The foreman frowned.
“So?”
The woman looked toward him.
“Nothing.”
She folded the paper.
But her eyes remained on him.
The ranch owner noticed.
The men eventually left for the bunkhouse.
The woman stayed in the kitchen cleaning.
The ranch owner approached.
“You think he’s stealing.”
She continued washing.
“I think somebody is.”
“Why him?”
“I didn’t say him.”
“You looked at him.”
“I look at everyone.”
The ranch owner leaned against the table.
“He’s been with me seven years.”
“That means he’s innocent?”
“No.”
“It means I don’t accuse him because you found missing onions.”
The woman nodded.
“Good.”
That answer surprised him.
She continued.
“Don’t accuse anyone.”
“Not yet.”
“What do you want?”
“The pantry keys.”
He looked toward her.
“You already asked.”
“No.”
She turned.
“I want all copies.”
“If there’s another key, I want it.”
“And?”
“One honest witness.”
The ranch owner frowned.
“For what?”
“To see whether supplies disappear when no one thinks we’re looking.”
The ranch owner studied her.
“You’ve done this before?”
“No.”
“Then why do you sound like you have?”
She dried her hands.
“Because theft in a kitchen is no different from theft in a boarding house.”
“People always think women don’t notice small quantities.”
She placed the towel down.
“We notice because small quantities are what keep people alive.”
That line stayed with him.
Near midnight, she heard something.
A scrape.
Not inside the house.
Behind the pantry wall.
The woman sat up in bed.
The ranch house was quiet.
Another scrape.
Then footsteps.
She dressed quickly.
No lamp.
Moved downstairs.
The ranch owner appeared from the hallway carrying a revolver low at his side.
He looked toward her.
“You heard it?”
She nodded.
He signaled silence.
They moved toward the pantry.
A shadow passed outside the window.
The ranch owner opened the back door quietly.
The woman followed.
He turned.
“No.”
She glared.
He whispered:
“Inside.”
She whispered back:
“My pantry.”
He stared.
No time.
They moved around the side of the house.
A man was pulling a sack through a loose panel in the pantry wall.
Another waited with a handcart.
The ranch owner stepped forward.
“Stop.”
Both men ran.
The ranch owner chased one.
The woman went toward the wall.
One sack of flour lay outside.
Another sack had already been loaded.
She looked toward the handcart.
A small brand mark had been burned into one side.
Not Red Canyon.
Different ranch.
The ranch owner returned minutes later, furious.
“Lost him.”
The woman pointed.
“Maybe not.”
He looked toward the cart.
Recognized the brand.
His face changed.
“Neighboring outfit.”
The woman nodded.
Then noticed something else.
A folded receipt lay beneath the flour sack.
She picked it up.
One of Red Canyon’s invoices.
Same quantities.
Different buyer.
The ranch owner stared.
The goods were being billed to him.
Then sold again elsewhere.
The woman looked toward him.
“Your ranch isn’t failing.”
His jaw tightened.