Page 38 of Follow the Lonesome Trail
It was quiet and calm within.
He’d found the lantern and lit it. Its warm glow illuminated the beams and hay-strewn floor where his gear was.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” The man started up from the hay respectfully. He’d laid out his bedroll already.
“I thought you could do with something hot.”
“I didn’t want to put you out, ma’am. It’s a rough night.” Every line of his body was withdrawn, polite, but his eyes went to those beans, and he swallowed.
“You bring me back my cattle, a hot meal should be the least of my thanks.” She went over to an empty crate and set the food and coffee on it. “You have your kit?”
“Yes.” He was already crouched down beside his saddle, undoing the straps that held it. He pulled out a tin cup, a plate, a fork.
“Don’t hesitate to ask if you want more. I was expecting my foreman and hand back, and I don’t know if they’re coming.”
“Probably not in this.” He glanced up at her and stopped. Something crossed his face, an internal debate, and then he got to his feet. “Is there two of them?”
“Yes.”
He leaned forward, speaking softly, not wanting to get too close, but not wanting to raise his voice on instinct. “Do you trust your men?”
“Not really.”
“Then don’t. I think they’re selling you out to the Bar S.”
“How do you know?”
“I ride for the Bar S.”
Her eyes went straight to his horse, calmly grinding the summer hay in the stall beside them. The Bar S brand was there.
“Some of your cows have the Bar S on them now.” His voice was still soft. Apologetic. “But if you look close, you’ll see the Lucky Dollar’s still underneath. The brands aren’t a perfect match.”
She studied his face. It was the face of a fighter, and maybe a warrior once, bearing a nose that had surely been broken, but there was a sweetness to the set of his mouth and an honesty in his dark eyes.
Whoever he was, he was not lying to her.
“I know the Bar S has been stealing. They’ve been doing it ever since my husband died, eight months ago. But I was hoping my men were not involved. They’re—they’re the last two—”
She had to stop. Why was there grief in losing the last two men who knew her husband? She’d suspected the betrayal, but the admission—it was another tiny moment of losing him again.
“I’m sorry about your husband, ma’am.”
She looked back at him, pulled herself together.
“Your head’s bleeding.” She lifted a hand in the direction of his right temple.
“A tree branch. It’s nothing, ma’am.”
“Do you have anything to clean it with?”
“I’ll manage.”
“There’s doctoring things in the cabinet over there.” She went over and opened it up. It was a hard thing to explain, even to herself, but she had to do something with herself just now. “There’s spirits, bandages, witch hazel, peppermint—you should have anything you might need. Please, help yourself.”
“I’m obliged ma’am. I’ll see to it.”
He knelt down next to the crate and poured out a cupful of coffee. The smell of it was starting to mingle with the comforting smells of the damp dirt and sweet hay. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend Frank was back, just for a second.
