Rugged Hunter, Delicate Heiress

Chapter 3: The Ledger

I spent the next week learning how little a family name could do once the money behind it was gone.

At the estate, I used to sign my name at charity luncheons and watch people move chairs for me. In town, I sat on a wooden bench outside the bank while a clerk asked whether I had documentation to prove my father's accounts were not already in default.

I did.

The ledgers were stored in a locked room at the estate. The bank had taken possession of the house, but not the outbuildings, and Cal had a key to the old carriage shed. We went there together one damp afternoon.

The ledgers were stacked in dust-covered boxes. I pulled out the first and carried it to the window.

"You know how to read all that?" Cal asked.

"I know how to read."

"That wasn't what I asked."

I opened the book. My father's handwriting filled the columns. There were payments, dates, and figures, all neat enough to pretend the money had gone somewhere sensible.

I found the same name on three separate pages: Voss Timber and Land. My father had sold them a timber contract, then paid them back for an advance, then borrowed again.

"Why would he borrow money from a company he was already doing business with?"

"Because they wanted his land," Cal said.

I looked up. "You knew?"

"I knew Voss had been asking about the north ridge. Your father told him no."

"How do you know?"

"I was there when your father turned him down."

I flipped through the ledger. There was a large payment recorded as a survey fee, but no survey report. A second entry showed a payment to the bank for the same amount, months later.

"This doesn't make sense."

"Maybe the bank recorded it wrong."

"Or someone did."

Cal leaned over the page without touching it. "The bank clerk's name is at the bottom."

I copied the entries into my notebook. My fingers were stained with dust and ink by the time I finished.

On the ride home, the wind picked up. I pulled my coat tighter around me.

"Do you think the bank and Voss are working together?" I asked.

"I think Voss wants the land, and I think the bank wants its money."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

I was used to people pretending certainty was a form of authority. Cal did not. I didn't know whether I found that comforting or inconvenient.

That night, I laid out the figures on the table. Cal sat opposite me, mending a leather strap.

"You can help me check these," I said.

"I don't know bookkeeping."

"You know the land. You know the contracts. You were there."

He put down the strap and moved beside me. We worked through the entries until the lamp began to sputter. Twice, he caught a date I had missed. Once, I corrected his arithmetic.

The figures showed that my father had paid the bank a sum that was never applied to the principal. It was enough to delay the foreclosure, perhaps, but not enough to prove wrongdoing by itself.

"It could have gone to interest," I said.

"Then why's it listed as a fee?"

"We need the original payment record."

"Can we get it?"

"Not without asking the bank."

"And if they say no?"

"Then we make them explain why."

Cal studied me. "You sound different when you talk about this."

"How do I sound?"

"Like you know where to put your feet."

I had no answer. I was used to being praised for my appearance, my family, or my manners. No one had ever complimented the way I stood in a room.

I looked back at the ledger. "I'd rather be competent than pretty."

"I didn't say you weren't both."

The words landed between us with more force than they deserved. Cal reached for his cup. I bent over the page and pretended to be absorbed in the numbers.

Before bed, I found a clean towel folded on a chair and a fresh jug of water by the washbasin. Cal had already gone to the stove.

I stood with the towel in my hands, feeling foolish for being grateful.