A Man with a Past by Mary Connealy
TEN
Falcon felt like a savage. An animal. He decided he liked feeling that way. In fact, that might describe him pretty well.
He’d learned to trust his hands. Funny business a man’s hands knowing something his head didn’t. Like how to rig a snare.
He’d unraveled thread from his shirt and set one, not thinking, not planning, just letting his hands take charge. When he tried to think, plan something out, he’d get confused, and then his head throbbed.
But if he just trusted his hands, he built a good snare, though he hadn’t caught anything in it yet.
The first night, he’d quickly tired of hiking alongside that stream looking for fishing ground, so he roasted acorns and pine nuts and plucked ripe berries.
Come morning of the second day, he woke up feeling stronger but still with no working head. Letting his hands guide him, he speared a fish and roasted it. Then, feeling steady, he speared three more and feasted.
His belly full, he took a notion to lean out over the stream and stare at himself. He saw a dark-haired man who had a few days’ worth of beard on his face. Hair sticking up in all directions.
He had strange eyes, brown but with a funny golden glint to them.
His clothes were battered after his time in the water, though how did he know? Maybe he’d only barely been dunked in the water and he always dressed in rags.
Besides the clothes on his back, the only other thing he had was a small fur bag that had stayed strapped around him during his trip in the stream. But it only held a few supplies. No clues to who he was.
It was no use staring at himself, but it gave him some comfort to know his own face. It was a hot day, and he wandered away from the stream into the woods. The shade felt good. He found a clear spot that he stacked with dead leaves and tucked himself into. And he slept.
On the third day, the throbbing in his head eased off, except when he tried to dig out some memories. He still couldn’t remember a thing before he woke up hooked on a branch, being pounded on by the rushing stream trying to tear him loose from that snag. He ate more fish and nuts. Then he slept.
Hunt, eat, sleep, walk.
It surprised him that he could curl up and sleep several times a day. That couldn’t be how he normally went on. The head injury and near drowning must still be wearing on him and sleep gave him time to heal.
The fourth day he snared a bird. Then, when he got out his knife to get the bird ready for roasting, he studied that knife and had a bright idea.
The next time he went hunting, he used his knife strapped onto a pointed stick as a spear and got a rabbit.
After five days, he woke up with only a quiet ache in his head. He had leftover rabbit so hunting breakfast didn’t sap his strength. With steady hands and less wobble in his knees, he finally took to thinking of his troubles.
There wasn’t so much as a flicker of memory of who he was, where he was, or how he’d come to be here.
It didn’t seem to be coming back to him through rest and time. He thought of that stream. He had to’ve been swept down it, it stood to reason.
So he’d walk back up it and see where he’d come from.
He had been hiking along for most of the morning when he felt someone following him.
Cheyenne couldn’t get a look at him.
She’d been trailing him for two days when she realized he knew she was out here. A chill went down her spine. Like a slap across the face, she was hit with a knowing that he was now trailing her.
She’d seen enough signs to know he was there, but she’d never seen him. Once she knew he was aware of her, she decided to cut and run for home. It was one thing to scout around, track down an intruder. It suited her because she’d had plenty enough of intruders on her ranch.
But to be the hunted. To know you had a predator after you.
The woods, always a place she felt at home, now felt deadly. There were overlooks and hideouts everywhere. She knew them all, and she sensed that this man knew them, too.
She was too far from the RHR to get back in one day, and she had to rest eventually, or she’d make stupid mistakes and get herself caught. Finally, in the relative safety of darkness, she curled up to sleep against a stone wall, covered by a thicket. As she faded off, she decided putting up with the newcomers on her ranch might not be so bad after all.
Falcon looked in her little shelter and smiled. She slept like an innocent baby. Womenfolk who set out to wander the earth alone oughta sleep lighter.
From where he crouched behind a bush, so close he could have touched her, he studied the woman and wondered what she was doing out here.
She wore trousers, an improper thing to do, but he didn’t mind overly. She had on a shirt that looked like something a man would wear. But then Falcon didn’t remember much so how could he know for sure about what men and women wore?
Her head was resting on a bedroll. She was covered with a stretch of cloth that looked like it’d shed water. Her rifle was near to hand. He saw the bulge under the cloth that said she wore a six-gun. Her hair was dark and long, braided and hanging down her front while she lay on her side.
