Chapter 8: The Homesteader

“As it happens, it’s a simple job,” Peterson said, waving a hand. “I need a man to carry a proposal.”

Michael’s brow furrowed. “Proposal fer what?”

“Compensation.” Peterson folded his hands over the head of his cane. “My railroad is acquiring property near Lawrence, Kansas. Most of the homesteaders have accepted our terms. One has not.”

“How much?”

“Thirteen dollars an acre.”

Michael looked up.

Peterson nodded. “The others accepted ten. I increased the amount in hopes we might spare everyone unnecessary unpleasantness. My railroad prides itself on diplomacy. I have no interest in legal battles.”

The waiter arrived with Michael’s ribeye, an inch and a half thick and still sizzling from the grill. The smell of good hot beef filled the space between them. Michael waited until the waiter departed before picking up his knife and fork.

“That’s it?” he asked. “Ya just want me to deliver the proposal?”

Peterson smiled over the rim of his coffee cup.

“What did you think? That I intended to hire you to shoot someone?”

Michael shifted in his chair.

Peterson set the cup down. “No, Mr. Vincent. Railroads connect towns, bring commerce, and feed families. They also require land. I won’t pretend we’re not asking these people to move on, because we are. But thirteen dollars an acre will buy a man another homestead nearly anywhere in this country, with a house, livestock, and money left in his pocket besides. I consider that fair compensation.”

Michael studied his steak for a moment before cutting into it.

“Seems mighty generous.”

“I believe it is.”

Michael dug into his steak. The tang of the juice spread across his tongue as he chewed.

“Ya said four weeks.”

Peterson nodded. “Indeed, I did. Perhaps only three.”

Michael waited.

“Lawrence is five days from Denver in good weather. We’re coming into fall, so I’d rather promise four and deliver sooner. If the line were already finished, I’d simply put you on a railcar.” He smiled faintly. “Unfortunately, it isn’t.”

“Cuz of the homesteader?”

Peterson’s smile became almost apologetic.

“Indeed. Which is why I’m hoping to have this matter settled. With a little providence, you’ll still be home with your wife before Christmas.”

Michael considered that as he cut another piece of steak and chased it with a bite of baked potato. The meal really was excellent. Peterson had been nothing but generous.

“When do I leave?”

Peterson took another sip of his coffee and smiled.

“That’s the spirit, my boy. You can leave whenever you’d like. Though I imagine you’ll need an advance.”

Michael frowned.

Peterson spread a hand. “You’ll need a place to stay tonight. It won’t do to start for Kansas in the dark. And unless I’ve forgotten, you also wanted to send word to your wife.”

Michael nodded.

Peterson reached into his money purse, withdrew two twenty-dollar gold pieces, and laid them on the table.

Michael stared at them.

Peterson chuckled.

“Forty dollars now. The remaining sixty when the work is done.”

Michael did the figures in his head and blinked.

“A hundred dollars... to deliver a proposal?”

Peterson shrugged. “Unless you find the compensation lacking.”

Michael laughed once and shook his head.

“No, sir. As I said about yer offer fer the land, a hundred dollars seems more than generous fer ridin’ to Kansas and speakin’ ta one homesteader.”

“Excellent.” Peterson extended his hand. “Then we have an agreement.”

Michael reached across the table and took it.

“We have an agreement.”

They finished the meal talking of little consequence. Michael thanked the man for the meal, and left the restaurant whistling. .

~

Michael walked along the boardwalk on Colfax the next morning toward the Western Union office. The wind had turned sharp overnight and he pulled his Stetson tighter over his ears. Michael entered the telegraph office. A potbellied stove in the corner chased the chill from the room.

The young man behind the desk looked up.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Michael smiled.

“Need ta send a telegram ta Lander, Wyomin’.”

The clerk’s eyebrows rose.

“That’s a fair piece.”

Michael lifted his money purse.

“I’ve got the coin.”

The young man slid a pad of paper across the counter.

“Dollar for the first ten words. After that, you pay for each one.”

Michael frowned and put pencil to paper.

Sadie. Found work in Denver. I’ll be home by Thanksgiving. I’m sorry it’ll be later than I promised. The job pays well...

He stopped. Too many words. The pencil scratched back across the page.

Found work Denver...

He stared at the city name. Denver stayed. She needed to know where he was. He tried again.

Got robbed...

Michael frowned and struck it out. That would only worry her. He let out a slow breath. Writing a telegram shouldn’t be this hard.

The telegram took him nearly half an hour to write. It finally ended up at fifteen words.

FOUND WORK DENVER STOP

PETERSON RAIL SERVICE STOP

WIRING ADVANCE STOP

PAY OFF NEVELS STOP

HOME BY CHRISTMAS STOP

MICHAEL

He stared at the bottom of the page.

It felt cold. Impersonal. He sighed, lowered the pencil once more, and added two words.

With love.

It cost him a little more, but at least she would know he had wanted to say more than he could afford.

Michael handed the young man his message.

The clerk nodded as he counted the words.

“That’ll be two dollars and forty cents.”

Michael counted out the coins and slid them across the counter.

The clerk nodded once, then went to work, the telegraph key clacking out in Morse code everything Michael needed to say...

...and nothing he had wanted to.

~

Michael spent the rest of the morning resupplying. By the time he rode back to Peterson’s office, the clock over the entry read a quarter till eleven.

Peterson looked up from his desk and smiled.

“Ah, Mr. Vincent. Ready to depart, then?”

Michael nodded.

Peterson motioned toward a man dressed entirely in black.

“I’d like you to meet Britt Christensen. I don’t much care for sending a man out alone. Mr. Christensen will be traveling with you to Lawrence.”

Michael offered his hand.

“Good ta meet ya.”

Britt took it with a single shake.

“Likewise.”

It was all he said. Michael heard the cadence of a foreign accent in the man’s speech.

Peterson smiled.

“Well then, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to it. Do be careful. The weather looks as though it may turn.”

Michael glanced through the office window toward the low gray clouds gathering over the plains.

“Looks like snow.”

“Indeed.” Peterson nodded. “And if it does, don’t press on. Blizzards on the high plains are nothing to trifle with.”

Michael nodded once.

He already knew.

For just a moment his thoughts drifted to his father.

Then he pushed the memory away.

Outside, Britt untied the reins of his black gelding. Michael did the same with the bay.

“Think we can make Byers?” Michael asked, having studied the route while buying supplies.

Britt shrugged.

“Maybe. If the weather holds.”

Michael gave a low whistle out of habit, yet Tick did not come running. He smiled sadly to himself, hoping the old hound was already somewhere on the trail to Wyoming.

They turned east, riding down Seventeenth Street toward the edge of Denver.

“Christmas,” Michael murmured under his breath. “I’ll be home by Christmas.”

~

Michael and Britt reached Byers before the storm broke. They both took rooms in the tavern at the edge of town and ate dinner together at first in companionable silence.

Michael glanced over once at the bigger man.

“Yer not from the States,” he observed conversationally.

Britt shrugged.

“No. I was born in Europe.”

Michael nodded thoughtfully.

“My ma used ta show me places like that on a map, she was born there too.”

Britt shrugged. “Perhaps you have heard of my country. Croatia.”

Michael chewed his venison.

“That’s in the Austrian Empire, right?”

Britt’s eyebrows rose.

“Austria-Hungary now.” He tipped his head toward Michael, “you know it?”

Michael shrugged.

“Ma made me learn all the countries.”

Britt chuckled.

“Then you are better traveled than most of your countrymen.”

Michael laughed.

The two men finished the rest of their meal, with Britt telling Michael more of his homeland.

~

Two days later the weather cleared enough for the men to leave Byers. The roads were muddy and the trip was slow. By the time the pair had reached Salina, they had found the familiar camaraderie that came with a shared trail, and sleeping on the ground.

That night Michael ventured a conversation.

Michael poked at the fire with a stick.

“So why’d ya never start a family?”

Britt was quiet for a moment before answering.

“I would have liked one.”

Michael glanced up.

Britt shrugged.

“But it would not be fair.”

Michael frowned.

“Fair?”

