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“But I came in to talk to you, Blake.” Doyle’s clothes were spotless. When the fire had needed fighting, he’d clearly been somewhere else. “Stay a minute,” he said. “I’ve got a business proposition for you. I’ll buy you a drink while you listen.”
Blake sighed. He already knew what his answer would be, but it wouldn’t hurt to know what Doyle had on his mind. “All right. But I’ve already had enough to drink. Just keep it short.” He left his chair pushed clear of the table, to make his getaway easier when he decided he’d heard enough.
Settling back in the chair, Blake waited for Doyle to begin his pitch. Four cowboys who’d been at the fire were sitting at the table behind him. They were talking and laughing, making a lot of noise, but Blake willed himself to ignore them. He didn’t plan to be here much longer.
“Here’s what I’m thinking, Blake,” Doyle said. “You sell a lot of cheap green lumber to those drylanders. But it’s a long drive for their wagons, out to your sawmill. I aim to start a lumber business here in town—buy the lumber from you, haul it to a lot I’ve staked out behind the general store, and sell it at a profit. I’m betting the drylanders will be glad to pay a little extra for the convenience. Mason thinks it’s a great idea. You even said so. Didn’t you, Mason?”
“I did. But it’s not up to me. It’s up to Blake.”
“So what do you think so far, Blake?” Doyle asked.
Blake shrugged. “As things stand now, you can buy all the lumber you want from me, Doyle. And once you’ve paid me, I don’t care what the hell you do with it. So what do you need me for?”
“Just this. If we’re partners, you can give me a better deal on the lumber and lend me one of your wagons to haul it. That way we can sell it cheaper, sell more, and still make a profit.”
“A profit for you, not for me. No thanks, Doyle. I’m not interested. You can buy all the lumber you want, but not at a discount.” Blake shifted in the chair, preparing to stand.
“No, wait.” Doyle took a small notepad and a pencil out of his vest and began scribbling. “I’ve thought this all out. Let me show you some figures.”
As Blake waited, knowing it was a waste of time, bits of conversation from the cowboys at the neighboring table broke into his awareness. He’d seen them come in, and he recognized a couple of them. They worked for the Calders.
“Can’t say I think much of them sodbusters, but glory hallelujah, they brought some good-lookin’ gals with ’em.” The speaker was a big, bearded man named Sig Hoskins.
“I’ll say,” another cowboy responded. “That redhead’s a pretty one. But it looks like Webb Calder’s already staked his claim to her, even if she’s married to that old geezer.”
“Hell, that won’t stop Webb. When he wants somethin’, he goes after it.”
“Webb can have her,” Hoskins said. “The one I want is Yellow Braids. Now there’s a fine little filly for you.”
Blake had been listening idly while Doyle scribbled on his pad. But the mention of Yellow Braids caught his full attention. He glanced at Mason. Either his brother hadn’t heard or he didn’t care.
“I’ll bet you that little filly ain’t never even been rode.” Hoskins’s voice rose above the buzz of conversation and the clink of glasses. “Twenty bucks says I’ll be the first one to get up her skirt. Anybody want to raise me?”
Blake’s blood had begun to boil. Forgetting Mason and Doyle, he stood up, turned around, and grabbed Hoskins by the front of his vest.
“Take this for your twenty bucks, you sonofabitch!” he muttered. Then his fist slammed into the cowboy’s jaw.
Letting the man fall, he turned away, stalked outside to his horse, and rode off into the dusk.
* * *
Hanna bowed her head while her mother said grace. The prayer included words for the Gilberg family whose home and wheat field had been destroyed by the fire. Tomorrow Hanna would be sent trudging across the fields with a basket of food—as much as Inga could spare, and then some—as well as a bundle of hand-me-down clothes for the little ones, clothes she’d put aside from her own children.
At dawn, Hanna’s father and older brother, Alvar, would gather their tools and any scraps of building material they could find to set up a shelter for the family. Others would do the same. It was what good neighbors did—and who could say which of them would be struck by the next disaster?
The stew, made from the skimpy meat of a rabbit Alvar had snared that morning, along with some vegetables from Inga’s garden, was a treat for the hungry family. Served with plenty of fresh biscuits, it was just enough for the seven of them. The parents ate sparingly to make sure there would be plenty for the children. Alvar, barely eighteen, and Hanna did the same. The younger children, Britta, almost thirteen, Axel, ten, and Gerda, eight, filled their plates. There would have been one more child at the table, but the baby boy, born after Hanna, had only lived a few days. Much as Inga loved her blue-eyed, flaxen-haired brood, Hanna knew that her mother still mourned the little one she’d lost.
The children ate in silence, as was the custom. But for the parents, the evening meal was a time to catch up on the events of the day.
“I was talking with Stefan on the way home from the fire,” Big Lars said. “He told me that somebody found a broken lantern in that burned shack. That means the fire was started on purpose while the family was in town.”
“Are you sure?” Inga had gone pale. Hanna knew what her mother was thinking. If she and the children hadn’t gone home early, with Alvar driving the wagon, their place could have been the one that was burned.
“That fire didn’t start itself, Inga. Some cowboys at the dance almost beat up Ole Hanson. They left after a man stopped them. Ole thinks they might have gone to start the fire. Those cowboys hate us. They blame us for the bad cattle market. It isn’t true, but they don’t care, as long as they’ve got somebody to punish.”
“We could be next,” Inga said. “Anybody could be. And maybe next time it won’t be just a fire. They’ll start hurting people, even killing them.”
The younger children had stopped eating. They were staring at their mother.
“We’ll just need to keep our eyes open,” Big Lars said. “Keep the shotgun loaded and handy. Watch for any strangers coming around. If you see anybody you don’t know, assume they’re an enemy.”
“So the cowboys and ranchers are our enemies now?” Hanna asked, thinking of the handsome man who’d almost kissed her.
“Yes,” her father said. “We can’t trust any of them. Remember that.”
