ailing wife, pulled his pocket watch from his vest pocket, snapped it open and studied it for a moment. Looking up he said, “You’re right, Doctor. I think it’s high time for me to go.” With a humph he snapped his watch shut, tucked it away, turned, and with a steady thump of his cane, left the building.
A bit more gently, Dare said, “Help me hold your ma’s hands, Vincent.”
Using his full name brought Vince’s eyes to his ma. Dare had done it deliberately, probably hoping Mrs. Yates would recognize it in her muddled state. A taut muscle worked in Vince’s jaw, but he got a grip on his temper and turned back to his ailing ma.
As Vince sat on the bed beside her, his ma smiled up at him. “Son, it’s so nice to see you. When did you get home?”
Vince drew in a breath so deep his whole body rose. Heleaned close. “I just got here, Mother. The doctor needs to help you. You have a cut on your head.” Vince’s voice dropped to an inaudible murmur, and his mother seemed enthralled with him.
Then she turned to Dare. “I’ll be still, Doctor. Thank you ever so much for your assistance.” She lay utterly still, but her eyes slid to Vince. “You’ve gotten so handsome, Vincent. I declare you are the very image of your father.”
She continued to speak to Dare and Vince in turn in her pretty Southern drawl.
Ruthy Stone stepped out of the barn, her milk pail brimming over. She ran smack into Quince Wilcox, a recently hired cowhand.
He stumbled and fell against her. Milk slopped out of the pail. Ruthy was quick to steady it before more spilt as she backed away into the barn. Quince lurched backward and hit the wide open door, then stumbled to a halt. “Sorry about that, Mrs. Stone.”
He was tall and skinny, with a scruffy beard and dirty blond hair that hung in his light-blue eyes. He was older than Ruthy, and most of the cowpokes, except for Dodger and their cook, were young. Riding herd was a job for youngsters.
Quince leaned toward her and Ruthy, who’d never considered for a moment not feeling safe around their hired men, fought the urge to take a step back. Quince blocked the door so she couldn’t get out without pushing him aside. But it didn’t suit her to retreat.
He grabbed the barn door as if to steady himself, thenstepped just a bit closer and caught her arm. “There now, sorry about the spill, ma’am.”
Ruthy didn’t back up, not wanting to allow the man to step in and shut the door on them. That was when she smelled liquor on his breath.
He held on longer than was appropriate in Ruthy’s opinion but made no further move. She didn’t like his touch, though she sensed no real threat. He held on to keep himself upright.
Controlling her expression to show no fear, she said crisply, “Please step aside, Mr. Wilcox. I’m late for preparing the evening meal. Your supper will be ready in the bunkhouse by now I’m sure.”
Quince narrowed his eyes. Ruthy suspected he was seeing two of her. He shook his head, dropped her arm, and turned aside.
“Supper in the bunkhouse.” He nodded as if trying to understand what that meant. Then he staggered away without another word.
Ruthy was shaken by the unpleasant encounter. She closed the barn door, watched Quince walk on tottering legs for a bit, then hurried inside.
By the time Luke came in, she was calm again and wondering why she’d let something so small upset her. It reminded her too much of Virgil—the son of the family who’d raised her when she’d been orphaned as a child. He wasn’t a drinker, but he’d liked putting his hands on her. She might be overly disturbed by Quince because of Virgil, and that wasn’t fair to the man. She set fried chicken on the table while Luke washed up. She decided not to talk about Quince grabbing her. But she could mention thewhiskey breath and unsteadiness because that made him a problem around the ranch.
Once settled to her meal, she said, “One of your hired men was the worse for drink
A bit more gently, Dare said, “Help me hold your ma’s hands, Vincent.”
Using his full name brought Vince’s eyes to his ma. Dare had done it deliberately, probably hoping Mrs. Yates would recognize it in her muddled state. A taut muscle worked in Vince’s jaw, but he got a grip on his temper and turned back to his ailing ma.
As Vince sat on the bed beside her, his ma smiled up at him. “Son, it’s so nice to see you. When did you get home?”
Vince drew in a breath so deep his whole body rose. Heleaned close. “I just got here, Mother. The doctor needs to help you. You have a cut on your head.” Vince’s voice dropped to an inaudible murmur, and his mother seemed enthralled with him.
Then she turned to Dare. “I’ll be still, Doctor. Thank you ever so much for your assistance.” She lay utterly still, but her eyes slid to Vince. “You’ve gotten so handsome, Vincent. I declare you are the very image of your father.”
She continued to speak to Dare and Vince in turn in her pretty Southern drawl.
Ruthy Stone stepped out of the barn, her milk pail brimming over. She ran smack into Quince Wilcox, a recently hired cowhand.
He stumbled and fell against her. Milk slopped out of the pail. Ruthy was quick to steady it before more spilt as she backed away into the barn. Quince lurched backward and hit the wide open door, then stumbled to a halt. “Sorry about that, Mrs. Stone.”
He was tall and skinny, with a scruffy beard and dirty blond hair that hung in his light-blue eyes. He was older than Ruthy, and most of the cowpokes, except for Dodger and their cook, were young. Riding herd was a job for youngsters.
Quince leaned toward her and Ruthy, who’d never considered for a moment not feeling safe around their hired men, fought the urge to take a step back. Quince blocked the door so she couldn’t get out without pushing him aside. But it didn’t suit her to retreat.
He grabbed the barn door as if to steady himself, thenstepped just a bit closer and caught her arm. “There now, sorry about the spill, ma’am.”
Ruthy didn’t back up, not wanting to allow the man to step in and shut the door on them. That was when she smelled liquor on his breath.
He held on longer than was appropriate in Ruthy’s opinion but made no further move. She didn’t like his touch, though she sensed no real threat. He held on to keep himself upright.
Controlling her expression to show no fear, she said crisply, “Please step aside, Mr. Wilcox. I’m late for preparing the evening meal. Your supper will be ready in the bunkhouse by now I’m sure.”
Quince narrowed his eyes. Ruthy suspected he was seeing two of her. He shook his head, dropped her arm, and turned aside.
“Supper in the bunkhouse.” He nodded as if trying to understand what that meant. Then he staggered away without another word.
Ruthy was shaken by the unpleasant encounter. She closed the barn door, watched Quince walk on tottering legs for a bit, then hurried inside.
By the time Luke came in, she was calm again and wondering why she’d let something so small upset her. It reminded her too much of Virgil—the son of the family who’d raised her when she’d been orphaned as a child. He wasn’t a drinker, but he’d liked putting his hands on her. She might be overly disturbed by Quince because of Virgil, and that wasn’t fair to the man. She set fried chicken on the table while Luke washed up. She decided not to talk about Quince grabbing her. But she could mention thewhiskey breath and unsteadiness because that made him a problem around the ranch.
Once settled to her meal, she said, “One of your hired men was the worse for drink
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