ain’t what it once was,” Cyrus mumbled. “Maybe you ought to be the lookout since you still got all your faculties.”
Frances chuckled. “Oh, Cy, you’re doing just fine. Don’t you think I’d have told you if trouble was headed our way?”
“Don’t need my wife to tell me when there’s trouble a-comin’. My damn eyes still work just fine.” Cyrus turned to look at his wife. “We eatin’ breakfast sometime today?”
Frances chuckled again. “Don’t get all riled up, Cy. We all have our shortcomings.” She stood and leaned over to kiss her husband on the cheek. “You’ll always be my protector. What are you planning for the day?”
“Me and Percy and a few others are gonna track down them rustlers who stole them two steers yesterday afternoon.”
“Aren’t you getting a little old to be traipsing off after outlaws?”
“Like I said, I ain’t dead yet. ’Sides, can’t let them rustlers go unpunished or word would get out and we’d be robbed blind.”
“And if you find them?”
Cyrus took a sip of his coffee then said, “Hang ’em, I reckon.”
CHAPTER 2
A short distance down the road from the main house, Abigail Turner walked through her dark house and into the kitchen, trying to recall the dream she’d just had. She struck a match and lit the coal oil lamp and stoked the fire, adding more wood from a small stack beside the stove. The dream involved a carriage, a man, and a large city, possibly Saint Louis. But try as she might, she couldn’t recall any of the details of who was involved or what she might have been doing. And the last time she had been in Saint Louis was years ago, before she’d met her husband, Isaac, and settled down.
As the last fragment of the dream frustratingly faded from memory, Abby stepped out the back door and walked to the outhouse to relieve herself, then filled a pan with water from the well and returned to the kitchen, the sweat already running down her back. Wetting a dish towel, she wiped her face and under her arms and then gathered up her long, red hair and used a strip of fabric to fashion a ponytail. Abby was tall like her mother and had also gotten her mother’s red hair and blue eyes, but that’s where the similarities ended. She had her father’s larger frame with wide shoulders, larger hands, and she wore a size nine shoe. Abby wasn’t chubby or fat although she looked larger than an average woman. She called it being big-boned. With her hair off her neck, she already felt cooler. After putting on a pot of coffee, she grabbed her sourdough starter from an overhead shelf and began making biscuits.
Over the years a succession of cooks had paraded through the Turner home, yet none ever quite lived up to Abigail’s expectations. So now, much like her mother, Abigail was responsible for a majority of the cooking duties and usually begged for help only for special occasions or holidays. Her sister, Rachel, however, had run through a long line of cooks before she got tired of that and settled on the last person she’d hired and she rarely, if ever, ventured into the kitchen of her house next door. Abigail couldn’t decide if her sister had a less discerning palate or if it was just plain laziness. Knowing Rachel as well as she did, Abby suspected it was the latter.
In addition to the main house where her parents lived, she and her three siblings had constructed four other three-room homes that formed a horseshoe-shape with the main house at the center. Although they all shared a huge backyard, there was a good deal of distance between the houses and that allowed for a modicum of privacy while also creating a fairly strong defensive position. If marauding Indians rode up to the rear of the homes, they’d face the cold steel of a dozen rifle barrels. And around front, the semicircle arrangement allowed a single shooter at the main house an almost unlimited field of fire to keep any intruders at bay.
Her husband, Isaac Turner, walked into the kitchen, pulling his suspenders over his shirt. “Biscuits ready?”
Her hands covered in flour as she mixed the dough in a bowl, Abigail said, “Do they look ready?”
“You don’t gotta bite my head off.”
“Why’re you asking if you can plainly see they aren’t ready?”
Isaac poured himself a cup of coffee. “I got work to do.”
“Work your butt up the ladder and roust the kids.”
“You wake up mad?” Isaac asked before taking a sip from his cup.
“Yes, and I’m likely to stay that way.”
“One more reason to get out of the house,” Isaac mumbled as he stepped out of the kitchen. Rather than crawling up the ladder to the sleeping loft, he shouted upstairs for the kids to get up.
Abigail pursed her lips and blew a stray strand of hair off her face “You tryin’ to wake up everybody on the ranch?”
“I expect they’s already up. What’s got you so riled up? Cookin’? I tole you to hire another cook.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you none to learn how to make biscuits.”
“Okay, I’ll make biscuits and you go traipsing after your pa all day.” Isaac had sandy blond hair and he and Abby were the same height. Wiry and lanky, he might weigh 140 pounds if he put on his coat and stood in the rain for an hour. Being about the same size as Abby, they had often argued about who would win if they ever got into a real fight.
A clatter arose from overhead as the three children climbed out of bed.
“Where are you going?” Abigail asked.
“Hunt down them rustlers that stole them two steers.”
“Does two less steers really matter?”
“It surely does to your pa.”
“If he says jump do you ask how high, too?”
“Don’t start, Abby.” Isaac pulled out a chair at the table and sat.
“Have the law take care of it.”
“What law? You know there ain’t no law round here except your pa.”
Raised voices interrupted their conversation when an argument erupted upstairs. She raised her eyes to the ceiling and shouted, “Hush up and get down here.” She turned back to her husband to say something else but was interrupted by footsteps pounding down the ladder. Their oldest daughter, thirteen-year-old Emma, appeared first. “Emma, you and your sister go gather the eggs,” Abigail said.
“Ugh,” Emma moaned. “Can I go to the outhouse first?”
“You can. But if you want to eat, I need the eggs.”
Emma grabbed the hand of her sister, seven-year-old Amelia, and dragged her outside as Abigail, using a spoon, dolloped the biscuit dough into an iron skillet and slid it into the oven. She pulled a large pan from the shelf overhead and started slicing bacon into it. She glanced over at Isaac. “What about the ranger that was through here a few days ago?”
“Charlie Simmons? Hell, he’s too lazy to wipe his own ass. Claims he’s lookin’