He thought she was about the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. And of course, with his mixed-up head, she amounted to the only woman he could remember seeing so that wasn’t that much of a contest. Still, she was mighty pretty.
He’d turned aside from following that stream to play with her. He’d made a game of leaving enough signs to keep her hunting but not enough to ever find him. He’d spent most of his time behind her, watching her.
Watching her sleep, he was struck by the notion that they might be the only two people in the world. He sure as certain hadn’t seen anyone else. He reckoned there were others, but a man couldn’t help but wonder. It niggled at something deep in his head. Something about a garden and two people alone.
The flicker of memory sent a shaft of pain through his noggin. He was feeling mostly better, but the cut on the back of his head still ached, and he was prone to stabs of pain as sharp as his knife.
Dodging any efforts for his brain to remember, he considered that he should stay with her. Wake her and talk to her. To walk away from the only other person he could find was foolish.
Or was it foolish to be playing games out in the wilderness when he should be following his own back trail?
The stars went out overhead, and the moon vanished under a cloud. A soft mist started falling. He was tempted, oh, mighty tempted, to crawl into that thicket and share her shelter, share her warmth.
A’course she’d probably shoot him. Though he had no trouble hiding from her, she was mighty good and seemed tough enough to draw that gun and protect herself.
And that got him moving. Leave the poor confused woman alone. He took one more look at her. At that long braid. It was a hard thing to slip back from her. Then again, if he wanted to look at her some more, he could hunt her up anytime he wanted to.
When he was back far enough that she couldn’t see him if she happened to wake up, he stood and, heading toward where he’d woken up that first day, started tromping upstream. As the sun rose, it only turned the black to gray. Fog rolled in so thick it was a wonder a man could breathe the air.
Taking it slow, not wanting to fall into the stream in the fog, he heard the storm coming louder, meaner. He knew he shouldn’t be out in the open when lightning struck. But neither should he be by the tallest tree around.
That left him with it being wise to find shelter. The thunder boomed and the lightning cracked, closer with each blast of light and noise. The rain turned from mist to slanting bullets of water. Then a lightning bolt hit an oak standing tall alongside that stream.
He saw a downed tree that looked to have a gap under it and dove for cover.
And by the time he was done diving, landing, and collecting himself, he saw that he wasn’t alone.
A man and woman sat together at the other end of the tree trunk.
They were both looking at him like he was a ghost come to sit down beside them.
Then the man said, “Falcon?”
That question made no sense. He’d heard of a falcon. A bird. What did this man mean? But the voice. To hear another voice after so long. It kept him from jumping right back out of the shelter.
“Falcon, we thought you were dead.” The man made a move toward him, and Falcon’s knife was in his hand before he gave it thought.
The man moved back. “What’s the matter?”
He thought to ask a whole lot of questions. “Can I . . .” then he thought better of it. To admit his head didn’t work right would put him in a weak position.
“Can you what?” The man waited.
Only silence.
The man all of a sudden burst into words. “We thought you were dead. You went over a waterfall, possibly shot.”
Waterfall, that could be right. Shot? The cut on his head?
The man said something about a hat, and a flash of something went through Falcon’s mind. A hat. He remembered a hat. Maybe. Thinking of the hat brought a vision to his head. A memory. And with the memory came pain.
The man started into yammering, and Falcon tried to listen, tried to glean from this flood of words what was going on. At least the man didn’t start shooting. In fact, he seemed genuinely concerned.
It was a long chance, but Falcon didn’t see as he had much choice. “Who are you?”
The man shut his mouth. The woman hadn’t said a word yet.
They stared at him with eyes so wide he knew he’d thrown them. And then he really looked at their eyes. Especially the man’s. He’d just seen eyes like that, looking in a stream.
“He’s your brother.” The woman finally talked.
“My brother?”
“Yes, your brother, Kevin Hunt. And I’m his wife, Winona Hunt.” She seemed to collect all her nerve before she spoke again. “And you’re Falcon Hunt. You’ve come from Tennessee to Wyoming to claim an inheritance from your father.”
Falcon. The man, Kevin, had said that—Falcon.
He was named for a bird? It didn’t unlock any memories, not counting the hat, of all the stupid things to remember. But a falcon was a noble bird. And Tennessee? Wyoming? Father?
