had already stretched to a year. How could he continue for an indefinite time, especially since any respect between him and Barker continued to erode?
Wolf lay back on the bed, laced his fingers together under his head and stared up at the long wooden beam over his head. If only he could buy the land. He had a little saved up, and he knew how to run cattle. He’d worked the land with Doug for years whenever his own parents didn’t need him at the store.
He’d still need a loan to cover the difference between what he had and what he needed. Would the bank work with him? It always came back to the fact that he had Indian blood. Some people couldn’t see past that, and the banker, Micha Swift, was one of those people. Guess for now it didn’t matter. Cassandra Stewart hadn’t said a thing about selling.
The important thing was to see to Doug’s last wishes. In the same way that Doug had a motive when he tricked Cassandra into believing him poor before marrying her, he had motives for everything he did. He was smart and, more often than not, one step ahead of most people. Of the two of them, Wolf was more cautious, having to think through each part of a plan and the consequences before acting, where Doug plowed right on ahead.
This month that Cassandra had agreed to stay wasn’t an idle request on his best friend’s part. Doug had probably expected her to come much sooner than this. Until he understood it all, he’d hang around. He’d make sure that Cassandra stayed safe from any harm while she was here. Harm could come in any number of forms—a snake in the grass, an ornery steer or a two-legged varmint named Cleve Barker.
The next morning, Cassandra waited on the porch for Mr. Barker to appear from the bunkhouse. He had been absent the rest of yesterday after their dinner—an occurrence of which she was most appreciative. When he still hadn’t appeared after ten minutes, she walked to the stable and found Jordan, pitchfork in hand, scattering fresh straw in a stall.
“Hello, Jordan. Is there a horse that I can use while I am here? Mr. Barker is taking me to see the property today.”
He leaned the pitchfork against the wall. “Sure ’nough, ma’am. Got the perfect mount.” He strode to the back of the stable and came back with a small gray mare. “She’s our most gentle. Her name is Patsy.”
“Hello, Patsy.” The animal’s ears flicked toward her. Cassandra stroked the horse’s neck as she eyed the saddle Jordan threw on its back and cinched it. At home, she used an English saddle—one made for a woman.
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