"They've been staring at me for 32 years."
Nathan's mouth flattened.
"That doesn't mean you ought to have to enjoy it."
"I don't."
She looked toward the hotel door.
"But I do enjoy being right."
That almost earned a smile.
Almost.
The meeting room smelled of wet wool, cigar smoke, and coffee that had been boiled too long.
A long stove stood against one wall, glowing red at the seams.
Wooden chairs had been arranged in loose rows, though most men stood talking instead of sitting.
Hannah recognized Mr. Hollis from the supply store.
Ben Shaw was there.
So was the blacksmith, a broad man named Owen Price, and half a dozen ranchers she had seen only from a wagon seat.
Then she saw Calvin Mercer.
He was not what she expected.
Hannah had imagined somebody coarse, a man who looked like cheating came naturally to him.
Instead, Mercer was neatly dressed in a charcoal coat, clean collar, polished boots, and a dark vest with a silver watch chain across it.
His hair was trimmed close.
His beard was carefully shaped.
He looked like a man who never carried his own saddle if somebody else was available.
His eyes found Nathan first, then Hannah.
They stayed on her for half a second longer than courtesy required.
Mercer smiled.
"Nathan Cole."
Nathan removed one glove.
"Mercer."
"I hear you've taken an interest in paperwork."
His gaze moved toward Hannah.
Nathan said, "Miss Whitaker handles my accounts."
A man near the stove laughed.
"Cole needs a woman to count his stairs now."
Several men chuckled.
Hannah saw Nathan's shoulders tighten.
He took one step forward.
She touched two fingers to his sleeve.
"Nothing more."
Nathan stopped.
Hannah looked toward the man who had spoken.
He had a weathered red face and a heavy mustache.
"Do you count your own cattle, sir?"
The room quieted a little.
The man grinned.
"Of course I do."
"How many did you winter last year?"
"112."
"How many did you sell?"
His grin faded.
"Don't recall exact."
"How many died?"
"Six."
"Maybe seven."
Hannah nodded.
"Then perhaps you need a woman, too."
A few men laughed, not at her.
The red-faced rancher looked toward the floor.
Nathan slowly sat down.
Hannah did, too.
Mercer kept smiling.
The meeting began.
For the first half hour, it was exactly what Nathan had promised: fence disputes, winter hay shortages, a washed-out crossing north of Pine Hollow.
Then Mercer stood.
He carried a small leather folder.
"Black Pine accounts require settlement before spring freight begins."
Nathan's face went still.
Mercer opened the folder.
"There are outstanding transport charges, grazing adjustments, several losses attributed incorrectly to my office."
Nathan said, "Incorrectly."
Mercer looked toward the room as though disappointed by the interruption.
"I have receipts."
"So do I," Hannah said.
Several heads turned.
Mercer's eyes settled on her.
"I'm sure you do, Miss Whitaker."
His voice was pleasant.
That made Hannah distrust it more.
Nathan remained seated.
Mercer said, "The April shipment from Black Pine consisted of 32 head."
"38," Hannah replied.
"I have the signed receipt. I have Nathan Cole's tally and Ben Shaw's range count."
Mercer smiled.
"A ranchman's memory isn't a ledger."
"No."