It was all new to him. He shook his head. A surge of relief at knowing his name twisted together with a deeper fear that it didn’t help. He could be told his name, but that wasn’t the same as remembering it.
“I’ve been wandering for days.”
“You disappeared a week ago, Falcon.” Kevin kept staring at Falcon with those eyes that matched his. “You must have been out here alone all this time.”
“First thing I remember is waking up on the banks of a stream and didn’t know nothing. Not a dad-blasted thing.”
“Not even your name?” Kevin asked.
Shaking his head, Falcon stared down at his hands, thinking on how he’d relied on them, as if they were his mind. “I didn’t know where I was . . . I mean, sure, in the mountains, but they didn’t look like anywhere I’d ever been, but then, I couldn’t remember being anywhere ever. I knew I should’ve had a gun. Why would I remember I’d normally have a gun, when I didn’t remember my own name?”
He touched that wound on his head. A gunshot wound? “I knew how to unravel the threads from my shirt and rig a snare to catch birds. I could start a fire using my knife and a flint I found in my pocket.”
“All that but not who you are.” Kevin sounded bewildered.
“I didn’t exactly remember how to do those things, I just knew how.” He looked at Kevin, then Winona, then he looked down at his hands. “It was like the knowledge just came out of my fingertips without me thinkin’ much about it.”
“I’ve heard of someone losing their memory.” Winona got his attention. “A sickness or a blow to the head can cause it. Amnesia—that’s the word I learned.”
“Amnesia?” Falcon tripped over the strange word. He’d never heard it before, except how could he know for sure? Maybe he knew it and had forgotten.
And his brother? That didn’t sound right at all. How could a man forget he had a brother?
All of a sudden he had a hundred questions. His brother could tell him everything.
A bullet blasted louder than thunder and wood exploded against the tree trunk.
Falcon launched himself out of that shelter and vanished into the fog.
Gunfire! And not one or two shots. A whole hail of bullets.
The only shooting around here lately was Win getting a bullet wound on her back.
Cheyenne launched herself out of her little shelter. She tugged the hood of her slicker low over her face and ran. She dodged behind a tree, listening, judging where those shots were coming from . . . and where they were aimed, and ran some more. Straight for a firing gun.
Not smart. But Win had been shot. What if that man who’d shot her was out here shooting at someone else she loved?
The gunfire kept up hard and steady as the rain—but not aimed in her direction. She moved quickly, keeping silent, though the rain and wind, the thunder and lightning, the gunfire for heaven’s sake, had to cover most any sound she made. No one was going to hear her coming.
And she was coming . . . fast.
Falcon might not know his name, but he knew how to fight.
Matter’a fact, from the excitement, even eagerness, he could tell he was a man who liked to fight.
Once he was away from that shelter, he listened for Kevin and Winona to get away and heard them running the opposite way. Heard ’em. Which meant these would-be killers could hear ’em, too.
He held his knife ready. Two guns blazed, and they aimed in the direction Kevin had gone. Drawing back, melting into the woods, Falcon considered how best to save his kin. The gunfire ended, and he made out the shadowy forms of two men following after Kevin.
Once they were past, Falcon fell in behind them and lost them in the fog. It was like walking in a sea of milk. Just as wet, just as white. He followed by sound.
He couldn’t hear Kevin anymore. His brother either got mighty quiet or stopped moving. Either was a big improvement.
And he only heard one of the shooters. It tickled in the back part of Falcon’s head that he should know something about these men. Kevin had done some talking about an attack. About thinking Falcon had been shot.
By these two men? If he could remember anything, maybe he’d know more about who he was.
He heard the sharp crack of a gun cocking straight ahead, took another step to make sure it wasn’t Kevin, and hurled his knife.
He saw Kevin jump on the man and go to whalin’ on him. The man was down and out though. A sick twist in Falcon’s stomach told him his knife had gone true, and the man was dead.
A sharp jab of metal poked him in the back.
Another metallic click. This one Falcon could feel as well as hear.
“Don’t move.”
Kevin’s head came around.
“Stand still, or I’ll kill all of you.”
Falcon had no knife. Nothing but his bare hands. He’d pick his time and take that gun away from this varmint.
“Get your hands up.”