“Today I’m riding to Kansas. Next month, New Mexico. Maybe Peterson sends me east. Maybe I do not come back at all.” He gave a small shrug. “Did not seem right to promise a home when I could not promise myself.”

Michael nodded slowly.

“Peterson keeps ya that busy?”

Britt smiled faintly.

“Sometimes.”

Michael studied him across the fire.

“Deliverin’ offers?”

Britt shook his head.

“No. Not those kinds of offers.”

Michael watched him another moment before understanding settled over him.

“Yer one of his protectors.”

Britt shrugged.

“Among other things.”

Michael studied the European in the fire light.

“Ya enjoy it.”

Britt shrugged pouring out the rest of his coffee. “It is a living.”

And with that he rolled into his bedroll, leaving Michael to stare into the fire.

~

Michael and Britt made Lawrence during the third week of November. A mix of industry and farmland, the town bustled even as snow flurries drifted lazily from a gray sky.

Britt nodded toward a boarding house farther up the street.

“We’ll stay the night. Talk to the homesteader tomorrow.”

Michael nodded. The hour was late. The farmer would be sitting down to supper by now. Michael felt his own fatigue in his bones.

~

Morning dawned bright and cold. The storm had passed without doing much damage.

Michael and Britt rode out to the property Peterson hoped to purchase a few miles outside Lawrence. Smoke drifted from the chimney. Two children chased each other through the thin blanket of snow while a woman hung laundry beside the cabin. Out front, a man split firewood.

The whole family looked up as the riders approached.

“Howdy,” Michael called.

The man rested both hands on the maul.

“State your business.”

Michael shifted easily in the saddle.

“We’re here on behalf of Mr. Peterson.”

“The railroad man?”

“Yes, sir.”

The homesteader glanced toward Britt.

“Him I know. You’re new.”

“Met Mr. Peterson in Denver. He asked me ta bring ya an offer.”

The man’s expression hardened. He jerked his chin toward his wife.

“Inside.”

She gathered the children without a word. The cabin door shut behind them.

Only then did the homesteader tell Michael exactly what Peterson could do with his offer.

Michael blinked.

“Ya haven’t even heard it.”

“Don’t need to.”

“Mr. Peterson’s offering thirteen dollars an acre.”

The man shook his head.

“My pa settled this land. Built that cabin with his own hands. My father and granddad are buried on that hill.”

He pointed behind the house.

“Three of my children too.”

Michael swallowed.

“I know what land means. I’ve got a homestead of my own. A wife waitin’ fer me in Wyomin’.”

“Then you ought to understand.”

“I do. That’s why I came myself.”

The man folded his arms.

“The land isn’t for sale.”

Michael drew a slow breath.

“Mr. Peterson asked me ta settle this fair.”

The homesteader’s eyes narrowed.

“It already is fair.”

“It is more than a good price.”

The man gave a humorless laugh.

“Still don’t move my family graveyard. It don’t move this house. I’m not selling.”

Michael stood quietly for a moment, searching for something else to say. There wasn’t anything.

The homesteader picked up his maul and drove it into another block of wood.

“Get off my land.”

Michael turned the bay without another word. As he and Britt rode back toward Lawrence, Peterson’s estimate of four weeks suddenly made a great deal more sense.

~

Michael and Britt returned to town and took lunch at a small café. Michael ordered the soup, but when it arrived, he only stared into it.

“You are troubled, my young friend.”

Britt’s voice finally broke through.

Michael looked up.

“I don’t get it. I mean... I do. The man’s got family buried there. I understand that. But it’s jest bones.”

He shook his head.

“Did ya see their clothes? His wife was hangin’ laundry in a shawl. The little boy’s ankles were showin’. The house needs a new roof. Givin’ up that kind of money...”

He let out a slow breath.

“For bones.”

Britt remained quiet for a long moment, taking another spoonful of soup before he answered.

“Where I come from, all the land belongs to the king.”

Michael looked up.

“I came to America because a man could own his own land. Sounds to me like that fellow’s father came for the same reason.”

Michael nodded slowly.

“I know.”

He rubbed a hand across his jaw.

“Thirteen dollars an acre would put me and Sadie closer to Fort Bridger. I’d have enough left over ta build a proper herd. Maybe even hire a hand.”

Britt nodded.

“You see the value in the offer.”

He paused.

“He sees the value in never having to leave.”

Michael finally lifted his spoon and took a sip.

“Maybe.” Another spoonful. “Still think he’s a fool.”

~

The weather had not improved the next morning. The sky was once again the color of steel, a bitter wind blowing out of the north.

He hadn’t told Britt where he was going.

Perhaps without the larger man beside him, the homesteader would listen.

Homesteader to homesteader.

He rode into the yard.

The cabin door opened. The man stepped onto the porch.

“I thought I told you to get off my land.”

Michael settled the bay.

“I came ta talk.”

“You came to trespass.”

“Mr. Peterson’s offering thirteen dollars an acre. That’s a fair price.”

“I don’t care if he’s offering a hundred.”

The man’s voice stayed flat.

“My family is buried on that hill.”

Michael glanced toward the rise behind the cabin.

“I know.”

“Then ride away.”

Michael hesitated.

“Ya won’t see money like this again.”

The homesteader took one step off the porch.

“Are you deaf?”

Michael felt his jaw tighten.

“I’m trying ta help ya.”

“Help yourself.”

Silence settled between them.

Michael looked at the weathered roof, the patched barn, the woodpile already running low.

Thirteen dollars an acre. What he wouldn’t have given for an offer like that.

He nodded once.

“I came ta do a job.”

As he turned the bay toward the road, the man’s voice followed him.

“Does your wife know what kind of work you took?”

~

Michael rode the mare back to Lawrence.

Does your wife know what kind of work you took?

The question rolled around in his head. He hated it. Despised it. He had taken the work to keep a roof over his wife’s head, yet he could not shake it. He wasn’t entirely sure Sadie would be proud of what he was doing.

But he didn’t want to dwell on that.

Michael returned to Lawrence in time for lunch. He ate a bowl of stew, then instead of finding Britt, went upstairs. Using paper and an inkwell, he began drafting a letter to Sadie.

She deserved to know why he had found work in Denver instead of coming home.

He spent the better part of the afternoon composing the draft.

Dear Sadie,

I wish the circumstances were not what they were. After five weeks on the trail, the money from the cattle was stolen from me in Denver.

He frowned.

To remedy the situation

Michael stared at the line. He felt dumb just writing it. He scratched it out.

With the tax bill due, I accepted work with the railroad.

There.

That sounded better.

I am in Lawrence, Kansas. If you need to get a hold of me, please feel free to use some of the money to wire Denver. I am hoping to be back there by Christmas. In the meantime, know that I am thinking of you, eager to taste your beef stew and once again be in your company. I will return as soon as I am able.

With all my love,

Michael

He sanded the ink, blotted the page, folded it into an envelope, and walked downstairs. The post office stood only a short walk away. He mailed the letter before crossing the street to the saloon.

Britt looked up from his supper as Michael slid into the chair across from him.

“We’re going out there again,” Michael said.

Britt raised an eyebrow.

“This offer is his family’s ticket out livin’ hand ta fist.”

Britt shrugged.

“Not sure it’ll make much difference.”

“Maybe not.”

“We’ll go.”

That night Michael dreamed of Sadie.

She stood across from him, her eyes filled with disappointment.

“Are you really all right with running a man off his land?”

Michael woke in a cold sweat. He scrubbed a hand down his face before rolling over and pulling the blanket higher.

“I’m keepin’ a roof over her head,” he whispered into the darkness.

“That’s all this is.”

~

The sky was the color of slate and the clouds appeared just as cold the next morning. Michael and Britt rode once more toward the homesteader’s place. They had scarcely crested the hill leading down into the little bowl where the cabin sat before the homesteader motioned his wife and children inside.

Michael didn’t miss the shotgun leaning against the chopping stump.

The man folded his arms.

“Trespassing again, I see.”

Michael leaned forward in the saddle.

“I’ve come to make sure you understand. How good an offer this really is.”

