her eyes.
He covered her hand and squeezed it.
Far ahead of the buggy, two horsemen rode out of the gully. Travis was in the lead, Tom Treloar close behind. Tom was a thick-set man, with a thick bush of gray hair on his face as well as his head. It was he who had stepped on Travis’s arm and saved his life. He had no doubt at all that Jesse would have killed him had he drawn his gun. Jesse’s reaction would have been as natural as breathing. To Tom’s way of thinking, it was going to come sooner or later, anyway, as Jesse had about got his craw full of this brainless excuse for a man.
They were only a few miles from the Rocking S. The shadows stretched from the hills. Travis reined up and stared down at the buggy coming along the track, and mopped sweat from his face. His shirt was sticky and uncomfortable, and the throbbing of his split lips was a constant reminder of the humiliation he had suffered that morning. He edged his mount closer to Tom’s and spoke for the first time.
“Don’t interfere in my fight again, Tom, if you want to live.”
The drover’s face showed no emotion as Travis voiced his threat.
“He’d a killed ya slicker than snot, Travis. Ya was in no position to fight.”
Irritation mounted in Travis, stifling his own doubt. “He’s not so all-fired fast!”
“Fast enough,” Tom said quietly, “with you on the ground.”
Travis was shrewd enough to know Tom was right. He had hated Jesse since the day his mother had brought him to the ranch, an eighteen-year-old who was almost as much of a man then as he was now. At first, he hadn’t understood the relationship between his mother and the man who gradually took over the running of the ranch, but he was almost certain now. Well, if Mama needed a stud, it made no difference to him. Mama could open her legs for anyone she wanted to. It was other things that bothered him. Such as Mama having joint control of the ranch until he turned twenty-six. His face darkened with anger, his lips twisted in a sneer of contempt. It wouldn’t be long now, and he would settle with Jesse. He stewed in selfsatisfaction. They would all find out, soon enough, who was the best man. Irritation mounted within him. The frustrating truth rang in his head and pounded in the sour pit of his stomach, feeding his hatred.
“No!” he muttered fiercely.
The sun was still above the hilltops when the buggy turned up the lane toward the house. Rising out of the prairie, the two-story, white-frame house was a splendid example of eighteenth-century architecture. Built square and high off the ground to catch the breeze, it had wide, railed verandas, with roofs supported by graceful columns decorated with elaborately carved cornices. Long windows opened up onto the verandas on both the lower and upper floors. Stained-glass panes adorned the upper part of the windows as well as the doors. A drive curved through carefully tended grounds to reach the broad steps leading to the veranda. The elegant house looked as if it belonged on a shaded street in exclusive New Orleans rather than on the Texas prairie.
Realizing he was home, the horse pulling the buggy stepped briskly up the circled drive and stopped beside the gate. Jesse handed Ellen down from the buggy as a black man in a white shirt and loose black trousers came out onto the porch and down the steps to take Ellen’s boxes from the boot.
“Hello, Jacob.”
“It’s good you is back, Miz Ellen.” The dark face beamed as he leaped to hold open the door. “Y’all got the army men a camped back yonder. Ah ‘spects da cap’n done come ter see Mastah Jesse.”
“Company? You said company, Jacob?”
“Yes’m. Cap’n Slane.”
“Go down and invite the captain to dinner, Jacob.” Her face wreathed in smiles, Ellen started up the stairs, then stopped. “Jacob . . .”
“Pears ta me ah can smell me a big ol’ turkey a roastin’, ’n if’n ah smell real good, dem pecan pies is coolin’ by da door.” Jacob
He covered her hand and squeezed it.
Far ahead of the buggy, two horsemen rode out of the gully. Travis was in the lead, Tom Treloar close behind. Tom was a thick-set man, with a thick bush of gray hair on his face as well as his head. It was he who had stepped on Travis’s arm and saved his life. He had no doubt at all that Jesse would have killed him had he drawn his gun. Jesse’s reaction would have been as natural as breathing. To Tom’s way of thinking, it was going to come sooner or later, anyway, as Jesse had about got his craw full of this brainless excuse for a man.
They were only a few miles from the Rocking S. The shadows stretched from the hills. Travis reined up and stared down at the buggy coming along the track, and mopped sweat from his face. His shirt was sticky and uncomfortable, and the throbbing of his split lips was a constant reminder of the humiliation he had suffered that morning. He edged his mount closer to Tom’s and spoke for the first time.
“Don’t interfere in my fight again, Tom, if you want to live.”
The drover’s face showed no emotion as Travis voiced his threat.
“He’d a killed ya slicker than snot, Travis. Ya was in no position to fight.”
Irritation mounted in Travis, stifling his own doubt. “He’s not so all-fired fast!”
“Fast enough,” Tom said quietly, “with you on the ground.”
Travis was shrewd enough to know Tom was right. He had hated Jesse since the day his mother had brought him to the ranch, an eighteen-year-old who was almost as much of a man then as he was now. At first, he hadn’t understood the relationship between his mother and the man who gradually took over the running of the ranch, but he was almost certain now. Well, if Mama needed a stud, it made no difference to him. Mama could open her legs for anyone she wanted to. It was other things that bothered him. Such as Mama having joint control of the ranch until he turned twenty-six. His face darkened with anger, his lips twisted in a sneer of contempt. It wouldn’t be long now, and he would settle with Jesse. He stewed in selfsatisfaction. They would all find out, soon enough, who was the best man. Irritation mounted within him. The frustrating truth rang in his head and pounded in the sour pit of his stomach, feeding his hatred.
“No!” he muttered fiercely.
The sun was still above the hilltops when the buggy turned up the lane toward the house. Rising out of the prairie, the two-story, white-frame house was a splendid example of eighteenth-century architecture. Built square and high off the ground to catch the breeze, it had wide, railed verandas, with roofs supported by graceful columns decorated with elaborately carved cornices. Long windows opened up onto the verandas on both the lower and upper floors. Stained-glass panes adorned the upper part of the windows as well as the doors. A drive curved through carefully tended grounds to reach the broad steps leading to the veranda. The elegant house looked as if it belonged on a shaded street in exclusive New Orleans rather than on the Texas prairie.
Realizing he was home, the horse pulling the buggy stepped briskly up the circled drive and stopped beside the gate. Jesse handed Ellen down from the buggy as a black man in a white shirt and loose black trousers came out onto the porch and down the steps to take Ellen’s boxes from the boot.
“Hello, Jacob.”
“It’s good you is back, Miz Ellen.” The dark face beamed as he leaped to hold open the door. “Y’all got the army men a camped back yonder. Ah ‘spects da cap’n done come ter see Mastah Jesse.”
“Company? You said company, Jacob?”
“Yes’m. Cap’n Slane.”
“Go down and invite the captain to dinner, Jacob.” Her face wreathed in smiles, Ellen started up the stairs, then stopped. “Jacob . . .”
“Pears ta me ah can smell me a big ol’ turkey a roastin’, ’n if’n ah smell real good, dem pecan pies is coolin’ by da door.” Jacob
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