Eating was an act of warfare in their home, and as her family mowed through breakfast like it was the last meal they ever expected to see again, Abby nibbled the corner of a biscuit, waiting for them to finish so she could get on with her day.
Once her family had eaten everything in sight, Abigail added a fresh batch of biscuits to a basket, along with more bacon and scrambled eggs she’d hidden in the oven, and asked Emma to take the food over to Percy’s house. Then Abby dived into the cleanup and was in the middle of wiping out the cast-iron skillets when Isaac returned to the kitchen carrying his bedroll. Tossing it on the table, he grabbed his gun belt from the coatrack by the door, and strapped it on, eager to try out his newly purchased pistol. He pulled it from his holster and looked at it—again. The Colt Single Action Army revolver—the Peacemaker—was a new type of weapon and had just been released from the manufacturer earlier in the year. There was no more packing powder and ball into each of the pistol’s cylinders—with the Colt all Isaac had to do was drop in six .45 caliber metallic cartridges and he was ready to shoot.
“Why do you even bother with a pistol?” Abigail asked from the kitchen. “You can’t hit anything with it.”
Isaac frowned. “Can, too. Amos give me some pointers.”
“Blind leading the blind,” Abigail said. “If you want to learn how to shoot, you’d be better off talkin’ to Percy.”
“Why? ’Cause he rode with the Rangers for a spell? That don’t make him a crack shot.”
Abigail shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
* * *
Angered by his wife’s pessimism, Isaac shoved a couple of boxes of ammunition into his saddlebag, slung it over his shoulder, grabbed his rifle and his bedroll, and walked to the front door. With his hand on the latch, he paused for moment, hoping his wife would at least offer parting words or give him a hug before he left. But after a few moments of silence and no movement on Abigail’s part, he pushed the door open and stepped out into the dawn. “Damn that woman,” he muttered as he walked toward the barn.
While saddling his horse, Isaac’s mind drifted repeatedly to his wife. Things hadn’t been good between them for a while now. They were cordial to each other—mostly—but a man had his needs and Abigail had been less than cooperative. Yes, the birth of Amelia had been hard for Abby, but that had been seven years ago. Since then, their bedroom encounters had been few and far between and Isaac didn’t know if Abby was afraid of getting pregnant again or if it was something more. He had even thought about broaching the subject with Abby’s sister, Rachel, yet for one reason or another hadn’t. Probably because he knew what his sister-in-law’s answer would be—Tie it in a knot and quit pestering your wife. Besides, he thought, the chances of the story getting back to Abby were high and if she found out Isaac was talking about their private business, he’d catch eternal hell. With no easy answers available, Isaac climbed aboard the now-saddled horse and shoved his rifle into the scabbard. With a cluck of his tongue and a touch of his spurs, he steered the six-year-old bay gelding out of the barn.
Emma had named the horse Blaze because of the slash of white on his forehead and not because of his speed. However, Blaze had a comfortable gait and was Isaac’s preferred choice for long rides. And with his stubborn father-in-law, a long ride was almost assured.
CHAPTER 3
Percy, the oldest of the four Ridgeway siblings, felt conflicted as they worked to cut a few extra horses out of the ranch’s herd for the trip. Feeling guilty about leaving his wife, Mary, in such a terrible state, a part of him was looking forward to a day or two away from the house to clear his mind. The last few weeks had been extremely difficult, and the doctor was doing all he could, but it was clear to Percy that his wife’s condition was worsening. Physically, Mary no longer resembled the woman he had married and, the hardest part to accept, her once-active mind was dulled by an unending supply of laudanum that barely eased her pain.
Percy returned to the task at hand and spurred his gray mare into the horse herd to cut out a paint horse he enjoyed riding. Riding along beside the paint, he strung out a lasso with his rope and tossed it over the mare’s head, pulling her to a stop. Nudging the gray closer, he rubbed the paint’s neck and talked to her in a low, soothing voice. Most of those on the ranch thought Percy was crazy for choosing to ride mares, often citing their tendencies to be bad tempered and meaner than hell. But Percy found them companionable and gentle as long as they weren’t in heat. He led the paint mare over to the horse wrangler for the trip, Luis Garcia.
Luis was a short, compact Mexican man who had been born south of the border and had eventually migrated north. Percy thought he was one hell of a hand and Luis could ride anything on four legs. He shook his head as he grabbed the rope and said, “Wouldn’t hurt to pick out a gelding, Percy.”
Percy grinned and he suddenly realized that was the first time he’d felt a spark of happiness in a long while. “Always been a lady’s man, Luis.” He nodded at the paint. “That mare is as gentle as a kitten.”
“Might be, but kittens turn into cats and most are meaner than hell,” Luis said. “Some’d scratch your eyes out just for spite.”
Percy widened his eyes and pointed at his face. “Still got two good ones.” Percy laughed as he turned his horse. Tall at six-three, Percy had his father’s dark hair and his mother’s lean frame. Rangy and strong, his smooth and graceful movements often appeared effortless to others and he was smarter than most, allowing him to quickly adapt to any situation. With wide-set shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist, Percy disliked shaving and only accomplished the task every couple of weeks when he got tired of the stubble.
Deciding the two horses would be enough, he rode toward his father, who was sitting his big white gelding, Snowball, watching the men pick out their mounts. A big man needed a big horse, and Snowball was one of the largest saddle horses on the ranch, measuring over seventeen hands tall. Percy reined to a stop and said, “What happens if these rustlers turn out to be a couple of Comanches?”
Without turning, Cyrus said, “Don’t matter. A thief’s a thief.”
Percy, continually frustrated by his father’s unbending will, said, “You willing to start an Indian war over a couple of steers?”
Cyrus turned to look at his son. “What would you do? Just let ’em ride off with them cattle with no punishment? We do that and we won’t have any cattle left fore long.”
“I’m not sayin’ we do nothing. But hangin’ a couple of Comanches might not be too smart on our part. Might spark a shootin’ war.”
Cyrus turned and looked off to the west, toward the heart of what was still Comanche territory, a scant few miles away. “Injun war’s already a-brewin’ and it ain’t got nothin’ to do with cattle.” He turned back to Percy. “Besides, it ain’t Comanches. Wilcox claims the rustlers headed north, across the river. Might be Injuns, but it ain’t Comanche. Far as I know, ain’t many of ’em on the reservation.”
Percy sagged in the saddle a little. Moses Wilcox could track a gnat across a desert. And if he said the rustlers went north then they went north. And just about every time they’d ridden into Indian Territory bad things had happened. “So, we’re headed north?”
“Looks like,” Cyrus said. He pulled out his pouch of Bull Durham and began rolling a cigarette. As if reading Percy’s mind, he said, “Ain’t my favorite direction of travel, neither. But ain’t much we can do about it.” Cyrus licked the edge of the paper and ran his finger along the seam before putting the cigarette in his mouth. He pulled a match from his pocket, flicked the head with his thumbnail, and lit up. As the smoke curled out of his nostrils, he watched as the last of the hands rode in with their preferred mounts.
“Eli staying back?” Percy asked.
“Yep, as usual,” Cyrus said. “Boy ain’t got a lick of fight in ’im.” He took another drag from his cigarette and the smoke danced around his bearded mouth when he said,