The man shrugged.

“Could be thirteen hundred. Wouldn’t change my mind.”

Michael sighed, his eyes drifting to the cabin where two children pressed their faces against the window.

“Yer holdin’ on ta bones.”

The homesteader’s jaw tightened. Along with his fists. Michael continued anyway. The man needed to hear this.

“It would do more good servin’ the livin’ than the dead.”

That did it.

The man’s face flushed crimson.

“Don’t do it,” Britt warned.

But it was already too late.

The homesteader lunged for the shotgun.

Before Michael could think, his Colt was already in his hand.

It barked three times.

Silence crashed over the little homestead.

Then the cabin door burst open. The woman sprinted toward her husband.

“No!”

Her cry echoed across the hills.

“Ian! No!”

Michael blinked.

The man had been reaching for the shotgun.

But this...

He looked down into the pale face of a man now dead.

Six weeks ago...

That was me.

He holstered the Colt and hurried forward.

The widow gathered her husband’s body into her arms.

“Don’t touch him!” she snapped.

Michael stopped.

He scrubbed a hand down his face.

“He was going for his gun.”

“You murdered him.”

Michael’s shoulders slumped. His hands hung limp at his sides. He turned and walked back to his horse.

“Make sure she gets the money,” he told Britt.

Without another word, he mounted the mare and rode away, the cries of the newly made widow following him long after the homestead disappeared behind the hills.

~

Michael rode back into Lawrence seeing nothing but the blood on the widow’s hands.

He climbed the stairs to the boarding house two at a time. The door shut with a loud click behind him. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed and turned toward the window, listening to the noises of the street below.

He took a shaky breath, leaned forward onto his elbows, and buried his face in his hands.

“I killed him.” The words came out barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want ta... but I killed him.”

Gorge rose in his throat. He lurched for the chamber pot in the corner, his breakfast coming back up.

When he was finished, he wiped his mouth and crossed to the washbasin. The man staring back from the mirror looked older than he had that morning.

A knock sounded at the door.

Michael stiffened.

Had the law already come?

He stepped quietly to the door.

“Michael. It’s me. Britt.”

His shoulders eased. He opened it.

Britt stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“Came to make sure you were not about to do something stupid.”

Michael eyed him. “I’m leavin’.”

“Like that.” Britt’s voice was flat.

Michael frowned.

Britt considered him, then clicked his tongue.

“He reached first, but the law is gonna have questions.”

Michael blinked, and his stomach lurched.

Britt reached for the doorknob.

“You need to ride down to the county seat and make sure they hear it from you first.”

Michael’s hands balled into fists.

“If they’ll believe me.”

Britt raised an eyebrow.

“The homesteader is dead. His widow will testify against you. I have already telegraphed Peterson.”

Michael looked at him in disbelief.

“Ya think he’ll help?”

Britt nodded.

“He will want this settled quiet and fast.”

Michael closed his eyes.

“Sounds like ya’ve done this before.”

“Yeah.” It was all the man in black said.

Michael looked up.

“Fine, but I am not lyin’ fer anybody.”

Britt met his eyes.

“No one is asking you to. Tell it like it happened and Peterson will see to the rest.”

Michael reached for the door, feeling like a prisoner already.

Thank you so very much for taking the time to read my work. If you like fiction that shows real life, redemption and the Narrow Road, I would love to hear from you in the comments. Better yet, share my work with others, and help me grow.

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Despite the calendar saying the 13th of November, the Denver stockyards were warm. The air was choked with dust, and the noise of drovers shouting. Cattle bawled, as hundreds of beasts were moved through pens. The cacophony of industrial machines up Elyria Street at the canning facilities was enough that Michael had to shout to Rockwell to be heard over the din.

The noise of the large city grated on Michael’s exhausted nerves. He signaled Tick to herd the four healthy yearlings into the pen indicated by the foreman. Two of his steers had crossed Red Desert poorly, and Michael doubted he was going to get more than canning prices for them. The smell from the canneries turned his stomach. A haze from coal fire and steam settled with the dust. Michael turned his face back to the men in the pen sorting his cattle.

He dismounted from the mare and called Tick. That was when he caught a glimpse of himself in the window of a nearby building. He hardly recognized himself. His beard had filled in, his face was browned from the sun, and dust covered him from head to toe. Michael stepped back, flinching at his own appearance. He licked his teeth and lips, before spitting the silt into the dust at his feet. Tick sat, leaning against Michael’s leg, tongue lolling.

Michael watched the drovers sort the little herd he had brought. Numbers were called but he had little understanding of what they meant. After what seemed an eternity the foreman approached him.

“What’s today’s prices?” Michael asked.

The foreman checked his sheet. “I can likely give you seventeen a head for the four healthy ones, but the two sick? Maybe seven?”

Michael frowned, “That’s long yearlin’ Angus.”

The foreman shrugged. “If they’d have been corn-fed, you’d have gotten more. But these here grass-fed ones? Cain’t offer that much.”

Michael nodded. “Alright, I’ll take what ya can give me”

. The man nodded his head and handed Michael a green slip of paper.

“Take this over ta the cash shack. They’ll set ya up right.”

“Much obliged,”

Michael took the sheet of paper, folded it and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

“Come on, boy,” he said, tapping his thigh once. Tick followed behind, tail wagging.

Michael made his way to the cashier’s shed, a ramshackle building at the edge of the stockyards. A man in a green visor with rolled shirt sleeves chewing on an unlit cigar looked at him through the window.

“What can I do ya fer?”

Michael pulled the green tally sheet from his pocket and handed it to the cashier.

“ I brought six in from Lander.”

The man looked over the paper and squinted. “Well after feeding fees and the pen fee, that’ll be seventy-three dollars and sixty-one cents.”

Michael stared at the numbers feeling personally insulted.

Five weeks of work, five weeks of sleeping on the ground, five weeks of missin’ my wife.

He slowly lifted the grease pencil to sign for his coins and cash. It would have to be enough. He knew, back home, Nevels would already be tacking on interest.

The cashier handed him the money in a canvas sack. Michael tipped his hat before gathering the bay’s reins in his hand. His mind already whirling with the figures against the supplies he still needed to obtain before he could return home.

He and Wyatt had done without for years, and Sadie didn’t complain, but she needed a new coat for winter, and she had mentioned curtains.

Rockwell met him by the pens.

“You look like someone stole Tick.”

Michael lifted his head. “Jest didn’t get as much as I was wantin’”

Rockwell nodded, “Yeah, it’s tough.”

He clapped Michael on the shoulder, “There is a stable at the end of the row. Cost a nickel to board the mare for the night. The boys and I are headed to Market for a drink, you comin’?”

Michael considered, He needed to get to the bank to wire the funds to Sadie, but the sun was still high enough.

He shrugged, “I got a few minutes..”

Rockwell grinned, “Good man.”

~

The sights and sounds of Market street were a different beast from the stockyard, less dusty, but no quieter. Even at the early afternoon hour the sound of competing saloons, cat-calls, shouts and the whistles of men filled the air.

The group entered a darkened building, Rockwell ordered a bottle of cheap rye for the group. Michael passed on the liquor instead ordering a cup of coffee for himself.

Rockwell leaned forward, raising his glass. “it was a good drive gentlemen, the cows made it, we made it, here is to success.”

The others raised their drinks. Michael followed suit.

The conversation turned to supplies, the fact they were glad the drive was over, and the long trip home.

Michael looked up to see the shadows lengthening into early evening outside, and stood.

“I need to get goin’, I gotta wire money afore the bank closes.”

Rockwell stood with him.

“You headed out with us in the mornin’?” The older cowboy asked.

Michael shook his head, “I’ve got supplies ta get.” He paused. “But if yer headed home. Would ya take Tick?”

Rockwell froze just inside the saloon doors.

“Yer sure?”

Michael shook his head. “I can’t be draggin’ him all over town. I’ll catch up in a couple of days.”

Rockwell shrugged. “Well, suit yerself.”

They stepped out on the boardwalk together, and Michael called to Tick. The dog jumped up from where he’d been waiting by Michael’s mare and walked over with a wagging tail and outstretched tongue.

