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The more Doreena said, the more Clint wanted to know. Martin’s signature was shooting people in the back. “I was going to ask why Drake would want your father dead.”
“That’s what I’m still trying to figure out. That and why he wants my property so badly. He’s gone so far as to say the only way this ranch will be mine is to marry him.”
Clint balled his fists. His mind went to his mother, and her disastrous second marriage to Nelson Harmon. Nelson had been looking for two things, a hideout and new recruits. He’d gotten both.
Doreena turned to him. “I’m going to be honest, Clint. I need your gun. I need a man who can shoot like you do. You name your price, and I’ll find a way to pay you.”
Although his gut reaction was to say yes, he shook his head. “My gun’s already hired out.” He’d meant to just say no, but his crazy-acting heart was smothering rational thoughts.
“Oh,” she said calmly. “To whom?”
“A marshal in Missouri.”
“Then why are you in Nebraska?” she asked.
Clint tossed a few answers around in his head, but he had to be honest with her. She deserved that. “I’m an outlaw, Doreena.”
She arched a brow quizzically. “An outlaw who hires his gun out to a marshal? That’s a bit contradictory, isn’t it?”
The teasing hint in her voice enticed a smile from him, but he swiftly squelched it. Nothing about his situation was humorous. “Part of my early release from prison includes finding two men I used to ride with and bringing them to justice.”
“Oh,” she said solemnly.
The silence grew thick and heavy; the only thing unaffected was the little flicker in the hills. Clint wanted to explain his outlaw ways, but that would be self-justification. There was no excuse for who he was, what he’d done.
“Prison, huh?” she asked, several long minutes later.
“Yes,” he answered, regret practically stitching his throat closed.
“Well,” she said a few minutes later as she stood. “The offer still stands. I want your gun. Outlaw or not.” She stepped off the porch, adding, “Sleep tight. Morning comes early.”
Chapter Three
Clint tossed and turned all night. The narrow bed had nothing to do with it; he’d slept on worse—the hard ground included. Shoving aside the blanket when the sun finally peeked through the windows, he flipped around to sit on the edge of the cot and tugged on his boots. He’d leave today, find Martin and Henderson and then head west.
The thought vanished when he pulled open the door. Leaping down the steps in one bound, he caught up with Doreena near the pigpen and grasped the handle of one of the heavy buckets she carried.
“Good morning.” Her smile rivaled the sun.
“Morning,” he answered. “Here, I’ll take the other one, too.”
“No, I got it,” she insisted. A couple of steps later, she dumped the contents of her pail between the fence slats. Hogs, snorting and grunting, rushed toward the trough as the slop splattered against the wood.
He dumped his bucket and then followed her back to the barn. The next trip they each carried two buckets. “Where’s Tristan?” Clint asked.
“Still sleeping,” she answered, emptying another bucket.
“Shouldn’t he be helping with the chores?”
“Yes, but it’s more work to fight with him than it is to do the chores.” She waited until he’d dumped both of his pails before turning for the barn again.
Clint bit his tongue. It wasn’t his place to tell her how to treat her brother, but it irritated the pants off him that the kid was still sleeping while she hauled bucket after bucket of slop to the hogs. Anyone with her determination deserved help.
“Did you think about my offer?” she asked when they entered the barn again, heading toward the water pump and feed bags where they’d mix up four more buckets of slop.
“I’ll stay and help for a short while, but I won’t hire on as a gun,” he said before he had a chance to contemplate an answer.
Her obvious disappointment was like a kick to the belly. For a moment his mind went to his mother, and how different things could have been if she’d asked someone else to help out around their place—someone other than Nelson Harmon. Pressure built in his chest. He could afford to dally a few days. Besides, a part of him said Martin and Henderson were nearby.
He set down the buckets. “I’ll do some scouting, find out who’s camped in the hills.”
“I told you, I’ve tried. You won’t find them.” Distress clouded her eyes.
The urge to ease her burdens pulled at him, tugged his heart in every direction. He stepped forward to lightly grip her upper arms, and was somewhat taken aback by how his fingers and palms tingled at the connection. “I know you have,” he stated, “but I might know a few tricks you don’t. I’ll find them. I promise.”