He raised his hands high.
Falcon saw Kevin’s hands raise, too.
“Stand beside your brother.”
“Why are you doing this?” Winona sounded near panic. Falcon liked to see a woman keep her head, but this was a big ol’ mess, so he didn’t hold it against her.
“Did my father hire you to kill Kevin and Falcon? Does he want you to kill m-me?”
That’s when Falcon knew Winona was planning something. A distraction at the least, ’cuz no one pure afraid would ask such a clear question. He waited for his chance, ignoring the back-and-forth talk.
The man pointed his gun at Falcon. “We tried to kill you in Independence, Missouri.”
Kevin looked at Falcon. “Someone tried to kill you, too?”
A stupid question, and Falcon had no plans to admit his head wasn’t working right.
“Never figured it to have much to do with this.”
“You’re a hard man to kill, Falcon Hunt. You not only got past us, you stole our horses, guns, money, and supplies and headed on west. You’re a thief.”
Falcon stared at the man threatening to kill them—mighty bold of him to complain about another man being a thief—and said, “Sounds like justice to me.”
Cheyenne followed the sound of voices.
The fog was heavy enough she couldn’t see a thing beyond where she took her next step. Even with that, she moved as fast as she could.
“Stand still, or I’ll kill all of you. Get your hands up.”
Who was speaking? He sounded familiar, but she wasn’t quite sure why. She wasn’t about to start blasting until she knew what was going on.
Another step.
She could finally see past the man to Kevin Hunt. And two other people, one behind Kevin whom she couldn’t see and the other . . . was a slap to the face.
Clovis Hunt. The man she wanted to kill until it gnawed on her guts was alive and well, and someone was getting ready to kill him for her.
No, not possible. He wasn’t old enough. This had to be the other brother. Falcon Hunt. But he couldn’t look so much like Clovis, could he?
If she stayed quiet, stayed back, whoever this was might just finish off something she was ashamed of wanting.
“Stand beside your brother.”
She knew that voice. Bern Tuttle from the Hawkins Ranch.
She should stop whatever Tuttle was up to.
Sidling around, wanting a better look, she heard a new voice.
“Why are you doing this?” Win.
Win was here.
Cheyenne finally got far enough to the side she could see Win hiding behind Kevin’s back. How in the wide world did Win get out here? And so early in the morning, this far from the ranch, she had to’ve been out here overnight. Win would never do something so improper. Had she been kidnapped?
“Did my father hire you to kill Kevin and Falcon? Does he want you to kill m-me?” Win’s voice broke. Cheyenne had seen Win cry before. She was more prone to it than Cheyenne, but knowing her friend well, it was clear Win was faking her fears and tears. Why else would she say something so awful about her own pa? Which meant she was getting ready to do something desperate and was trying to distract Tuttle.
Tuttle stood there, sneering and talking of a plan to kill Oliver Hawkins and force Win to marry him so he could take over the ranch.
A cold, ugly part of herself hadn’t minded overly if the new Hunt brothers died. Oh, she’d’ve never done it, never stood by for them being shot. But she was so twisted up inside that she’d thought it. But she couldn’t think it anymore. She had to save Win.
Not one speck of hesitation there.
While they talked, she got in position.
“And then what about Baker?” Win asked. “How was he going to profit from any of this?”
Baker? Cheyenne only knew one Baker. Ross Baker was the ramrod at the RHR. Ross Baker who’d claimed his pa was dying and asked to be allowed to ride for Texas to say goodbye. He’d come up with that right after they’d read Clovis’s will, but Cheyenne hadn’t connected one incident to the other.
And yep, that was Ross Baker lying there dead. He hadn’t ridden to Texas. He’d been plotting against her family with Bern Tuttle right along with him. Hoping Win would keep Tuttle talking, Cheyenne shifted again.
“His part was to marry up with Miss Cheyenne.”
Oh, now Cheyenne was going to enjoy shooting him. But not kill him. She wanted to have a hard, little talk with him.
She raised her rifle, drew a bead, and shot the gun out of his hand.
At the blast of gunfire, Kevin dove at the gunman and slammed a fist into his face. The man went over backward, crying out. Cheyenne rushed in to get between Win and the rest of this madness.
“Cheyenne!” Winona came running to her.