Michael knelt and rubbed the dog’s ears. “Yer goin’ home boy.”

Tick’s mouth closed at the word home. He tilted his head and whined.

Michael smiled sadly, “Go home, I need ya lookin’ after Sadie.”

The dog whined once again, and Michael signaled him with the low whistle for home. Tick tucked his tail and Rockwell tapped his thigh,

“Come on, Tick.”

The dog turned to obey, then looked back and Michael, who signaled once more.”

Tick lowered his head. Before Rockwell slipped a rope through the dog’s collar.

Michael watched Rockwell pull Tick behind him. The dog was not happy. Neither was his owner. There was no sense in dragging the hound through the streets of Denver.

“I’ll catch up,” Michael said under his breath.

Tick turned to look at him once more before a tug on the lead rope from Rockwell pulled him forward.

Michael turned. The shadows had already grown longer. He would be rushing to get to the bank now.

He headed south along Market Street, passing taverns, saloons, gambling halls, coffeehouses, and the sort of establishments that, now that he was married, held no interest for him. The thought of Sadie tugged at him. He would need to send her a telegram, tell her he would miss the six weeks he had promised, that he was sorry, and that he would make it up to her. Then he would have to keep that promise by finding something worthy of taking home.

Since he was in a hurry, Michael stopped a man on the boardwalk.

“Excuse me. Do ya live here in Denver?”

The man eyed him, then nodded slowly.

“What’s the quickest way ta Seventeenth Street?”

The man hiccupped, then shrugged.

“Cut through the bottoms, I reckon. Right through the rail yard. Best chance ya got.”

Michael nodded, thumbing the brim of his hat.

“Much obliged.”

The man tipped his own hat and continued in the opposite direction.

The rail yard lay downhill from Market Street, crowded with freight cars, locomotives, and coal tenders. The shadows were deeper here, and the place felt like a different world from the noise and bustle above.

Gravel crunched beneath Michael’s boots as he passed between two coal cars.

He had just rounded the corner.

“Hands up where we can see ‘em.”

Michael froze.

“Turn around. Nice and slow.”

He did, the money bag still clutched in one hand.

Two men stood with bandanas pulled over their faces and pistols leveled at his chest.

“Give us the money,” one of them said. “Whatever valuables you got. We’ll let you walk.”

At first Michael’s grip tightened on the money bag. This was his ticket home, the only way he could keep the ranch.

Then the younger gunman flinched, jerking his pistol toward Michael.

Michael didn’t think.

The money bag dropped from his hand with a clank as his own hand went with it.

“He’s reaching!” the older robber shouted.

Flame burst from the younger man’s muzzle. The bullet went wild richocheting off a railcar further up the track.

Michael’s Colt cleared leather.

His shot echoed through the rail yard. The younger man clutched at his chest.

The older robber fired.

Michael ducked instinctively. The ball slammed into the wooden side of the coal tender behind him.

His trigger finger squeezed again. The older man rocked backward, striking the railcar before crumpling to the ground.

Ringing swallowed every other sound.

That’s when Michael saw him.

A third man burst from the shadows, snatched up the money bag, and disappeared into the darkness.

Michael stood frozen, his head feeling as though it were underwater. Somewhere in the distance a whistle shrilled. He looked up just in time to see a Denver police officer sprinting toward him.

Smoke curled from the muzzle of Michael’s Colt. He stood frozen, blinking, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt sick. Not because he had shot the men. Because someone had taken the money.

A hand seized his arm.

Michael jerked, dropping the Colt into the gravel.

A Denver police officer motioned toward the two men lying motionless, blood pooling beneath them in the fading light. The officer said something, but all Michael heard was the ringing. He blinked hard until the words finally broke through.

“They were trying to rob me,” Michael said.

The officer frowned.

“Son, this don’t look good for you. Don’t look good at all.”

“I’m telling ya, they were trying to rob me.”

“Rob you of what?”

Michael looked down.

The money bag was gone.

“There was a third man.”

The officer studied him for a long moment.

“Son, I think you’d best come with me.”

“Hold there. I saw the whole thing.”

The deep voice rolled out from between the tracks.

A man stepped into the lantern light beside a giant dressed in black. His waistcoat was finely tailored, his bowler hat spotless, and his polished shoes looked untouched by the grime of the rail yard.

The officer straightened.

“Mr. Peterson. You saw it?”

Peterson dipped his head and lifted the gold-knobbed cane in his hand, pointing it toward Michael.

“I did. Those two got the jump on the young fellow. There was a third as well. He grabbed the money and ran while these two kept his attention.”

The officer glanced toward the darkness where the thief had disappeared.

Peterson continued.

“I’ve seen lawmen slower on the draw. This young man would be lying there otherwise.”

Michael wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard him correctly. His ears still rang, and his hands had begun to tremble.

The officer sighed and crouched beside the dead men, pulling the bandanas from their faces.

“Well, I’ll be.”

He looked up at Peterson.

“One of these fellas has a wanted notice hanging in the office.”

He looked back down and shook his head.

“Ten-dollar reward... but it was for bringing him in alive.”

“Shame,” Peterson said. “I will however provide a statement to the proper authorities, this man is innocent.”

The officer nodded, then turned back to Michael. “Come on, son, I’ll get your statement at the station.

~

Michael entered the brick building which had DENVER CITY HALL carved into the stone above the doorway. A clock ticked steadily on the wall. Wooden desks filled the room.

The officer sighed.

“Well, I reckon I’d best get your statement tonight. You’re claiming self-defense. We’ll see what Mr. Peterson has to say. If he corroborates your story, you’re one lucky fella to have had a witness.”

Lucky.

The word did not fit what Michael was feeling.

He swallowed.

“Could I trouble ya for some water?”

The officer glanced at him, then called across the room.

“McKenzie! Get our guest a cup of water.”

The younger officer looked up from his desk, rolled his eyes, and stood with an exaggerated sigh before disappearing into the back.

Peterson settled into a chair, pulled a legal pad from his satchel, and dipped his pen into an inkwell.

“Take it from the top, son.”

Michael told them about arriving at the stockyards that morning, boarding his mare, and selling his cattle.

“Seventy-six dollars.”

His hand pressed into the edge of the desk.

He still couldn’t believe it was gone.

“It was everything I had. It was supposed ta save the ranch.”

The officer’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“And these two got the jump on you down in the Bottoms?”

Michael nodded, replaying it again.

“Yeah. Told me to put my hands up... turn around slow. I didn’t want to give ‘em the money, so I hesitated, and then...” He swallowed. “That’s when the gun went off.”

Almost as if on cue, McKenzie set a cup of water on the desk.

Michael looked up.

“Thank ya.”

The young officer only grunted before returning to his desk.

Michael took a long drink.

“I didn’t think. I just pulled my Colt. Same thing I’ve done a thousand times at home.”

The officer frowned.

“That’s the part I don’t understand. You’re a rancher, but you’re that fast?”

Michael shrugged.

“Been practicin’ since I was fifteen... maybe sixteen. My ma had an old mirror. I’d set it on a fence post and practice my draw, linin’ up the sights. Never fired. Just practiced.”

He looked down at his hands.

“I didn’t think.”

The officer continued writing while asking another question or two, but Michael barely heard him. All he could see was the money bag disappearing into the darkness.

Finally the officer leaned back.

Michael looked at him.

“What am I gonna do?”

The officer spread his hands.

“I don’t rightly know, son. If you got a look at the third fellow, we’ll put out his description. Beyond that...”

Michael lowered his eyes. There wasn’t much hope.

The officer stood.

“Sit tight. I’m gonna get Mr. Peterson’s statement.”

Michael nodded and stared at a knot in the wooden desk that looked almost like an eye, replaying the robbery for the hundredth time, trying to understand how five weeks of work had vanished in the space of a heartbeat.

Peterson was gone for the next quarter hour. Michael watched the hands slowly rotate on the clock.

The bank’s gonna close soon.

The thought landed like a stone in a pond.

Michael blinked.

No.

