Terhune at the hotel. Where she likely slept this moment between soft, clean white sheets, her honey hair loose on the pillow.
A deep sigh from beside him jerked Nick's thoughts from that dangerous path as he settled into his less than soft, less than clean bedroll.
"You got an ache, Andresson?"
"Just thinkin'.” Another sigh. “It's almost over."
"What?"
"The season. The year. Being a hand."
Davis's voice held a confiding tone. Perhaps he'd noticed that they were isolated, with the only other bedrolls this side of the fire deserted by hands gone on watch.
"Shag'll sign you on again come spring. Or catch on with another outfit if you've a mind to."
"Not if I go home to Iowa this winter. If I go back, I don't think I'll ever get free again."
"Just leave."
Another sigh stirred the night. “You don't know my pa. He wouldn't stand for me leaving again."
"Then don't go back,” Nick said more sharply than he'd intended.
"What'll I do for the winter?"
"Shag would probably let you stay at the Circle T. No wages, but you'd have your keep. Or ride the grub line. Folks'll feed you, long as you bring them news."
"New places all the time?” Davis murmured with a singular lack of enthusiasm. “I don't much like the idea of not working for my keep."
"I got a place you can stay.” The offer sounded grudging to Nick's ears. It wasn't that he didn't want to help Davis or that he didn't think Davis could help him. But he was accustomed to solitude.
"What do you mean? Where?” Davis's hopefulness made Nick feel mean for his reluctance.
"The old Wallace place."
"The old Wall—that the spread northwest of the Circle T? Toward the mountains?"
"Yeah. I bought it. Got the papers in Chelico."
"You bought—But a cowhand ain't supposed to have any head—"
"I don't. Not yet. I got some land and ramshackle buildings. I'll pull ‘em together best I can. Then I'll bring up a small herd from Texas."
"Your own ranch,” Davis breathed, as if Nick planned a palace in the middle of the plains. Then again, maybe his plan sounded as outlandish. “Have you told—"
"Nobody but you."
Even in the dark, he knew the weight of Davis's look. “I won't say anything, Nick."
Nick nodded. “I'll give you ten a month to help repair the buildings this winter."
"Ten?"
"It's not much, but you'd earn your keep and have some money."
"I didn't mean—Ten's just fine. I'll do it, and thanks, Nick. Thanks a lot. And maybe come spring, if you need somebody..."
"Maybe. Now get some sleep or neither of us'll be worth a tinker's damn taking the herd in."
Davis obeyed almost immediately. But Nick lay for a long time, considering what he'd gotten himself into—taking on the old Wallace spread and taking on young Andresson. And he spent even longer trying not to dwell on one other thing he'd like to get himself into—the widow woman Terhune.
* * * *
They drove the herd slowly along the road to the railroad pens, which also was the town's main street
The younger hands shifted in their saddles, itching to hurry the process along, so they could collect their wages and break loose. The fact that they'd cut a more dashing figure whooping alongside a thundering stream of beef than they did astride placid mounts keeping pace with plodding cattle also chafed.
But Shag and Nick, one on each side of the street, passed quiet reminders that the townspeople wouldn't take kindly to a storm of dust.
"Besides,” Nick told Tommy Hodge, “no sense running an ounce of meat off these carcasses after taking such trouble to baby them along."
"S'pose not,” Tommy muttered, casting a longing look at a young miss outside Benton's Dry Goods, who stole glances at him from beneath her bonnet—and around her mother's formidable bulk.
Nick nudged Brujo on, indulging a slight smile. Tommy had talked a big story about cutting a wide swath in town. But here he was thinking of impressing that sort of girl instead of the ones sitting in the windows above the
A deep sigh from beside him jerked Nick's thoughts from that dangerous path as he settled into his less than soft, less than clean bedroll.
"You got an ache, Andresson?"
"Just thinkin'.” Another sigh. “It's almost over."
"What?"
"The season. The year. Being a hand."
Davis's voice held a confiding tone. Perhaps he'd noticed that they were isolated, with the only other bedrolls this side of the fire deserted by hands gone on watch.
"Shag'll sign you on again come spring. Or catch on with another outfit if you've a mind to."
"Not if I go home to Iowa this winter. If I go back, I don't think I'll ever get free again."
"Just leave."
Another sigh stirred the night. “You don't know my pa. He wouldn't stand for me leaving again."
"Then don't go back,” Nick said more sharply than he'd intended.
"What'll I do for the winter?"
"Shag would probably let you stay at the Circle T. No wages, but you'd have your keep. Or ride the grub line. Folks'll feed you, long as you bring them news."
"New places all the time?” Davis murmured with a singular lack of enthusiasm. “I don't much like the idea of not working for my keep."
"I got a place you can stay.” The offer sounded grudging to Nick's ears. It wasn't that he didn't want to help Davis or that he didn't think Davis could help him. But he was accustomed to solitude.
"What do you mean? Where?” Davis's hopefulness made Nick feel mean for his reluctance.
"The old Wallace place."
"The old Wall—that the spread northwest of the Circle T? Toward the mountains?"
"Yeah. I bought it. Got the papers in Chelico."
"You bought—But a cowhand ain't supposed to have any head—"
"I don't. Not yet. I got some land and ramshackle buildings. I'll pull ‘em together best I can. Then I'll bring up a small herd from Texas."
"Your own ranch,” Davis breathed, as if Nick planned a palace in the middle of the plains. Then again, maybe his plan sounded as outlandish. “Have you told—"
"Nobody but you."
Even in the dark, he knew the weight of Davis's look. “I won't say anything, Nick."
Nick nodded. “I'll give you ten a month to help repair the buildings this winter."
"Ten?"
"It's not much, but you'd earn your keep and have some money."
"I didn't mean—Ten's just fine. I'll do it, and thanks, Nick. Thanks a lot. And maybe come spring, if you need somebody..."
"Maybe. Now get some sleep or neither of us'll be worth a tinker's damn taking the herd in."
Davis obeyed almost immediately. But Nick lay for a long time, considering what he'd gotten himself into—taking on the old Wallace spread and taking on young Andresson. And he spent even longer trying not to dwell on one other thing he'd like to get himself into—the widow woman Terhune.
* * * *
They drove the herd slowly along the road to the railroad pens, which also was the town's main street
The younger hands shifted in their saddles, itching to hurry the process along, so they could collect their wages and break loose. The fact that they'd cut a more dashing figure whooping alongside a thundering stream of beef than they did astride placid mounts keeping pace with plodding cattle also chafed.
But Shag and Nick, one on each side of the street, passed quiet reminders that the townspeople wouldn't take kindly to a storm of dust.
"Besides,” Nick told Tommy Hodge, “no sense running an ounce of meat off these carcasses after taking such trouble to baby them along."
"S'pose not,” Tommy muttered, casting a longing look at a young miss outside Benton's Dry Goods, who stole glances at him from beneath her bonnet—and around her mother's formidable bulk.
Nick nudged Brujo on, indulging a slight smile. Tommy had talked a big story about cutting a wide swath in town. But here he was thinking of impressing that sort of girl instead of the ones sitting in the windows above the
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