Cheyenne stared at the Clovis Hunt look-alike. “Who are you?”
Win slammed into her and caught her in a hug. Cheyenne barely heard the “Falcon Hunt” muffled into her shoulder.
In the middle of the hug, she looked at Tuttle, groggy, barely unconscious, bleeding from his hand, or maybe his wrist. She’d shot him. For all the years she’d carried a rifle and a six-gun, she’d never pulled the trigger on a man before.
She’d shot a few rattlesnakes and a cougar that’d been thinning her herd. Some rabid skunks and raccoons and such. But to pull the trigger on a man . . . Sickened, her stomach lurched, and for a minute, she fought to keep from casting up her belly.
Holding on to Win helped, and Cheyenne hugged her back hard.
Cheyenne took another long look at the man she’d shot. He looked purely unconscious, and the bullet wound to his wrist didn’t look serious. Cheyenne could pay attention to other things for a minute.
“Who’s she?” a gravelly voice whispered.
“More family,” said Kevin. “She’s a sister . . . sort of.”
“I am in no way your sister,” Cheyenne said sternly.
So this was Falcon Hunt. One of the worthless brothers who’d come a-runnin’ to steal her land. But this one wasn’t pure worthless. He was better in the woods than anyone she’d ever met, save her tribal relatives. “Falcon, huh? I’ve been following you for days.”
“Yep, I saw you back there tracking me and didn’t want to talk. Once I was close enough to tap you on the shoulder and say, ‘Leave me alone,’ but I let you sleep.”
That bothered her, added another twist to her stomach to think someone had been that close, watching her while she slept. She probably hadn’t oughta wander in the woods anymore. It wasn’t safe. Then, because she didn’t like admitting he was better than her, she looked around at the mess they’d made out here and saw that Tuttle had lost all color in his face. She rushed to his side and saw a heavy pool of blood under his hand, soaked under his body.
Quickly, she grabbed her kerchief and wrapped it around his wrist, but it was no use. “He’s dead.”
She looked up as Kevin and Win walked to Tuttle’s other side. Despite her horror, she noticed with confusion that Win and Kevin were holding hands.
Win looked from Tuttle’s wrist to his ashen face and flinched. “It’s an artery.” She slipped an arm around Kevin, leaning into him for support.
Cheyenne had just shot his hand. How could he be dead? She swallowed hard and didn’t know what else to do other than back away.
Needing to think on something else, Cheyenne stood, her eyes shifting between Kevin and Win. “What is going on with you two?”
Win smiled at Kevin. “We’re married.”
“What?” Cheyenne shoved the hood all the way off her head.
The rain had stopped, and that was a shame. She could use a solid dousing to clear her muddled thoughts.
“Yep, well and truly married. Vows spoken before God and man.” Kevin put his arm around Win.
Cheyenne considered knocking the arm off. Especially when Kevin smiled. But Win snuggled closer like a brainless sheep, and Cheyenne figured attacking Kevin wasn’t going to go over well with her friend.
“You’re married. Falcon has been wandering in the woods for days. Armed gunmen hunting everyone.” Cheyenne flung her arms wide. “I can’t leave any of you alone for a minute or trouble comes flooding.”
“This one’s dead, too.” Falcon knelt by Ross Baker. He tossed the ramrod onto his stomach and retrieved the knife, wiping off the blood before sticking it in his sheath.
Cheyenne couldn’t help but admire the man’s style.
Win said, “We were going to be kicked out of the ramrod’s house with Baker coming home. I guess we don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
With a sigh, Cheyenne started leading the way home. They’d have to come back for the bodies later.
They hiked for hours. She was the only one in good shape. And the only one who knew where they were going.
She had a lot of questions, and the group talked as they went until she mostly knew everything. Win being married, that just didn’t make a lick of sense. But what about Cheyenne’s life did?
And Falcon Hunt. That’s who she’d been tracking. Despite hating these two men fiercely, she had to admit a deep respect for Falcon.
When they reached the main trail home, they met Wyatt riding out. He’d dragged those two other invaders along with him, Molly and Andy.
Wyatt swung off his horse, and out of the four people in their ragtag bunch, Wyatt ran straight for her and hauled her up into his arms.
Her little brother, taller and stronger than she was, and he had been for a long time. She still had to do most of the thinking for the two of them, but this hug felt as good as anything she’d felt in a long time.