There was no money to deposit. His hand tightened on the desk at the remembering.

Peterson finally returned.

The officer tapped his fingers against his thighs.

“Well, son, I reckon you ought to thank your lucky stars. Or, if you’re a praying man, visit a chapel tonight. Mr. Peterson is one of the wealthiest men in Denver, and he backed your story down to the smallest detail. If you’ve got a description of the third fellow, we’ll take it. Otherwise...” He spread his hands. “You’re free to go.”

Michael blinked.

“I... didn’t get a real good look.”

He rubbed a hand across his jaw, feeling dust settle into the beard beneath his fingers.

“Young. Thin. Real thin. Might’ve been barefoot. I think he was.”

The officer nodded.

“Not much to go on.”

Michael lowered his head.

“I understand. Thanks for your time.”

As he turned to leave, the officer cleared his throat.

“Oh. Mr. Peterson’s waiting outside. Says he’d like to buy you some dinner.”

Michael fingered the brim of his hat.

“Appreciate it.”

The officer nodded. “Have a good night, Mr. Vincent.”

Michael couldn’t help but find the word ironic, considering the events that had landed him in the police station in the first place. Still, he said nothing. He simply stepped outside into the fading Denver light.

A carriage rattled over the cobblestones. Peterson’s coach waited just beyond the curb. The broad-shouldered man dressed in black opened the coach door and motioned him inside.

Michael climbed in.

Peterson leaned forward.

“Young man, I’d like to buy you some dinner. You’ve had an unpleasant evening, and a fellow shouldn’t wander Denver’s streets hungry with empty pockets.”

He folded his hands over the head of his cane.

“Besides...” He smiled pleasantly. “I believe I may have a way to help your situation.”

Michael hesitated.

What could a railroad man possibly want with me?

As if answering for him, his stomach growled.

Peterson chuckled.

“There now. Never argue with your stomach, son. Let’s get a good meal in you. Then we’ll talk.”

Michael finally nodded.

“I’d be much obliged for the dinner.”

Peterson’s smile widened. He rapped the head of his cane once against the roof of the coach, and they lurched forward.

Michael looked out the window at the new electric lights lining the streets of Denver. Fascinating things, those were. He hated that he probably looked like one of the backwoods hillbillies his father used to joke about, staring at inventions Wyoming had yet to see, and probably wouldn’t, Michael figured, for another hundred years.

The coach rolled south over cobblestones, passing rows of brownstone houses as they entered a more respectable part of town.

It finally stopped along Colfax.

Across the street stood an eating establishment called The Merchant’s Table.

Peterson stepped down behind him and grinned.

“Ah, my favorite place to eat. Come along, young man.”

He paused.

“By the way, son, what’s your name?”

Michael blinked. It suddenly occurred to him that he knew Peterson’s name, but Peterson didn’t know his.

“Michael. Michael Vincent.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Vincent.” Peterson motioned toward the door. “Now, if you’ll follow me, I believe you’ll find the steak here cooked to perfection, the coffee hot and strong. Something I imagine you didn’t have much of on the trail. And let us hope the conversation proves beneficial to us both.”

Michael followed him inside.

Electric lights hadn’t found their way into the restaurant yet. Gas sconces still lined the walls, casting a warm glow over white tablecloths and polished cutlery. The room hummed with quiet conversation and the clink of ceramic against silver.

A man behind the counter looked up and smiled.

“Mr. Peterson. Dining with us this evening? Your usual table, sir?”

Peterson nodded.

“Yes. This young man is my guest” He turned to Michael pointing to a door. “You’ll find the washroom through there if you’d like to remove some road dust.”

Michael handed the maître ‘d his hat and rubbed his hands down dusty trousers. “I believe I would.”

A Pitcher in the room held steaming water. Michael poured it into the basin and splashed it on his face. If it would have been manly Michael could have cried. It felt like heaven. He worked a wetted comb through the grime in his beard and wet hands through his hair until he looked somewhat presentable. The change in the mirror was obvious. Michael felt human again. Mostly. He refused to let his mind settle on his actions in the railyard.

He finally reemerged from the washroom, nodding at Peterson. “Thank ya.”

The older man just smiled. “Anything for a guest.”

As they crossed the dining room, Michael noticed no fewer than five men tip their heads in greeting. It didn’t seem to matter whether they wore tailored coats or trail-worn work shirts. Everyone appeared to know Peterson.

They reached a quiet table in the back corner.

Peterson handed Michael the menu.

“Order whatever you’d like, son.”

Michael read it once.

Then again.

This time he wasn’t reading the meals.

He was reading the prices.

Peterson smiled knowingly.

“Don’t concern yourself with the cost. Order what sounds good after five weeks on the trail.”

Michael’s mouth watered despite himself.

“I’ll have the ribeye. And... the baked potato.”

“The large one?” the waiter asked.

Michael hesitated.

Peterson answered for him.

“The large one.”

“And coffee,” Michael added. “Hot.”

Peterson laughed softly.

“That’s the spirit. I’ll have the same.”

The waiter nodded and disappeared toward the kitchen.

As soon as they were alone, Peterson leaned forward.

“Now then, young man. About that job.”

Michael winced.

“I promised my wife I’d be home in six weeks.”

Peterson raised an eyebrow.

“And you strike me as a man who keeps his word.”

Michael looked down.

“I try to.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m not going to make six weeks now, but...”

His voice faded.

Peterson clicked his tongue.

“Such a shame. All that hard work.”

He waved the thought away.

“But let’s not dwell on unpleasant things. If you need to send word home, I’d be happy to arrange a telegram.”

Michael looked up.

“I don’t much like owing people.”

Peterson chuckled.

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Vincent. It wouldn’t be a favor. It would simply be an advance on work I need done.”

He folded his hands.

“Now then. Do you have transportation?”

“My mare’s boarded at the stockyards.”

“Excellent. And a place to sleep tonight?”

Michael slowly shook his head.

“I see.”

Peterson nodded thoughtfully.

“So you need a bed, food in your belly, and word sent to your wife.”

Michael nodded once.

“The work will take four weeks. You could still be home before Christmas.”

Michael frowned.

“Sadie’s alone...”

“Of course she is.”

Peterson’s voice softened.

“I admire a man who thinks of his family first.”

He paused just long enough.

“I only wonder whether she’d rather have you home immediately... or home able to keep a roof over her head.”

The waiter returned and set two steaming cups of coffee before them.

Michael wrapped both hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into his fingers.

Because that... was the truth of it.

He didn’t want to leave Sadie, but he couldn’t afford not to. He took a long drink of coffee before setting the cup carefully back into its saucer.

“All right, Mr. Peterson.”

He met the railroad man’s eyes.

“Tell me what you need me to do.”

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Michael entered the cabin after the taxman left. Sadie looked up from the washstand she was setting up by the stove.

“You are angry.” It was not a question.

Michael released a breath through his nose.

“I have to go to Lander tomorrow.”

“Why?” She tilted her head.

He frowned. “I’ve got business.”

Sadie stared at him, and he avoided her gaze.

“What kind of business?”

“Not somethin’ to worry your pretty head over.”

Her hands found her hips. “Michael Vincent, do not patronize me.”

He pulled his hat from his head, avoiding her eyes.

“I am not being patronizin’.”

“You are.” She turned back to the washboard, setting it in the tub with more force than necessary.

He closed his eyes. He did not want to fight with her. He did not want her worrying about money.

“I have to talk to Nevels about the lumber.”

She pulled his good shirt from her basket and tossed it in.

“You owe a large sum?” Her voice was tight, but he had no idea if it was because of the debt, or his near refusal to speak of it.

“Large enough.”

Her sharp gaze found his, her hand stilling on the kettle.

“Is the land in trouble?”

He shook his head. “Land is fine. It’s the cows.”

She frowned. Then went back to her task. Steam filled the air between them as she poured the hot water in with the laundry.

“Why the cows?”

He sighed. “Because that is what Wyoming taxes, and the house, and the barn…” He hesitated. “And me now.”

Surprise filled her face. “You pay a tax upon yourself?”

He nodded. “I am over twenty-one years.”

