Someone Like You by Elaine Coffman Page B

envelope. “You sure do write fancy. Does everyone in Boston write as fancy as you do?”
    “Well, I never thought much about it one way or the other, but I’d say a good many of them have handwriting that’s not too different from mine.”
    “You must have had a lot of book learning to write like that. Nobody around Bluebonnet can write as fine as this. Heck! Nobody even comes close, not even Judge McCarthy, and he’s had the most book learning of anyone in town. He went to college.” She paused and gave Reed a curious stare.
    Reed knew what was coming next.
    “Have you been to college?”
    He thought he had mentioned once that he had studied at Edinburgh, but he was not certain. That was the trouble with not always telling the truth. You couldn’t remember what lies you’d told or what truths you’d left only partially told. Thankfully he was spared answering when the bell over the door tinkled. Both Reed and Daisy glanced toward the door as a man walked in.
    He was dressed in typical cowboy garb, although it was obvious his clothes were of a finer cut and cloth. He was wearing a pair of expensive chaps, and the spurs on his boots rang as they struck the wooden floor. This caused everyone to stop what they were doing and turn to look.
    “Afternoon, Tate,” Mr. Smith said as he walked toward his customer with a bolt of linen clutched in his arms.
    Tate nodded stiffly. “Afternoon.”
    Reed recognized the bastard right off as the leader of the bunch who robbed him that day. He turned to Daisy and whispered, “Who is that?”
    “It’s Tate Trahern. His pa owns the Double T.”
    Reed sized up the man who Violette had told him had tried to court Susannah. He didn’t like him for that reason alone—not to mention what Tate had done to him after pulling him off his horse and stealing everything he owned. If his father owned the Double T, he didn’t have to resort to stealing. It was now plain to Reed that Tate had robbed and roughed him up merely for amusement. Reed did not like the idea of being anyone’s entertainment.
     
    Tate got angry just watching that slow-ass Sam Smith. It took him a solid week to put down the bolt of cloth he was holding before he could turn and ask, “What can I do for you, Tate?”
    Tate didn’t say anything. He knew Sam didn’t expect to be treated with respect, respect being something Tate didn’t have for anyone.
    Taking his own sweet time, Tate pushed his hat back off his forehead with one finger and sauntered over to the case where firearms and boxes of bullets were displayed.
    Sam stroked his beard thoughtfully, then followed him. “Looking for anything in particular?”
    “No. Give me a couple of boxes of shotgun shells,” he said, his gaze scanning the store, going over the half dozen or so people there, pausing to stare at Daisy. He saw a stranger talking to her, and he felt his anger rise. What in the hell was she doing talking to that drifter?
    As Tate looked at the drifter, he thought there was something familiar about him. Suddenly he remembered where he had seen that face before. Reed Garrett. He had known that name since the day Curly came back without the big red roan and the saddle.
    He wondered if Garrett recognized him—not that he cared. There wasn’t anything that drifter could do to him. He gave Reed a quick, dismissing look, and said to Sam, “You got any of those new shotguns?”
    “I’ve ordered a couple of the bolt-action ones. Newest thing on the market.”
    “What about the magazine-loading kind?”
    Sam scratched his head. “Don’t reckon I’ve heard anything about those. Magazine loading, you say?”
    Tate didn’t answer. He was watching Daisy. He liked to make her fidget.
     
    Daisy looked away from Tate and waved the envelope Reed had handed her a few minutes before. “I’ll get this letter off to Boston as soon as the stage comes through,” she said nervously. “Will there be anything else?”
    Reed looked from Daisy to Tate and