They forced her into a life in the wilderness with a stranger and his five kids. Everyone expected her to break

And she made the cornbread with a little extra salt, the way her mother had taught her once years ago, before things went wrong at home the first time.

The children came in one by one.

Jesse was fourteen and already almost as tall as his father, with wary eyes that didn’t trust new things easily.

Thomas was eleven and looked at her food with open hunger before remembering to look suspicious.

Eli was eight and had a cut on his hand he was trying to hide, which she noticed immediately and cleaned after supper without making a scene about it.

Hannah set the table without being asked.

Rose, who was four and had her mother’s lighter coloring from some portrait Clara glimpsed briefly on the wall, toddled over to Clara’s leg and looked up at her with the direct, uncomplicated curiosity of a child who had not yet learned to be complicated.

“You smell like lavender,” Rose said. “It’s from the soap,” Clara told her. “Do you like it?”

Rose thought about this with great seriousness. “Yes,” she decided.

Wyatt came in last, washed his hands, sat at the head of the table, and said nothing. He ate.

He watched his children. Once, when Thomas elbowed Jesse over the cornbread, he said simply: “That’s enough.”

And it was enough. After supper, Clara washed the dishes. Hannah dried them without being asked again.

They worked side by side in the quiet of the kitchen and didn’t talk much.

But the not-talking was a comfortable kind rather than a hostile one, which Clara counted as progress.

Later, when the children were in bed and the cabin was quiet, Wyatt came and stood in the kitchen doorway.

Clara was at the table with the account book open. He looked at the book, then at her.

“You opened that,” he said. “I did.” She didn’t apologize for it. “You told me your accounts were a mess.

I’m looking at why.” He was quiet a moment. “And?”

She turned the book to face him and pointed to the line with the foreign handwriting. “Who is Langford?”

she asked. Something moved through his expression, not much, but something. “Victor Langford,” he said. “Owns the Langford Cattle Company.

Biggest operation in this county.” “He’s been through your accounts.” Wyatt looked at the handwriting for a moment.

“Apparently you didn’t know.” “I knew he had an interest in this land.”

His voice was even, but she could hear the thing underneath it. Not fear exactly, but a weight.

“His men have been pushing the fence line on the south pasture for two seasons. I keep moving it back.

He keeps moving it again.” Clara looked at the numbers. She turned a few pages. She was good with numbers.

Her mother had said so back when her mother was still in a position to say things about her, and these numbers were telling her something very clear.

“Mr. Boone,” she said. He looked at her.

“Someone has been bleeding this ranch dry for at least three years,” she said.

“Slowly enough that it looks like bad luck, but it isn’t bad luck.

These entries,” she pointed, “these purchases were never made.

Someone invoiced you for supplies that were never delivered and collected the payment.

And these cattle,” another page, “these were recorded as lost to weather, but the dates don’t match.

There was no major storm in this valley in March of last year.

I know, because I was in Ridgecrest in March. It was dry.” Wyatt was very still.

“You’re saying someone is stealing from me?” he said.

“I’m saying the records say someone has been stealing from you,” she said carefully.

“And someone with access to your account book added a name to a margin, and that name is the most powerful man in this county who also wants your land.”

The kitchen was quiet, except for the sound of the summer night outside and the distant settling of the cabin walls.

Wyatt looked at her across the table. She held his gaze.

“How long would it take you to go through all of it?” he asked. “Give me four days,” she said.

“Maybe three.” He was quiet. Then he nodded. “All right,” he said. He straightened up. “All right, Miss Clara.”

He turned for the door, then stopped.

“The room at the end of the hall has a bolt on the inside,” he said without turning around.

“I put it there two years ago. It works.” She understood what he was telling her. “Thank you,” she said.