She set the kettle back on the stove.

“So you owe for the lumber, and taxes?”

He sat in Wyatt’s rocking chair, picking at the band in his hat.

“That about sums it up.”

She came to stand in front of him.

“How much?”

“Sadie—”

“No, I am your wife. For richer or poorer. How. Much?”

He met her gaze. “Fifty-two.”

The kettle let out a low whistle, but she did not move to silence it. Her hands found her apron. Then she sat slowly on the bed across from him.

“Fifty-two?” Her face had gone pale.

“I am gonna get work.”

She nodded, as if the matter were settled. “I know you will, you’re a good man. You’re my man.”

Michael lifted his eyes to meet hers. She looked at him with such trust he swallowed.

He only hoped he could live up to the faith she had just placed in him.

~

The next morning, Nevels looked up from his ledger to acknowledge Michael standing in the doorway to the lumber mill office.

“You missed Saturday.”

Michael pulled his hat from his head. “Pa needed buryin’.”

Nevels’ head came up at that. Something flickered in his eyes and was gone. “My condolences.”

He tapped the ink pen once on the inkwell and then continued to write. “I have my own books to keep balanced. But I can give ya thirty days to start on the interest.”

Michael felt something loosen behind his ribs. “I am obliged. Would ya have any other work maybe?”

Nevels looked up sharply again, studied Michael’s face, and then returned to his ledger. “Would that I did. Work is a hard thing to come by in these parts.”

Michael nodded and put his hat back on his head.

“If I have any openings, I’ll be sure to let you know.” The lumberman spoke before dismissing him.

Michael left the office and made his way down the street to the Lander Saloon. He refused to drink, but if he was going to find work, it would be here.

He entered the establishment and the bartender gave him a nod. The place was dim in the daylight. Only a few tables in use. Smoke rose in columns from the rolled cigarettes of three cowboys. The oldest nodded at Michael. Lester Rockwell.

“Vincent, how’s yer place gettin’ on these days?”

Michael pulled up a chair and waved the offered bottle of whiskey away. “Pa’s dead.”

The bottle stopped mid-pour, Rockwell’s jaw tightened. “I see.”

Michael sighed. “Got the tax papers.”

The cowboy on the right, Rockwell’s son, Ethan, snorted. “You and everyone else.”

Michael clasped his hands. “Pa was behind.”

“Everyone is behind. These last years have been hard on all of us.”

The words were spoken as fact, no pity needed. Deeper in the saloon a woman laughed.

Rockwell shifted. “Thinking about drivin’ a herd to Denver.”

Michael’s head came up. “In the autumn?”

Rockwell shrugged. “Eighteen a head for steers, twenty-three for good grass-fed beef.”

Michael considered the numbers. “I got six yearling steers I could drive.”

Rockwell nodded. “I got seventeen. Rupert has eleven. We go all in together. We got a higher chance of makin’ Denver.”

Michael rubbed a hand over his jaw. “We got to cross the Red Desert. Not much out there, not much out there at all.”

Rockwell nodded. “We’ll have to carry firewood.”

“Weather killed Pa.” Michael said.

That sobered the men at the table.

“It was a freak storm. God rest his soul.” Rockwell let the words settle.

Michael shrugged. “Sure, but this is Wyoming in October.”

Rockwell studied him. “And taxes are still due in January.”

The woman laughed again, as if mocking the reality gripping every man there.

After a moment of consideration, Michael set his hat on the table. “All right, I’m in.”

~

Sadie was quiet at supper, filling his plate and waiting. He took a bite of her stew, letting the flavors of onion, potato, and salted beef swirl over his tongue.

He sat back watching her face.

“I couldn’t find work in Lander.”

Her eyes met his and she lowered her spoon.

“What does that mean for us?”

Michael hunched his shoulders and stared hard at his stew.

“Some of the neighbors are planning a drive to Denver.”

She was quiet. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I’ll be takin’ six head from the herd to Colorado.”

She went still. “Alone?”

He shook his head. “The other ranchers will go too.”

“Can I go?”

He sat back. “Sadie, a cattle drive is no place for a woman. Much less one with winter comin’ on.”

Her face flushed. “You’re leaving me.” Her voice was cold.

He set his spoon down with a clunk.

“Don’t be like that.”

Her shoulders began to creep up. “I am not being like anything.”

He took a deep breath. Counting before answering. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“I don’t want to be left behind.”

“I am not leavin’ you behind.”

“Aren’t you?”

He placed his hands flat on the table, the pain from a splinter serving to keep him focused.

“If I don’t do this, we will lose the herd.”

“Then let me help.”

His voice had dropped. “I need ya here, Sadie. I need someone keeping the other livestock fed and the hearth burnin’ while I am away. That’s how ya help.”

She pursed her lips.

“How long?”

“Six weeks at most.”

“What if I need help while you’re gone?”

It was a fair question. Michael considered. “Yeagers are the closest. I’ll stop by tomorrow, make sure they know I’ll be off the ranch. Colby is a good man. I’ll leave Bliss so you can ride if you need.”

She studied her hands. “I don’t know if I can saddle her.”

Michael had not thought of that.

“I’ll make sure Colby can check every few days.” The answer was hollow.

She tapped one finger on the table.

“Six weeks,” she said.

“Six weeks.”

She closed her eyes. “I’ll manage,” she whispered.

And Michael hated that she would, and that she had to.

~

Three days later the sky dawned clear with a mild breeze from the south.

Michael finished cinching the buckle on the saddle bags. Sadie brought out his bedroll.

The sky was beginning to pink, and the light caught the red in her hair.

He took it from her and tied the bedroll. The steers he had separated from the herd lowed in the pen.

He reached for the reins and she snagged his sleeve.

“Come home.”

He turned to her, removed his glove and cupped her cheek.

“Six weeks.”

Tears gathered in her eyes, but she didn’t cry. She just leaned in for a kiss.

“Six weeks,” she whispered against his lips.

He pulled her in tight for a heartbeat, before forcing himself to drop his arms and let go.

She stepped back, and he mounted the bay. He leaned down and lowered the latch on the gate. The steers rumbled out as he whistled to the herd dog, Tick. Sadie walked to the porch and lifted her hand.

At the ridge, Michael turned once in the saddle. She was still there on the porch. He raised his arm. She waved. As the sun burst free from the horizon, Michael turned in the saddle and rode away.

~

The first three days of the drive were smooth enough that Michael let himself breathe. Frost glittered the ground as the sun came up.

The men would pull themselves from bedrolls. Drink leftover coffee over the fire. Thawing bones leached of warmth in the night, and chew hardtack as they mounted up.

By midday the warmth of the sun bore down to make dust curl from the trail. It collected in folds of skin, clothes, and behind their teeth.

None of them wanted to push the cattle more than ten miles a day. Any more and the precious fat the animals had accumulated would start to come off.

Grazing was harder to come by this time of year, which forced them to stop well before the sun went down in the evenings. A cold wind caught them more than once off the Medicine Bow range, as they continued to push south and east.

Not one man was under the illusion that time was on their side.

The fourth night Michael drew second watch, his repeater across his knees.

The other men had long since bedded down, but the cattle were restless. Tick raised his head. A low growl and then a bark sounded in the animal’s throat. Michael’s bay nickered softly under him.

“Easy,” he whispered, patting her neck.

Over the wind Michael heard the unmistakable sound of a howl in the desert. Wolves had caught the scent of the herd.

Rockwell sat straight up from his bedroll.

“Wolves,” he called.

Michael lifted his rifle, urging his mare forward with his knees. The other men around the fire were already reaching for their own weapons.

Tick shot to his feet, barking once, and ran straight into the dark.

Cows bellowed as they were suddenly charged by a grey shadow from the night.

Michael urged his horse into a gallop as the wolf cut a yearling steer from the herd.

He raised the rifle and took a shot, whistling for Tick. A blur in his motion, the hound circled, nipping at the kicking heels of the frightened steer. The wolf, frightened by the noise of Michael’s rifle, ran back into the dark.

Michael whistled again over the cacophony of wolves and gunfire from the men at the fire. He rode the bay along the flank of the herd, signaling Tick.