Then the bunch of them took to chattering. When Cheyenne heard enough of their stories to realize Falcon might’ve been shot—and everyone seemed too scared of the wild-looking man to check—she examined him and found what looked like a bullet crease at the base of his skull, but she was no doctor.
He was such a mess that she left the crease alone, figuring to scrub him up when they got home, otherwise the wound might open and all his filth would get in.
Win rode double with her on Wyatt’s horse, and they left the three brothers to walk. As the horse plodded along, she and Win talked some until Win started in about her pa and Cheyenne’s announcement that she was going to accept his proposal.
Cheyenne didn’t want to hear it, and it didn’t take much to scoot Win off the horse. Cheyenne would have spurred on the horse, but she decided not to leave them all behind in case she needed to save the day again.
The afternoon was hectic. When they finally reached the ranch, Falcon needed to clean up and be bandaged. It appeared Kevin had also been scratched by a bullet. Win needed her stitches removed.
There was the sheriff to fetch and the outlaws to haul to town and Cheyenne was the only one who was sure where they were, so that was a long ride out again.
By the time Cheyenne sat down to a late supper, she was worn clean out.
The rest of the family came to sit at the table. Cheyenne looked at Falcon and almost smiled. He’d had a bath, shave, and haircut. He had on clean clothes. He looked purely civilized. And somehow by him looking like less of a savage, she saw the wounded man underneath and wanted to help him.
Would he stay? Would he get his memory back?
“You have family now.” Cheyenne met Falcon’s gaze with her black eyes. “Stay here and we’ll be able to help you through whatever confusion lies ahead.”
After a long hesitation, that shouldn’t have mattered to Cheyenne as much as it did, Falcon said, “I’ll stay until I’m . . . healed, or whatever it is that needs to change for me to remember.”
He looked back at them with those strange hazel eyes the brothers all shared. “I can remember a Bible verse about honoring your father and your mother.” He frowned in thought. “It’s one of the Ten Commandments. The fifth commandment says, ‘Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.’ And I remember another verse that says something like, this commandment is the only one with a promise.”
“Land.” Cheyenne clenched her fists on the table and thought of all that she’d lost. She fought down the anger.
“It’s really about the Promised Land, Cheyenne,” Win said softly. “That’s the land that God had promised the Israelites.”
“And I think it’s about heaven,” Molly added.
So if Cheyenne lost her land in this life, she’d have heaven in the next, and no one could take that away from her.
“And Cheyenne”—Wyatt reached across the table toward her—“honoring your father and mother is an easy thing for you. Your ma and pa were fine folks. And you will continue to live on this land no matter what my pa did to you.”
It was only when he rested his big hand on one of hers that she realized her fist was clenched and tried to relax. She wanted to believe him. He was right about her ma and pa. They were fine folks she loved dearly.
Kevin added, “It’s us that has trouble. Falcon, Wyatt, and me. We’re the ones left with the mystery of how God expects us to honor our coyote of a father. A man who, in his last act, stole a ranch from you, Cheyenne, and a nice chunk of it from you, Wyatt.”
“Mine was no great pillar of decency, either,” Molly muttered. “I think honoring him is going to have to be one of those sins I just have to ask forgiveness for.”
Cheyenne set aside her own anger long enough to wonder what Molly’s pa had done.
“We may never be able to abide by this commandment,” Kevin said. “And I’m not even sure it’d be right to do so. But—” He held out his hand to Win, who smiled and took it. Then Win held out her hand to Molly, who clasped her hand.
Molly moved a little slower, but then Falcon was a little scary. Finally, she offered her hand to Falcon, who reluctantly grabbed hold. Falcon didn’t reach for Cheyenne, but Kevin took Wyatt’s hand, Wyatt took Andy’s, and Andy reached hesitantly for Cheyenne. Which Cheyenne took to mean she was a little scary, too. She took Andy’s hand, then looked at Falcon. Not sure she wanted to touch him, but it seemed right to create a circle.
A circle that created a family.
Cheyenne tightened her grip and looked at Falcon. Not a man to disrespect. Not a man who’d lie and cheat and steal like Clovis. Kevin and his family were decent people, too. These people she could honor.
