The loose floorboard lifted less than an inch before Henrietta Coulter knew somebody had gone to considerable trouble to hide something beneath it.
She remained on one knee inside the foreman’s cramped quarters, one hand wrapped around the iron fireplace poker she had wedged beneath the plank.
Outside, Iron Ridge Ranch was still asleep.
The first light of dawn had not yet reached the eastern ridges.
Thirty ranch hands slept in bunkhouses across the yard.
Horses shifted quietly in the corral.
Somewhere beyond the cabins, the Sweetwater River moved through the darkness.
Hattie looked toward the door.
Locked.
Good.
She returned to the floor.
The plank resisted.
She worked the poker deeper.
Wood creaked.
Then the board came free.
A shallow cavity appeared underneath.
Hattie stopped breathing.
Inside lay a canvas pouch.
A narrow ledger.
Three folded envelopes.
And a cylindrical leather map case darkened by age.
For several seconds, she did nothing.
Then she whispered:
“Well, Clem Miller.”
“You have been a very busy man.”
She reached first for the ledger.
Pages of numbers.
Initials.
Dates.
Payments.
Some entries matched expenses she had already seen in Jeb Callahan’s ranch books.
Others did not.
V.T. — $340.
B. — $200.
Feed differential — $175.
North ridge survey — received.
Hattie’s pulse quickened.
She opened one envelope.
Inside were receipts from Valley Transit Company.
Official copies showed Iron Ridge paying nearly twice the ordinary freight rate for grain, salt, and timber.
The private receipts beneath the floor showed the difference being split.
A portion went to Clem.
Another to someone identified only as N.B.
Nathaniel Barrows.
Hattie already knew the name.
Every rancher in Sweetwater Valley knew it.
Barrows owned land.
Freight wagons.
Two grain warehouses.
A bank interest in Oak Haven.
And, according to Jeb, an appetite for Iron Ridge Ranch that had grown increasingly aggressive over the previous two years.
She opened the second envelope.
A letter.
Miller,
Keep Callahan buying through Valley Transit until winter. His operating note comes due in January. If cattle prices remain weak and he cannot cover feed, he will have no option except to sell. Do not let him shift suppliers.
No signature.
But the stationery carried a faint embossed B.
Hattie’s stomach tightened.
She opened the map case.
Inside was a brittle survey sheet.
Not a ranch map.
Geological notes.
Elevations.
Rock formations.
Handwritten markings across the northern ridge.
A line in red pencil followed a long slope above the river.
Beside it were four words.
Coal exposure. Exceptional thickness.
Hattie stared.
Another page contained assay observations.
Coal quality.
Estimated depth.
Possible continuation beneath more than two thousand acres.
Then one final note:
If confirmed, deposit sufficient for major commercial extraction. Land acquisition should precede disclosure.
Hattie’s mouth went dry.
The ranch was not merely being weakened.
Somebody was trying to steal it before Jeb learned what lay beneath his own land.
A boot scraped outside.
Hattie froze.
Another sound.
Closer.
She shoved the survey back into the tube.
The door handle moved.
Locked.
A man cursed softly.
Hattie recognized the voice immediately.
Clem Miller.
The foreman.
He tried the handle again.
“Hattie?”
She did not answer.
Silence.
Then:
“You in there?”
Hattie looked around.
No second door.
One narrow window.
Too small.
She placed the loose floorboard back over the cavity.
The map case would not fit.
She pushed it beneath the cot.
The ledger disappeared inside her apron.
Clem knocked.
“Hattie?”