He pulled out a leather-bound book and turned the thick pages. He slid the book across the desk. Josiah looked at the numbers. The original loan had been for $200. It had been taken out by Cora's late husband to buy seed and repair the barn, but the balance at the bottom of the page was nearly $450.
Josiah's eyes narrowed. He traced a finger down the column of ink. "What are these charges?" Josiah asked. "Standard interest," Gable said quickly. "And these?"
"Late penalties." Gable shifted his weight. "Mrs. Thornton has missed the full payment amount three times. The bank must protect its investments." "She missed the payment by three dollars," Josiah read.
"And you added a $20 penalty." "It is standard practice." Gable stiffened. "The bank cannot afford to be sentimental, Mr. Langden. If a property cannot sustain itself, the bank must take it back."
Josiah closed the ledger. The heavy thud echoed in the quiet room. He understood now. This was not about a three-dollar shortage. This was about the farm.
The Thornton property sat on a prime section of the valley, right where the new county road was planned to cross. Arthur Gable did not want Cora's money. He wanted her land. And his wife was laughing at her daughter in the mercantile while he quietly stole their home. Josiah reached into his coat.
He pulled out the same thick roll of greenbacks. He counted out $450 and dropped the bills onto the ledger. "The debt is paid," Josiah said. Gable stared at the money. "Mr. Langden, you cannot simply—"
"I just did." "This is highly irregular." "Write the receipt, Arthur." Gable picked up his pen. His hand shook slightly as he wrote out the confirmation.
He stamped it and handed the paper across the desk. Josiah folded it and placed it in his pocket. Before he turned away, Josiah leaned closer to the banker. "If I ever hear of you adding false penalties to a working family's account again," Josiah said, his voice a low rumble, "I will pull every dollar of the Broken Ridge accounts out of your vault. And I will tell every rancher in this valley to do the same."
Gable turned completely pale. Josiah walked out of the bank. The cold air felt cleaner than the air inside. He climbed into his wagon. He looked at the heavy bolt of red flannel resting in the back.
He snapped the reins. He steered the horses out of town, taking the snow-dusted road toward the valley. Two miles outside of town, the Thornton farmhouse sat against a line of dark pines. It was a small square building. The paint had chipped away from the siding.
The front porch sagged on the left side, but the yard was neatly swept, and firewood was stacked in careful, straight lines against the wall. Inside the house was chilly. Cora sat at the kitchen table. Her sewing box was open. Nelly's gray dress lay across Cora's lap.
Cora was trying to mend the frayed hem with black thread because she had run out of gray. Nelly sat on the braided rug near the small iron stove. She was reading a schoolbook. "Ma?" Nelly asked quietly. "Yes, sweetie."