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“Since when is this Ten Bar land?” Benteen challenged. He thought he knew most of Boston’s riders, but this bearded man was a stranger.
“Since Mr. Boston said it was.” The rifle was shifted to turn its black muzzle on Benteen. “I got orders to shoot trespassers if they won’t move on.”
“More of Boston’s orders?” There was nothing reasonable in Benteen. He was all cold and reckless inside as he walked his horse straight at the rifle barrel. “You know who I am—and you knew I was coming.”
“I was told to expect you, Calder.” The man with the rifle didn’t waver. “This ranch belongs to the Ten Bar now. Mr. Boston felt you might need some convincin’ of that.”
“And how did he convince my pa?” Benteen demanded, flicking a cold glance at the rifle. “With that, too?”
“Can’t say.” There was a small negative move of the man’s head, but he didn’t take his eyes off Benteen for even a fraction of a second. “No more talk. I ain’t paid to talk. Ride out, Calder.”
Benteen felt a hard, raw desire to charge the man and ram that rifle barrel down his throat. He never took kindly to a gun pointed at him. He liked it even less now.
But it would have been a stupid move. He stopped the mustang. It grated hard on his pride to turn his horse away and ride out of the yard. But there were too many questions unanswered. Benteen swung his horse onto the road to Fort Worth.
5
Benteen’s herd wasn’t the only one being held outside of Fort Worth that early spring. The cattle town was crowded with rowdy cowboys and trail outfits stocking up with supplies for the drive north when Benteen rode in.
There was a leaden anger inside him as he slowed the mustang to a stop in front of the Pearce house. Dismounting, he tied the reins in a half-hitch on the post ring and walked to the front porch. His footsteps sounded heavy as he crossed the board floor and knocked twice on the door. When it opened, Benteen let his hard gaze search Lorna’s face.
After an instant of startled recognition, she went white. “You know,” she whispered.
“Pa’s dead.” His voice was flat as he read the confirmation in her expression.
Lorna nodded once, her lips parting, but no words came out. Benteen lowered his gaze to the door’s threshold, physically numbed to the fact. He clenched his hands into fists, trying to accept the truth of the words he’d said, but protest raged inside him.
“When?” The one-word question rumbled from a deep pit within himself.
“The first week of January.”
Benteen shut his eyes briefly, barely conscious of the rustle of her long skirt. He stiffened at the touch of her hand on his arm, the quiet offer of sympathy. Briskly he moved to reject it.
“Come inside,” she invited.
He brushed past her to walk inside, burning with a raw kind of energy. There was a noise from the dining room. Benteen turned and saw Lorna’s mother. She took one look at him and didn’t have to be told a thing.
“Come into the kitchen, Benteen, and have some coffee,” she invited calmly, as if this visit from him were no different from any other.
It seemed automatic to follow her into the scrubbed freshness of the kitchen. His blank gaze watched her pour a cup from the metal pot on the wood range. She set it on the table.
“I don’t imagine you’ve eaten anything, have you?” Mrs. Pearce guessed.
His hand lifted in a vacant gesture that said food wasn’t important. “What happened?” Benteen continued to stand, making no move to sit in the white enameled chair at the table or drink the coffee.
Behind him, he heard Lorna’s footsteps as she entered the kitchen. His mind wasn’t able to think about her, perhaps because his heart was incapable of feelings at this moment. He had to keep them shut out.
“The doctor said it was his heart,” Mrs. Pearce replied with a somber attention to the fact without embellishment. “By the time the doctor arrived, it was already too late to help him.”
“Where was he when it happened?” Benteen questioned.
“He had come to town for supplies—to my husband’s store,” she answered, being more specific.
“Was your husband with him when he died?” He jumped on the information. Instinct told him that Judd Boston had played a role in his father’s death, and Benteen was determined to find out how significant it had been.
“Well, not exactly.” Mrs. Pearce displayed patience in the face of his sharp cross-examination. “Your father had given my husband a list of the items he wanted. Arthur thought your father didn’t look well, so he suggested that your father use his office in the back room where he could sit and rest while the order was being filled.”
“Then he was alone?”
