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“And what about you, Joseph?” The man spoke the name slowly, as if tasting it on his tongue.
“I don’t know,” Joseph said. “My folks are pretty strict. I might not be able to get away.”
“Well, think about it.” The man stood. “When I’m going to need help, I’ll tie a black ribbon on the fence where that road takes off to the Dollarhide place. If you show up that night, I’ll put you to work.”
“So can we go now?” Joseph asked. “We need to get home, before our folks wake up.”
“Go ahead. Don’t worry about the dogs—they’re in their kennel now. Remember to look for the black ribbon.” The man stood. He hadn’t mentioned his name, Joseph realized. Maybe he didn’t want them to know it.
Sore and tired from the night’s hard work, the boys rose, stretched, and trudged out of the barn. As Joseph followed them, something compelled him to pause and turn back.
The man was standing in the circle of the lantern light. He had taken off his hat and was raking a hand through his thick, chestnut hair. For a moment, his gaze locked with Joseph’s—green eyes looking into his, green like his own.
“Good night, Joseph,” he said.
Joseph wheeled and hurried after his friends. His heart was pounding so hard that he feared it might break through his ribs.
When had he known? Was it just now when their eyes had met, or had he sensed it all along—the kinship of blood calling to blood?
When had he known that the stranger was his father?
* * *
As the whine and blast of artillery fire faded into memory, Logan opened his eyes. For a long moment he lay still, blinking himself back to reality. This time the dream had been so vivid that he could have sworn it was real. He could almost smell the cordite and feel the shrapnel tearing into his leg. But it had only been a dream, thank God. He was home, on his own ranch, in his own house, with the dawn light slanting through the window and meadowlarks trilling their morning songs.
He had thought long and hard before buying the ranch that lay like a bridge between the Triple C and the Dollarhide spread. But since the transfer of the money and the signing of the papers, he’d been too busy for regrets.
The house was livable, barely. He’d hauled away the mouse-infested couch and mattress but kept the table and kitchen chairs, which were solid oak. After scrubbing the place down, he’d bought a brass bed with a mattress and a minimal supply of bedclothes. Other purchases, made at a mercantile in Miles City, included a tin washtub, soap and towels, and a few dishes, pans, and utensils for the kitchen. Everything else, including the rugs and living room furniture, would have to wait until the ranch was further along.
He’d also stocked the kitchen with basic food supplies and hired a local widow to pick up and return his laundry, with extra pay for the distance. It was still dawning on him that he had enough money to buy anything he wanted. He’d grown up poor and been frugal all his life. Old habits would take time to change if they ever did.
He rolled out of bed, washed, dressed, and ambled into the kitchen to make coffee. His shoulder had healed—Kristin Dollarhide had done a good job of patching it. But his left leg, the muscles ripped by shrapnel toward the end of the war, would pain him for the rest of his days. Scarred and ugly as it was, at least he’d managed to keep it.
When the coffee had boiled, he filled a mug and carried it out onto the porch. For Logan, this had become the best part of the day, watching the sunrise paint the sky above the mountains, enjoying the peace that had eluded him for such a long time.
The fifty head of steers Logan had bought from Webb were grazing in the single fenced pasture. Fattened up, they should bring a good price in the fall. For now, Logan was taking care of them himself. Later, when he got more animals, he would hire some help, but for now it didn’t seem worth the trouble.
The old barn was gone. Where it had stood, a new one would soon be built by Lars Anderson, with later plans for a stable wing attached. Looking across the pastures, Logan could see the wagon coming from town, bringing Lars and his two apprentices.
Employing Lars had been a good decision. The big Swede was as honest as he was capable. The structure, still in the framing stage, would be finished by late summer. Lars had promised it would be built to last for generations.
Webb had objected to Logan’s choice of hiring a Dollarhide in-law, who insisted on buying only Dollarhide lumber. But the boss of the Triple C was learning that he couldn’t call the shots. Whether Webb liked it or not, Logan would be his own man.
From the south, across the wide expanse of grasslands, came the faint shriek of the sawmill, cutting timber into boards. These days the mill was running from dawn till dusk, six days a week. But Kristin had spoken the truth. At a distance of several miles, the noise wasn’t loud enough to be troublesome. And it stopped when the sun went down.
Even the issue of the road had been settled for now. Logan had set Blake Dollarhide a price for every wagonload of logs that cut across ranch property. It wasn’t so much that Logan needed the money, but that Blake must not be allowed to assume he had free access.
Again Webb had objected—vehemently this time. But Logan had held firm. Blocking the road would limit his own use of it. And a fight over road access would benefit no one, especially if it led to spilled blood.
For now, while the pastures were green and the creeks flowing high, the fragile peace was holding. But Logan knew he was walking a tightrope. Even a minor incident could upset the balance and throw the situation into conflict, forcing him to choose sides.
And he had no doubt which side he’d be forced to choose.
The wagon rolled into the yard, with Lars driving the team of draft horses. Not only were the massive Belgians, on loan to Lars from the Dollarhides, used for hauling and transportation, but they also powered the winch that would be rigged to raise the framed walls of the barn and hold them while they were secured in place. That task would take place today, with all hands helping.
The two apprentices, Pete and Ezra, were town boys who’d been too young to go to war. The skills they’d learned from Lars would serve them well when the time came to marry and raise families. Pete, a natural jokester, had ginger hair and a freckled face. Ezra, the serious one, was a handsome young man with dark hair and brown eyes. As soon as the wagon had stopped, they jumped to the ground and began setting up the ropes and pulleys to raise the first wall.
Lars, who was getting on in years, climbed slowly out of the wagon. Today his weathered features wore a troubled look.
