frowned.
“What’s this?”
The banker immediately closed the book.
“Nothing relevant.”
The rancher stared.
“Whose survey?”
“No one’s.”
“Wrong answer.”
The banker’s jaw tightened.
“I think we’re finished.”
The rancher looked at him for several seconds.
Then smiled without humor.
“No.”
He put the receipt inside his coat.
“I think we’ve just begun.”
The widow was repairing a fence when he arrived at her property that afternoon.
She saw the wagon first.
Then the red flannel stacked in the back.
She put down the hammer.
The rancher climbed from the seat.
“If you’ve come to offer for my land, turn around.”
He stopped.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“Men with money usually come here wanting one of three things.”
He leaned against the wagon.
“What are the three?”
“My land.”
She pointed toward the barn.
“My livestock.”
Then toward herself.
“Or something they think I owe them because I’m widowed.”
His expression changed.
“I’m here for none of those.”
“Good.”
He pulled a folded paper from his coat.
“I’m here to offer work.”
She stared.
“What kind?”
“I need winter shirts made.”
“For whom?”
“Forty ranch hands.”
The widow crossed her arms.
“You have seamstresses in town.”
“I hear you’re better.”
“From who?”
“The merchant.”
She frowned.
“He talks too much.”
“He does.”
The rancher looked toward the wagon.
“I have the fabric.”
She followed his eyes.
Red flannel.
All forty yards.
She looked back.
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not taking charity.”
“It isn’t charity.”
“You bought forty yards because two women annoyed you.”
“They annoyed me greatly.”
Despite herself, she almost smiled.
He continued.
“But I need shirts.”
“You didn’t need shirts this morning.”
“I need them now.”
“That’s convenient.”
“I’m a wealthy man.”
His mouth curved.
“Convenience is one of the few things money buys reliably.”
She tried not to laugh.
Failed.
Only briefly.
He noticed.
The look in his eyes made her immediately serious again.
“I’ll sew them.”
He waited.
“But I pay for the cloth.”
“No.”
“Then find another seamstress.”
“Already paid.”
“I’ll reimburse you.”
“You can deduct it from the contract.”
She studied him.
“Why are you doing this?”
He looked toward the creek running beyond her field.
Then back at her.
“Because I know what it’s like to stand alone.”