Trip shrugged. “He’ll probably try to get himself a herd and start a cattle outfit of some kind.”
Paulie shook her head. Men definitely lacked imagination! “We’ve already got more cows than sense around here. Why doesn’t he try growin’ turnips or something useful?”
At her peculiar question, Trip staggered slightly and nearly fell off the lowest step of the Dry Wallow’s porch. The effort it took to right himself seemed to put him in mind of another puzzling question that had thrown him off balance. “Say, I wonder what Will’s gonna think about Mary Ann’s gettin’ married.”
Will! Paulie had been wondering the same thing herself. Will Brockett had been sweet on Mary Ann Redfern for years, which was no mystery—every man within three counties was sweet on pretty Mary Ann. But Will had the edge over all the others because not only was he good-looking, he was also a friend of the family. Shoot, while old Gerald Redfern had been alive, Will had been like a member of the family. He lived at the Redfern place, worked there, and was a favorite of Gerald’s. Gerald had been a lawyer back in Louisiana who through some misplaced romanticism had decided late in life to try his hand at ranching out West. Everyone knew that there was no man the Redferns would rather see Mary Ann hitched to than Will.
But Gerald had been gone for three years, dead of pneumonia. A year later his wife had married a man, Mr. Breen, who raised a lot of chickens, and Will had started driving cattle up to Kansas every season. Every winter, he had the dubious distinction of being Possum Trot’s sheriff.
But he was, to Paulie’s mind, the best-looking thing that ever wore boots, on top of being her favorite person in the whole world. Seven months he had been gone, and every hour of every day of every month had held a twinge of lonesomeness without him there. Paulie was beginning to think the hollow feeling in her chest was bound to be permanent. “Will’s been gone so long, he might never be coming back,” she said mournfully.
“Oh, I guess we’ll see him soon enough,” Trip said. “In Fort Stockton I heard that he’d been seen over in San Antonio.”
Paulie sucked in a sharp breath. The news almost made her light-headed. “Will, back in Texas?” she asked, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice.
“High time. He’s been gone since spring.”
And now it was November. That meant Will would probably stick on his badge and winter in Possum Trot again. It wasn’t much of a town, so they didn’t really need a sheriff, but it was nice to have one occasionally. Especially with that outlaw Night Bird prowling around. Especially when the sheriff was Will Brockett!
Of course, in Paulie’s opinion, the man could just sit on the Dry Wallow’s porch all day whittling a stick and she’d still call him brilliant. She had been sweet on Will Brockett since she’d first clapped eyes on him. But she’d been a little kid then, and he hadn’t paid attention to her. Then, as she grew older, and even after her father died and left her the Dry Wallow saloon, he seemed to view her more as a figure of fun than of romance. He liked to banter with her, but she knew he didn’t take her seriously.
“Good old Will.” She sighed as her heart fluttered in her chest.
But Trip was once again preoccupied with the topic of the century. “I still can’t believe Mary Ann couldn’t do no better than Oat Murphy,” he said, tugging at one corner of his bushy mustache. He took one of the porch steps and nearly landed flat on his face. “It’s got me thinkin’ though.”
“About what?” Paulie asked, barely able to get her mind off Will for one minute. He’d been seen already...in San Antonio! She felt like dancing a whoop-de-jig,
“Well...” Trip conjectured slowly, “if Oat can win a girl like Mary Ann, seems like I should at least be able to rate Tessie Hale.”
Paulie rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Trip, I bet Tessie Hale’s been waiting for you to propose to her since I was in diapers. I swear, you men are so thick it’s a wonder anything can stir you up. I’m surprised that poor widow didn’t despair and propose to Oat herself years ago.”
Trip’s eyes widened in panic at the notion. “That would be terrible!”
“Well relax, it can’t happen now.”
He let out a breath. “That’s right. Oat’s married to Mary Ann.”
It was such a hard idea to swallow! Beautiful, spoiled Mary Ann and Oat Murphy!
“I wonder what made her do it,” Paulie said, joining Trip in rumination. Will would surely be disappointed to find his sweetheart married to a toothless old whiskey man.
“People are sayin’ that Mary Ann started gettin’ restless. She never did like that chicken rancher stepfather of hers none. Called him Mr. Chicken. They’re. also sayin’ that maybe she got scared with Night Bird in the area and all, on account of her blond hair. She thought he’d prize her scalp.”
“She would!” Paulie scoffed. “Mary Ann thinks everybody loves that yellow hair of hers. Trouble is, nobody seems to hold it in as much esteem as Mary Ann does herself.”
Trip laughed. “Still and all, somebody said she was afraid Night Bird was going to come after her.”
At the thought of the mysterious Comanche renegade who had been plaguing the area, Paulie let out a sigh of thanks that he had caused her no harm—yet. Twice she had awakened in the night, only to discover the next morning that there were bottles missing from the bar downstairs. Given the Indian’s reputation, she would gladly sacrifice a few bottles in exchange for her scalp.
Except now Oat wasn’t ever going to bring a shipment. That was troubling. Her stock was running low. Business had declined with Night Bird roaming the area, but it would slam to an absolute standstill if she had nothing to sell.
Yet it was hard to keep her mind on those problems for two minutes. Will was coming home!
And now, without Mary Ann to distract him, maybe he would notice her more, Paulie thought. She looked down at her rough clothes—men’s clothes—and began to worry. Will had always made fun of her for dressing like a man, and now she didn’t have anything else to wear. Coincidentally, Trip was giving himself a good onceover, too—no doubt wondering what the widow Hale would think of the worn-out rags he called clothes. Not much, Paulie was sure. She and Trip had fallen a few notches below stylishness sometime in the past decade.
“I wonder if Dwight has any duds my size,” Trip said. He was tall and lanky and always looked awkward in the clothes he got from Dwight’s Mercantile, the only other business in Possum Trot.
“I know he doesn’t have a dress,” Paulie said with a little despair.
“What call would I have for one of those things?” Trip asked.
“I meant for me, chowderhead.”
Trip’s eyes widened. “A dress? Why, you haven’t worn one of those since...” He scratched his head. “Since I don’t know when!”
“My last one split a seam back in seventy-eight.” She shrugged. She’d never been handy with a needle, and so never replaced the dress. Instead, she wore boots, breeches, and plain cotton shirts, just like all the men who came into the Dry Wallow saloon. Of course, her father wouldn’t have approved, but he’d been gone six years now. And the change in her apparel had proved good for business. After a while, people got used to seeing her dressed that way, and became more comfortable doing business with an eccentric woman than a feminine one. She owned the only saloon for thirty miles, and business thrived.
As had her feelings for Will Brockett. She wished she could do something that would make him sit up and take notice of her. “I wish my hair was blond instead of dirtcolored.” Mary Ann’s hair was the color of corn silk.
Trip assessed her appearance,