“I’m proud to know all of you,” Kevin said so solemnly it was like the prayer before the meal. “I can say with an easy heart that I will honor family.”
Every one of them, with one voice said, “I will honor family.”
“Can we quit talking and eat?” Andy broke in.
Laughter bubbled around the table, ending the sober moment. As everyone reached for bowls of food, Cheyenne said, “Do you think Tuttle and Baker came up with the idea to take over the ranches on their own?”
That stopped them in their tracks.
“You don’t think so?” Wyatt asked, appearing to force himself to lift a bowl of mashed potatoes.
“It sounded like they went back east to try and kill Falcon.”
“Back east of where?” Falcon asked.
Cheyenne arched a brow at him. She had no idea what to do about his addled head. “But how did they know where he’d be coming from? Did we even talk about him? I was mighty mad about the whole thing. I’m sure word got out about the will, but it seems to me they knew details that very few people would have known. How’d they find out so fast and head straight east to stop him?”
“And get back here fast enough to attack Kevin and his family?” Win served herself a slice of ham, then passed the heavy platter.
“You said I got off the train from Omaha. Where’s that from Independence?” Falcon took a slice of bread and began eating it until more food came. “Those two men said they’d attacked me, but if I took the train out, would they have had time to beat me back here?”
“They had to have gotten here before you in time to attack Kevin.”
“They said I took all their horses and guns. I might’ve been a few days selling them.”
Andy laughed. “You stole all their stuff?”
“So they said, and took their money, too. How’d they get back here so fast? The train costs money, don’t it?”
“It would have worked,” Win said, “if they’d walked to Independence and gotten some money. Bought new horses and ridden hard for Omaha.”
“So did they rob a bank in Independence?” Falcon buttered his bread. “Because I doubt I left them horse-buyin’ money.”
There was quiet while they ate, thinking.
“If they had accomplices, they could have wired them for money. That works fast,” Win said.
“Wired money?” Cheyenne hadn’t heard of that. She looked around the table, and no one else seemed to understand, so Win explained about money going between banks with permission given over telegraph lines.
Wyatt scrubbed his face. “If that happened, what you’re saying is, there might be more of them.”
“If there are, then our troubles might not be over.” Falcon, for all that he’d cleaned up good, sounded like the voice of doom.
And this from the man whose memory had started only a week ago.
“I had planned to start building a cabin somewhere right away.” Kevin turned to give Win a worried look. “But we don’t dare to unless we’re sure it’s safe.”
“I wonder just what my pa had to do with all of that mess.” Win tapped her fork on the china plate. “Sheriff Corly is going to ride out and talk to him. And it’ll probably come out that we are married.”
“We should go tell him,” Kevin said.
“Not necessary. I’d as soon let him come here. I’m sure he’ll ride over tomorrow.”
Cheyenne was watching the two, thinking of Win and her problems with her pa. Something passed between Kevin and Win that was very private. She wondered what. Win had never kept secrets from her before. Married life was going to ruin their friendship.
“I’m going to sleep in the bunkhouse,” Andy said. “I asked Rubin if I could, and he said four men quit today because branding is over, so there’s plenty of room.” Then he added to Falcon, “Rubin said you’re welcome, too. We should clear out of the ramrod’s house and leave it to Kevin and Win.”
Falcon nodded, chewing.
“We’ve got four bedrooms upstairs,” Wyatt offered. “You can sleep in here.”
“Nope.” Andy had a gleam in his eyes that wasn’t about the good food. Cheyenne suspected he liked being a cowboy so well that moving into the bunkhouse suited him just fine.
The clink of their forks and knives as they scooped up food had a friendly tone. Molly had done a wonderful job. The meal was delicious, better honestly than the food Win made. She was an uninspired cook. Must not teach cooking in finishing school.
Molly got up and fetched a pan of apple dumplings. She brought sweetened cream to the table and started passing dessert. Cheyenne took a bite, and her admiration for Molly’s cooking grew. Maybe Molly could teach Win a few things.
Maybe she could teach Cheyenne a few things.
As they ate, Cheyenne thought of all those nights when it had just been Wyatt and her in here eating. Those had been quiet meals, and her cooking was nothing to get excited about.
It looked like there was no getting shut of this crowd, so Cheyenne grimly decided she’d accept them. She feared it would get old fast.