A Hopeful Heart by Kim Vogel Sawyer

its way through his middle. Her complete trust in him, even though his ministrations must have caused her discomfort, gave him an accountability toward her that he couldn’t explain, yet he knew it existed. And to his surprise, he’d found the experience pleasurable.
    Then the others had come in, thrown accusations, and Miss Tressa had spouted off with words no common girl would know. She’d sounded like Amanda with her high-class talk, and all the warm feelings of moments before had burst apart as surely as that corn bread had shattered when it hit the floor. He groaned aloud, rotating his head to relieve the tension in his neck. He shouldn’t have let himself get close to that girl. In the future, he’d exercise better judgment.
    When he neared his own ranch, he considered pulling in and relieving the wagon of its load of barbed wire. The sooner he and his men set posts and ran wire, the sooner his herd would have a protective barrier. But in the end he decided against it. If it turned out that Gage Hammond was the one sneaking off with his cattle, Brewster would have to put an end to it. And if Brewster ended it, then Abel could return all that barbed wire and get his money back. He turned north on the rutted dirt road on the far side of his ranch and aimed the wagon toward the Double H.
    The lane to the Hammonds’ ranch waited ahead. Brewster Hammond had constructed a sign of bent iron shaped into letters that announced the name of the ranch. The sign arched above the lane’s wide opening. Abel glanced at it as his wagon rolled beneath it, and the knotted muscles in his neck cramped again. A man who could afford something like that overhead announcement had no reason to steal cattle from his neighbors. But that didn’t mean his son wouldn’t do it anyway just for fun. Abel’d sure seen the boy pull other stunts nobody else found funny. He wondered why Brewster hadn’t taken a strap to that son of his years ago.
    He stopped his wagon at the hitching post that ran the length of the long gingerbread-trimmed porch of the rambling rock house. Even before his feet hit the ground, the front door opened and Brewster stepped out onto the porch. A napkin hung from his open collar, and the man yanked it loose and swiped it across his mouth.
    “Abel.” Brewster gave a nod of greeting. “Saw the wagon turn in at the gate. Want to come in an’ have a bite? Got plenty of pan-fried steak and potatoes on the table. Cookie sure knows how to prepare a piece of beef.”
    Abel knew of no other rancher besides Brewster Hammond who kept a cook on his payroll. Having skipped breakfast, he found the invitation tempting. But he’d already spent the entire morning away from his ranch—he had no more time to spare.
    “Thanks, Brewster, but I better not. I . . .” Suddenly he wasn’t sure how to approach the subject of the missing calves.
    Brewster moved to the edge of the porch. He propped his forearm against the nearest turned post, still wadding the napkin in his hand. “What’s on your mind?”
    Abel shifted from one foot to the other at the base of the porch stairs and formed his thoughts into a query that wouldn’t be read as an attack. Wouldn’t do him any good to make an enemy out of the most powerful rancher in Ford County. “I wondered . . . your men notice any spare calves show up on your spread?”
    Brewster puckered his lips for a moment. “You missin’ some?”
    “ ’Fraid so. Four of ’em managed to escape a pen last night.” Although all told he’d lost more than four calves, it seemed best to focus on the most current loss. “They’re just barely weaned, so they might be bawlin’ for their mamas. Make ’em easier to spot, if you’d ask your men to keep an eye out for ’em.”
    “I can do that, Abel.” Brewster stepped off the porch, forcing Abel backward a step. He flicked the napkin against his trouser leg. “But you know, with my land all fenced in, it’d be a mite difficult for calves to