The dog turned and with a burst of speed flew past another lunging wolf three times his size to ward another calf off from leaving the circle.

Rockwell took the shot and the predator retreated.

Michael kept the bay between the dark side of the herd and the circling pack. Tick yelped once, then reappeared in the glow of the fire. The pack had not found easy prey and now slunk back into the shadows, howling their displeasure.

Michael whistled to Tick, who gathered the bawling cattle into a tighter group. He pulled the mare to a halt. Rockwell nodded to him from by the fire.

“You did well, Vincent.”

Michael took a deep breath and held it to calm the drumming of his heart against his ribs. He nodded toward the older man.

The cowboys worked to resettle the cattle, and Michael crawled onto his bedroll, snapping his fingers at Tick. The cattle dog lolled his tongue and lay down beside his master. Michael ran a hand down his coat, checking for bites.

“Yer a good boy, Tick. A real good boy.”

The dog whined once and settled his head on his paws, and Michael finally fell into a well-earned sleep, with his hand on Tick’s head and Sadie in his mind.

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Chapter 5 Death & Taxes

The ceremony concluded, Michael drove his father and Sadie home from Lander in the buckboard. The sun was setting beyond the Tetons, and a chill breeze brushed at the tendrils of loose hair falling from Sadie’s low bun. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and Michael glanced over at her.

“Almost home.” He flicked the reins in his hands.

She blushed and stared down at her shoes. “I’ll fix some supper.”

“Supper sounds fine.” Michael smiled gently at her.

Wyatt remained blessedly quiet in the back.

“We don’t have to do anythin’ you aren’t ready for,” Michael ventured, keeping his voice low.

Sadie’s eyes flew open and her cheeks flamed, even in the gathering dusk.

“It isn’t that I cannot—” She broke off, then glanced at his father.

Michael’s grip tightened, and the mares slowed with the tension. He forced himself to relax.

He stared hard at the tracks in the grass ahead.

“I understand,” he answered. “As I said, I don’t expect you to do anythin’.”

She traced the scarred tissue of her right hand with the equally scarred pointer finger on her left. She nodded stiffly and said nothing more.

They pulled into the yard as the last of the sun’s rays faded. Wyatt lumbered out, as Michael stepped to the ground and rounded the wagon to lift his bride down.

For a moment their faces were mere inches apart. Michael’s hands twitched on her waist. He slowly lowered his head.

Wyatt cleared his throat, suddenly breaking the stillness. “I’ll be in the barn,” he grunted.

Sadie’s lips twitched, and Michael sighed like a deeply put-upon man. She could no longer hold the giggle and it escaped her throat.

“I am sorry,” she said.

He lowered his forehead to hers. “I suppose we’ll just have to figure out somethin’ else.”

She smiled, then stepped back. “I’ll get supper.”

Michael watched her disappear into the house and grabbed the harness to unhitch the horses.

“Welcome to matrimony indeed,” he grumbled to himself.

~

Michael led the horses into their stalls just as an icy wind gusted through the barn door. Wyatt was spreading fresh hay in an empty stall, and Michael frowned.

“Pa, what do you think yer doin’?”

Wyatt glanced over his shoulder and shrugged.

“I won’t be the old man in yer way.”

Another gust rattled the loose boards overhead. Michael tied off the bay’s lead rope before turning back to his father.

“You can’t sleep out here. The weather’s turnin’. Not with yer cough.”

Wyatt straightened and fixed him with a look.

“It’s yer weddin’ night.”

“I am aware, but that’s mine and Sadie’s concern, not yers.”

Wyatt opened his mouth to argue, but the words turned into a fit of coughing that bent him nearly double. When it finally passed, he drew a slow breath and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I don’t wanna burden yer woman.”

Michael hung the last of the tack on its peg before answering.

“She ain’t said one word about it.”

Wyatt looked away.

“She shouldn’t have to.”

Michael studied the old man for a long moment. His father rubbed at his knees again, then shifted his weight as though every joint pained him.

“You ain’t sleepin’ in the barn.”

Wyatt sighed.

Michael looked toward the narrow strip of ground beside the cabin.

“I’ll build you a lean-to before the real cold gets here.”

Wyatt snorted.

“Lumber costs.”

Michael flexed his fingers once.

“Everythin’ costs.”

Silence settled between them while the wind whistled through the cracks in the siding.

Finally Wyatt nodded.

“Fine. I’ll come inside and stay outta yer way.”

~

Both men entered the cabin, and Sadie glanced back and forth between them. The scent of rabbit stew she had simmered all day filled the air, mingling with the smell of fresh bread she had baked that morning.

She had set the table with care. Michael’s mother’s good china rested at each place. White plates painted with delicate blue roses sat beside real silver that gleamed in the lantern light.

“Where did you find that?” His voice came out rough.

She frowned at the tone. “It was in the chest under the bed. I found it while cleaning one day and decided we would use it for a special occasion. Tonight counts.”

The two men looked at each other. Neither had ever told her the truth about Michael’s mother. Some subjects were just too painful to touch.

Wyatt broke the silence.

“’Bout time it got put to good use.”

Michael raised an eyebrow but said nothing more to his father. Instead he turned to his wife.

“Smells good enough to eat.”

She smiled brightly. He hated that her smile relieved him so much.

The silver clinked against the porcelain. The meal was excellent, better than Michael or Wyatt had ever managed when it had just been the two of them.

His father thanked Sadie and bid them both good night when the meal was over.

Michael banked the fire, and she disappeared behind the curtain he had hung for her weeks before. At first he was tempted to sit and read, not because he was anxious, but because he did not want her to be. At least that was what he told himself.

She poked her head around the curtain, her shawl wrapped around a white nightgown.

“Are you coming to bed?”

He looked at her. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in thick brown waves.

He swallowed twice.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.”

He checked the bar on the door, the rifle above the mantel, and the fire one last time. Finally, finding no more chores to occupy his hands, he wiped them on his trousers and stepped behind the curtain.

She was already beneath the quilt, and her eyes sparkled when she saw him.

He blew out the lantern, undressed in the dark, and slid beneath the covers.

She rolled toward him, and for a long moment they simply lay there.

He reached over and took her hand.

Her breath caught once.

“You all right?” he asked.

“More than all right,” her voice came softly beside him.

He rolled onto his side, trying to make out her face in the darkness. Starlight spilling through the window gave him just enough light to see her eyes.

“Yer sure?” he asked again.

“I am.”

He cupped her face gently and shifted closer.

From across the cabin came a low rumble.

SNNNNNORK.

Michael froze.

Sadie startled.

Then her shoulders began to shake. She clapped both hands over her mouth in a desperate attempt to stay quiet, but a snort escaped through her nose.

That did it, and Michael lost all composure. His forehead came to rest against hers.

He closed his eyes.

“We’re not gettin’ any sleep tonight.”

Which only sent her into another fit of laughter.

“Not for the reasons one might imagine,” she whispered, laughing hard enough that tears began to gather in her eyes.

Michael sighed and rolled onto his back.

“I can’t get that lean-to built quick enough.”

Sadie rested her head against his shoulder and laughed a little longer.

~

Michael hitched the horses again the next morning. He offered Sadie a chaste kiss.

“I’ll be home by supper.”

She nodded, squeezing his hand before staying on the porch to wave as he crested the hill.

Jeffrey Nevels raised an eyebrow when Michael pulled up in front of the mill.

“Figured you’d be honeymoonin’.”

Michael snorted.

“None of yer business.”

The lanky man shrugged.

“Then what can I do fer ya?”

Michael handed over his list.

“Need lumber. Nails. Hinges.”

Nevels looked it over and let out a low whistle.

“That’s a fair pile.”

“I know.”

“You got the cash?”

Michael was quiet long enough to answer the question.

“No.”

Nevels motioned him into the office.

“Come on then.”

He settled behind his desk, pulled the ledger toward himself, and dipped his pen into the inkwell.

“Seventeen dollars and forty-three cents.”

Michael stared a beat at the figure.

“I could mill it myself for nothin’.”

