collect your wages in the morning,” he told the two men and studied the rest of them, hoping they would stick. One of the other trail hands rubbed the back of his neck consideringly.
“Simpson Creek got any pretty girls? A saloon? A parlor house? We’d be allowed to ride inta town on Saturday nights, wouldn’t we?”
“I sure haven’t had time to scout all that out for you, Wes,” Jack said evenly, “but I do remember seeing a saloon. You couldn’t all go at once, of course—and I’ll warn y’all right now I’ll tolerate no rowdy behavior in town,” he told them, thinking of Caroline and the other ladies of the Spinsters’ Club. Trail hands weren’t saints, and he didn’t want bad behavior to make them unwelcome in town and reflect back on him. “You get thrown in jail, you’re fired.”
“Aw, boss, you’re takin’ all the fun out of it,” someone grumbled good-naturedly.
“You know where this ranch is, boss?” Raleigh asked. “Why don’t a few of us go take a look at it?”
It was a good idea, Jack thought. It was never good to buy a pig in a poke. Who knew if the banker had exaggerated the quality of the place?
“All right. Raleigh, Quint, Jase, Shep, you’re with me. We’ll ride over there after we eat. Cookie, any chance you’d have some grub we could take with us and eat in the saddle?” He winked at his ramrod, knowing his request would set Cookie’s temper on the boil, but knowing the trail cook wouldn’t protest too loudly to his boss.
“I’m a cook, not some kind’a miracle worker!” Cookie groused. “All I got’s jerky for ya if you’re not gonna wait till dinnertime.”
The five men rode up the dirt lane that led to the desolate, charred pile of timbers that was all that remained of the previous house. Jack recounted to his men how the Comanches had committed the initial attack upon the dwelling, but how it been white outlaws working for the so-called Ranchers’ Alliance who had finished the destruction just recently, burning down the house old Mr. Waters’s nephew had just started rebuilding.
“Those Alliance men are all gone now, right?” Jase asked, a little nervously.
Jack nodded. “I’m told they vamoosed when their bosses were either killed or put in prison, but as for the Comanches…well, this is Texas, boys, and they aren’t beaten yet. We ought to be safe enough this winter, though.”
“First thing to do would be to clear off the foundation, if you mean to build the bunkhouse in the same place as the old one, boss,” Raleigh said, eyeing the ruins.
Jack nodded, already envisioning what he and his men would do. Something about the ruined buildings in this hill country ranch called out to him, as if pleading to be nurtured so it could be reborn. Well, he would do what he could over the winter months, but it would be some future owner who enjoyed the fruits of whatever he and his men would be able to accomplish.
“I’ll think about that. Let’s ride on and see the rest of the place,” Jack said and kneed his roan into a trot past the site.
He liked what he saw of the land. It was good country, with plenty of shady live oak groves, mesquite and a small creek—probably a tributary of Simpson Creek—running onto his land under the western boundary fence. Just beyond the fence, on Brookfield land, the creek was broader and more inviting. He wondered if Brookfield would consider giving him access so his cattle would be able to drink from that broader part, at least on the western side, when summer heat dropped the water level.
But why was he thinking that way? He and the cattle would be long gone, come summer.
Yet he couldn’t seem to stop his imaginings. He pictured taking down the faded remains of the sign that read “Waters Ranch” and replacing it with one with his name. A rancher could do much worse than a place like this.
“Looks like a pretty good spot t’ spend the winter, boss,” Raleigh murmured, and the other men chorused their agreement.
“Yeah, and there’s lots of trees we could fell for logs, with plenty left,” Shep said.
“Looks like we could salvage a lot of stones from the old fireplace to make a new one,” Quint put in.
“Guess we got ourselves a winter camp, then,” Jack said, pleased his men agreed with him about the plan. “Mr. Wallace says there’s a hardware store in town that can sell us some saws and so forth—reckon I’ll stop in there and buy what we’ll need first thing tomorrow. We’ll have to rent a wagon from the livery for a while, too.” Maybe he could make it back to town before the bank closed today and tell Mr. Avery he was going to take him up on the offer. The rest of the men could easily move the herd on down the road to the Waters ranch without his assistance.
He’d told Caroline he’d leave the girls in town with her and her parents, regardless of whether he stayed on the ranch over the winter or not. He wished they could be with him, but leaving them at the Wallaces’ was the only practical thing to do. Though they’d slept under the chuck wagon during the journey, the weather would get colder. He didn’t want them sleeping in a tent, or later, in the bunkhouse with his men. Staying with the Wallaces, they could go to school, and that would be good for them.
Such an arrangement would mean frequent trips in from the ranch for him to see the girls, at least on Sunday. He pictured treating them to dinners at the hotel and taking them to church. It had been a long time since they’d gone regularly; for a time after Lucinda’s death, he hadn’t wanted anything to do with God.
But this arrangement would also mean he’d have to keep dealing with Caroline Wallace. He wasn’t at all sure exactly how he felt about regular contact with her.
Caroline heard boot heels on the kitchen steps. She forced herself to turn her attention back to where the twins laboriously practiced their letters on borrowed slates at the kitchen table, waiting to rise until he knocked. It wouldn’t do to let Jack Collier imagine she’d been watching for his arrival. Then she rose and let him in with a casual “Good afternoon, Jack.”
If she was sparing in her welcome, however, the twins had no such reservations. “Papa!” cried one of them—Amelia?—as they exploded away from the table and ran into his waiting arms.
“We’re learnin’ our ABCs, Papa!” cried the other.
Caroline realized she was going to have to find some foolproof way of telling one twin from the other. Should she have them dress differently?
Bending over, Jack kissed both of them. “That’s wonderful, girls. Were you good today?”
“Yes, Papa,” they chorused.
He looked over their heads at Caroline. “Were they good today?”
His direct gaze did funny things to her equanimity. “Yes, you have every reason to be proud of them. They show a quick aptitude for learning which some of my other students would do well to emulate.”
Goodness, did that prim, stuffy speech really come from her? She sounded like—well, a schoolmarm. At least praising the twins gave her a reason for the enthusiasm in her voice and face, so he wouldn’t think she was appreciating the way the wind had left color in his cheeks and a sparkle in his blue eyes.
“Look, Papa, see? I can spell my name,” Abby said, grabbing her slate off the table and holding it up to him.
