This is a Western. A little gunplay. A little fast-budding romance. No sex. Unless you count the last few paragraphs.
*
He heard the horse long before it came near. Fine sand spritzed against the brush beside the track. Shod hooves thunked softly on the ground.
He'd expected this. They'd come no less than once a day to peer down at him as if he were a lion in a pit. It didn't particularly disturb him. He'd been told they'd stay away, but he hadn't believed it. It wasn't that he'd thought he'd been lied to, but the fella hadn't said, "Curiosity killed the cat," for nothing. If nobody had come to take a peek - that would've been a wonder.
A hawk eyed, lean bodied man, he sat on his bed with his shoulder turned against the log he'd bucked up near the fire for that purpose. A blanket lay over his long legs, for the little cup of a valley was cool when the autumn sun had passed over it. Beneath the blanket, in his lap, lay a freshly oiled Smith & Wesson Russian and, along his right leg, a Winchester carbine.
His speckled horse raised its ears and looked toward the trail. The mule, half deaf, went on dozing.
The strange horse stopped. The Palouse gave a soft, inquiring whinny and stared into the brush. A mama duck, whose voice he had come to know, quacked fussily. Wings flapped the water. As soon as the ruckus died down, a peculiar, husky voice called out the traditional, "Hello the camp."
"Comeβ" His voice nearly failed him. "Come ahead."
The rider dismounted. Spurs tinkled with a slow, light, tentative step.
The trail was a cow path and, cows being as they are, led into a thick patch of scrub oak. To pass through it, it was necessary to bend low and proceed with caution. He'd had a time persuading the mule that evil spirits did not lurk in there.
He heard his visitor crunch through the oak. He saw the boots, first. Black. Shiny. Coated with a thin film of dust. Delicate spurs on the heels.
Then he saw the heavy skirt of thick blue wool and a curse crawled up behind his teeth.
The girl moved slowly into the space beneath the wide arms of the oak. She was no great beauty, but she had a pert little face and eyes that were big, wide, and very blue. He noticed that from clear across the camp. Very blue. The jacket she wore was a shapeless brown, made for somebody larger than herself.
Her very blue eyes examined the clearing in quick little jumps - and collided with his steady black gaze. He heard the little tick of dismay her tongue made. She stood stock still, very straight. Then she said softly, "I think I've made a mistake."
Her strange, coarse little voice made him want to clear his throat. He said, "Maybe it ain't too late - to correct it."
She took a breath and let it out slowly.
"You're Brin Dolan." It was not a question.
He nodded.
"Well, then, it's too late," she said simply. She thawed and moved forward to the stump he'd used as a chopping block on his arrival. She sat on it, slowly, her eyes again wandering through his snug camp. Eventually, the prowling blue eyes came to rest on his face.
"Are you going to offer me some coffee?"
She had freckles.
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Hadn't planned to, no."
They exchanged stares like two hostile dogs. Then... she smiled. One cheek dimpled.
"Would it do to say I came to borrow sugar? Or hawking Bibles?"
He didn't feel like joking. He felt sick. He watched in silence until her smile faded. She made a small gesture with one hand.
"I guess you'll have to hear the reason I'm here. Though I was not supposed to tell you."
His eyes were aching, throbbing in time with his rapid pulse. He said nothing and she began again.
"I'm John Freeman's daughter, Cassie. My father owns Crown. This is Crown land you're on. You know that."
That wasn't a question, either, but he slowly nodded an answer.
She reached down between her boots and pulled a dry blade of grass that she proceeded to fold, with delicate looking fingers, into a small basket-like shape. She said, "Last Spring we went to Denver."
He raised an eyebrow, speculating.
"We were walking along the street - my father and some of the Crown riders and me." She studied the brown grass for several seconds, then looked up and across at him. "You know, I read, a year or so ago, that you were out of prison, but I've heard nothing about you since then." She glanced at the fire. "Wouldn't
you
like a cup of coffee?"
Somebody with a voice something like his said, "Go on."
Immediately, she got up and began moving around the camp, boosting the flames with fresh wood, placing the pot in a hotter part of the fire.
"We were walking along," she continued as she went about the chores gracefully, "and I stopped to look in the window of a shop. At a hat. With feathers.... The next thing I knew, I was by myself. They'd gone on without me.
"So -
ouch
- this big, red-haired miner came along and started making a nuisance of himself. I couldn't shake him, although I'm pretty good at that. He was very large. Active. Determined, you might say. I began to be worry a little. But, Tiger Boyd - he's a Crown hand and I've known him all my life - he'd come looking for me. He sent that fella off with a flea in his ear. So, I said - you know, the way a person does - 'Thanks, I owe you one.' Tiger said, 'I'll hold you to that,' and that was that."
She sat down on the stump again to wait for the coffee. "This morning, Tiger came to look at you. They've been doing that, you know."
He nodded. The movement made his head float.
"They haven't come down. They could see your animals moved to different graze, wood chopped, and so forth, but they've never seen you move around.... It seems my father told them any man who came down here and bedeviled you would be fired. He doesn't just toss words like that around." She looked at him closely after this declaration, as if asking exactly what John Freeman had to do with Brin Dolan. When he was silent, she went on. "They came along this morning, Tiger and a hand they call 'Hat', and my brother, Kyle. They said - Tiger said - he was calling in the favor I owed."
As if she could wait no longer, she got up and puttered for a few moments, rummaging through his pack for a tin cup, pouring coffee, blowing on it, her spurs chinking cheerfully.
"Sure you don't want some?"
He shook his head carefully.
She shrugged and moved around the fire. He shifted his hand slightly, beneath the blanket, to bring the Russian to bear on her.