Nevels raised an eyebrow.

“Then why don’t ya?”

Michael rested both hands on the brim of his hat.

“Because my pa’s cough is gettin’ worse, winter’s comin’, and I ain’t got that kind of time.”

Nevels nodded once.

“Fair enough.”

Michael drew a slow breath.

“I’ll have to put it on account.”

Nevels frowned.

“That’s more’n I usually carry.”

“I’ll work it off.”

“How?”

“Half a day every Saturday till it’s paid.”

Nevels leaned back in his chair.

“Yer newlywed. That how ya wanna spend yer Saturdays?”

Michael met his eyes.

“That’s my business.”

The shouts of the mill workers came from outside the window.

Finally Nevels nodded.

“All right. But if you quit on me, the interest starts.”

Michael took the pen. For a moment he looked at the blank line waiting for his name.

Then he signed it.

“Much obliged.”

Nevels tore the page from his order book and stood.

“I’ll have the boys load yer wagon.”

Half an hour later Michael rattled out of Lander with a wagon full of lumber and a debt he already intended to erase.

~

Michael rose before the sun. The sound of digging, sawing, and hammering filled the yard. Wyatt helped as he could, but the chill air set him to coughing so often that Sadie would come out of the cabin.

She gently took his arm. “Come on, Mr. Vincent. Sit inside for a spell and keep me company.”

“Stop babyin’ me,” he grumbled.

“I am not. I want to hear more about Texas,” Sadie said.

Michael would nod at her and silent understanding would pass between husband and wife.

She brought Michael’s supper at dusk, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“He’s sleeping,” she said.

Michael nodded, and hung the lantern, eating standing up.

“Go inside, Sadie. It’s gettin’ too cold fer you to stand out here.”

She looked around the frame. “I could—” she cut herself off. Because her hands no longer had the strength to hold a hammer, much less swing one.

Michael swallowed the bite of pork he had just taken. He reached a hand toward her. His mouth tilted into a grin.

“You ever drive a nail before?”

She stared at him, then blinked. “No.”

He huffed. “Then maybe we leave the building up to me.”

That at least made her smile.

When he finally came to bed the hour was late. Sadie was asleep on her side, and he dropped down next to her, exhausted.

Five days later the lean-to stood against the cabin, weathertight.

Sadie and Michael helped Wyatt move his things to the room. Michael dumped a load of firewood next to the small potbellied stove he had scavenged from an abandoned homestead.

“Wind is from the north, we may get snow. You keep that door barred, and the fire fed, Pa.”

Wyatt grunted, placing his bottle of whiskey on the shelf.

“Sight better than the barn, that’s what matters.”

Michael shrugged. “Sadie’ll have supper.”

Wyatt nodded.

They all retired early. The wind coming down from the north was curling icy fingers around the boards and planks.

Michael kissed his wife goodnight.

“I’ve got to be at Nevels’ early.”

He fell asleep nearly as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Something woke him from a dead sleep. He sat up listening, and that was when he heard the banging.

“What—?”

He reached for the lantern, turning it up. The banging sounded again.

The lean-to door.

Michael scrambled for his trousers, not bothering to tie them.

Sadie stirred next to him. “Stay here!” His tone brooked no argument.

He rushed out the door of the cabin and into a world of white. He could barely see around the corner.

The wind held the lean-to door in its grip, swinging it back and forth. It banged on the frame as Michael approached. He threw an arm up to protect against the stinging ice.

“Pa!” Michael called, his voice desperate.

Michael followed the outside wall with his hand lest he become lost in the blizzard.

He pushed inside the room. The lantern showed snow already drifted into the corners. The stove was out. The gleam of glass caught his eye. An empty bottle of whiskey lay on its side on the floor.

Against his instinct Michael lifted the lantern higher. Wyatt lay under a thin blanket of snow on his bed. Had it not been for the unnatural gray hue of his face, Michael would have thought his father asleep.

“Pa.” The word came out strangled.

Michael reached for his father.

Cold.

He sank to his knees. His eyes moving to the stove. The fire had gone out hours ago.

I should’ve checked.

“Michael.” The distant frantic sound of Sadie’s voice came over the wind.

There was nothing to be done for Wyatt now. But Michael was loath to leave the old man.

The idea of Sadie venturing into the storm to find him pulled him to his feet.

He wiped his nose on his sleeve and realized his face was wet.

He stepped to the door. “STAY INSIDE!” he called over the howl of the blizzard. He repeated it just in case. Then turned once more to his Pa.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The body gave no answer. As Michael shut the door behind him, he had never felt so alone.

~

The ground was stubborn. Michael found himself strangely grateful for it. Despite the mid-autumn chill, sweat ran down his neck and forearms.

The blizzard had passed, the grief had not. Michael swung the pickaxe until his hands were raw. The hole was just deep enough to keep wolves from digging up the rough pine box he had built.

Sadie had painstakingly torn strips of linen into a shroud. “Let me help. He was kind to me in his last days.”

Michael had turned before she could see what her words had done to him.

Now the wind blew down from the Tetons, stirring the fringe on Sadie’s shawl and catching her skirt.

Michael held the family Bible at the head of the grave.

“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord,” he read.

Sadie scooped dirt with the side of her hand. It thunked onto the top of the pine box.

“Amen,” she whispered, not trying to hide her tears.

It was dusk when Michael entered the warmth of the cabin. Sadie looked up from the stove, her eyes red and blotchy.

He hung his hat and the two ate in silence. The scrape of pewter, the crackle in the stove and Wyatt’s coonhound whining in the empty lean-to were the only sounds in the cabin.

After dinner, Michael helped Sadie dry the dishes she washed. He lowered himself into Wyatt’s old rocking chair, staring into the open stove.

Sadie moved to his side, laying her hand on his shoulder. He reached for it and pulled her into his lap. He did not cry, just took one shuddering breath, with his face buried in her hair.

As the fire burned down into embers they slipped behind the curtain, seeking in one another comfort words could not give.

~

The Sabbath passed quietly, and Monday dawned overcast and cold. Michael was mucking stalls when Wyatt’s dog bayed in the yard.

He leaned the rake against the stall and stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag. A man rode down the ridge on a black horse. Sadie stepped out onto the porch, and he waved her back inside.

He stood in the yard against the rail, letting the man come to him. When the visitor rode into the yard, Michael felt his stomach tighten. Frederick Lloyd, the county taxman, dismounted from his gelding. His lips parted in a tight smile.

“Morning, Michael. Wyatt around?”

Michael’s grip tightened on the rail before he let go.

“Pa’s dead,” he said flatly.

Lloyd paused only a moment.

“I see.” He lifted the valise from his saddlebags. “Could we step inside to discuss the matter?”

Michael glanced toward the cabin.

“My missus is inside. Is this gonna worry her?”

Lloyd considered the question.

“Yes.”

Michael nodded once.

“Then we’re stayin’ right here.”

Lloyd made no objection. He opened the valise and withdrew a small stack of papers.

“Your father’s death transfers ownership of the property to you. With that transfer comes the outstanding property tax obligation.”

Michael frowned.

“How much?”

Lloyd tapped the papers.

“It’s all here. Legal and certified.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed.

“Didn’t say it wasn’t. Legal don’t always make somethin’ right.”

Lloyd neither agreed nor disagreed. He simply handed him the papers.

Michael refused to look at them.

“That yer only business?”

Lloyd shifted his weight.

“If the taxes are not paid in full by January first, the State of Wyoming will be forced to confiscate and auction off your herd.”

“Forced?”

The taxman folded his hands behind his back.

“I do not write the law, Mr. Vincent.”

“No, I suppose ya don’t.”

“Payment may be made at my office.”

Lloyd stepped back to his horse.

Michael finally looked down at the papers. The figures blurred for just a moment as his fingers unconsciously wrinkled the page.

Thirty-six dollars.

He looked back up.

“I ain’t got thirty-six dollars.”

Lloyd mounted without answering. He settled his hat, turned his horse toward the road, and rode out of the yard.

Michael stood where he was, the tax notice crumpling slowly in his hand.