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It was his own suspicion of trouble coming that made him admonish, “Don’t start worrying about me, Mom.”
“I’m not,” she said with ease. “I don’t think you realize how proud I am that Jessy wanted you to put things back in order at the Cee Bar. It shows that she recognizes you can shoulder that kind of responsibility. I hope you can see that so we won’t have to argue anymore about how much of an asset you can be to the Triple C.”
“We would just argue about something else,” Quint teased.
That drew the expected protest from her. They talked a few minutes more before exchanging final good-byes. Quint hung up and finished his coffee, then unhooked his denim jacket from the chair back and headed out the door.
The instant the screen door banged shut behind him, the rusty red chickens in the yard ran to meet him, clucking noisily. Their clamor was echoed by the eager whickering of the horses in the small fenced pasture next to the barn.
“We all have empty stomachs this morning, don’t we?” Quint remarked as the chickens crowded around him, clucking and flapping their wings.
They trailed after him, running to keep up with his long strides as he struck out for the barn. The grain barrel was empty of all but the bottom leavings. He dumped that out for the chickens and looked through the rest of the barn. He found a half dozen eggs, but only one square hay bale.
He used an empty grain bucket for an egg basket and set it outside the barn door. The four horses in the corral broke into eager whickers at the sight of Quint with the bucket. A big bay gelding whinnied a shrill protest when he disappeared back inside the barn.
A few seconds later Quint emerged from its shadows, carrying the bale by its twine. Short of the fence, he broke the bale apart and, one by one, tossed its squares into the corral. The landing of the first brought a flurry of flying hooves and bared teeth, but the squabbling soon ended as each horse tore eagerly into its own mound of hay. He watched in grim silence, aware there was too little hay to satisfy their empty bellies and that the few patches of grass in the large corral had already been chewed to the roots.
It was one more thing Quint held against the former ranch manager. Walking off the job without telling anyone was bad enough, but leaving without turning the horses loose was something that Quint couldn’t easily forgive.
After dragging a hose from the barn and filling the corral’s water tank, Quint carried the egg pail to the house and scrambled some eggs. Breakfast finished and washed down with a second cup of coffee, he added his own dirty dishes to the ones still soaking in the sink, stuck the grocery list in his shirt pocket, and plucked the ignition key to the ranch pickup from its hook by the back door.
He wasted thirty minutes trying to get the truck to start before he gave up and climbed behind the wheel of the rental car.
Located well off the more heavily traveled routes, the town of Loury attracted mainly local traffic. Downtown had a deserted feel to it when Quint drove through that morning. The breakfast crowd at the Corner Café had already come and gone, and it was too early for the town’s old-timers to gather there for coffee and their morning bull session.
The grocery store had seven cars in its lot. Quint bypassed it for the time being and drove straight to the feed store on the east end of town. He pulled into the graveled lot and parked next to two pickups that stood in front of the metal building. When he climbed out of the sedan, his glance flicked to the passenger door panel of the truck beside him, and the sign painted on it that read SYKES FEED & GRAIN. The words were an echo of the board sign above the door.
A chalky white dust coated the front windowpanes, obscuring Quint’s view of the interior. But an ingrained caution had him scanning the dim interior for any sign of movement. Upon entering the feed store, he automatically stepped to one side, well clear of the glass door.
Dust motes danced in the few shafts of sunlight that penetrated the windows, and the air had that familiar, musty smell of grain. A grumbling murmur of male voices came from the open doorway that connected the store with its warehouse area.
Quint glanced in their direction just as a female voice called out a somewhat absent “Be right with you.”
Quint was quick to locate the woman. She was seated at a desk well to the rear of the front counter, facing a computer screen, her back to the door. At almost the same instant, he caught the faint, tinny tap of fingers moving rapidly over a keyboard.
He crossed to the counter and idly leaned a hip against it to wait until she was through. After another thirty seconds, she swung her chair around and stood up. She was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt that stopped at midhip. A cap, emblazoned with the name Sykes Feed & Grain, covered her head, its bill casting a shadow on her face.
As she approached the counter, something about the way she walked nagged at Quint. Not until his curious glance encountered her pale brown eyes did recognition strike. It was Dallas, the waitress from the Corner Café. Pleasure kicked through him, warm and unexpected. He smiled when she faltered in mid-stride, revealing her own surprise at seeing him again.
“I thought you would have been long gone.” Her mouth curved in a small smile that seemed to say that she was glad he wasn’t.
“And I thought you’d be in school.”
“School!” There was a note of incredulity in her short, amused laugh. Then understanding dawned in her expression. “You must have seen me studying. I go to college three nights a week. Second year.” Despite her attempt to sound matter-of-fact, a faint note of pride crept into her voice.
“You’re in college?” His initial assessment of her underwent a rapid revision as he added a few more years to her age.
“That’s right,” Dallas replied, then hesitated, a flicker of regret shadowing her eyes. “If you’re here about a job, I can tell you now—they aren’t hiring.”
“No problem. I’m here to get some grain.”
She shot him a quick, curious look, then masked it with an air of easy efficiency. “You came to the right place. What do you need?”
“One hundred and fifty pounds each of corn and oats, and a hundred pounds of top dress—whatever you carry in the way of a vitamin and mineral pack,” Quint replied, as two men filed into the store from the warehouse.
The taller of the two had a round beer belly and sharp eyes that sized Quint up as a stranger. He threw him a curt nod and mumbled, “Mornin’.”
Quint nodded back.
