Hoping to ease the mood, he kept his voice light. “Mine neither, but I can’t say I mind.”
“I do.”
“It’s a pretty day.”
“It’s too warm.”
She’d disagree with whatever he said, so he said nothing. After a mile, he glanced at her profile. Her gaze had the stonelike quality he’d seen in the eyes of inmates with the longest sentences and the least amount of hope. He’d kept his distance from Josie out of respect, but now he wondered if he’d made a mistake. All that anger was simmering. A good stew got better with a time on the fire, but coffee burned and turned bitter.
Josie needed to empty her coffeepot, so to speak. If she couldn’t do it herself, Ty would do it for her. The worst thing about prison for Ty had been the helplessness. That’s why the Sunday services in the dining hall had appealed to him. His renewed faith had given him a sense of purpose. Josie had the ranch to fight for, but he had the feeling she really wanted to fight with him. If she needed a sparring partner, he’d be glad to oblige. He’d been a cocky kid. He could be an equally cocky man. “Give it up, Josie. If you want to yell at me, just do it.”
“Who says I want to yell?”
“I do.”
“Drop it, Ty. You don’t know me anymore.”
But he did… If there was one thing that got Josie fired up, it was women’s rights. He agreed—women were as capable as men—but he didn’t mind using politics to rile her. “Come on, Josie. Admit it. Running the ranch is too much for you.”
Her gaze slid in his direction. “Considering the winter, I’ve done just fine.”
“I guess. But it’s a big job for a woman.”
“It’s a big job for anyone.”
“But especially a woman,” he insisted. “Especially a single woman.”
Josie’s jaw tensed. “I’ll have you know, a single woman can manage as well as a man.”
“Maybe, but it’s not a woman’s place. Women are better suited to cooking and darning socks…picking flowers…reading silly poetry. They like stuff that doesn’t take a lot of thought.”
Josie glared at him. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“You’re trying to make me mad.”
“Is it working?”
“Hardly.”
“Why not give it a try?”
“Because I don’t want to.” She turned her gaze back to the road, a sign she was finished with the conversation.
He’d have preferred a tongue lashing to her silence, but silence was what she gave him. It lasted all the way to the church, until he halted the mule in front of the steps leading to the wide porch. He came around the carriage and offered his hand.
She took it as if he were a distant cousin. “You’re welcome to join me, of course. I sit in the third row.”
“I remember.” The Bright family had occupied the third row as long as Ty had known them.
Josie turned and went up the three steps. Ty drove the carriage to the field where families left their rigs, then he walked back to the church and slipped inside. He saw Josie’s green hat and a space next to her, but he didn’t want to draw attention. Instead he slid into the back pew.
When the organist struck the opening chords of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” Ty stood with the congregation. He’d sung the hymn in prison and liked it, but today it sounded all wrong. The voices should have been deep and male. Instead he heard the birdsong of Josie’s soprano and he remembered… The last time they’d been in this church had been the Wednesday before the wedding. Reverend Hall had told them what to expect during the ceremony, then he’d counseled them in God’s plan for marriage. He’d talked about wives respecting their husbands and husbands loving their wives. He’d also told Ty to put his dirty socks in the laundry and to bring his wife a gift now and then. He’d told Josie to laugh at Ty’s jokes, even the silly ones, and to appreciate his hard work.
Last, he’d said words Ty would never forget.
Don’t let the sun go down on your anger.
Josie had been angry with him for five years. All that time, her bitterness had been festering. If she’d smiled in the past two weeks, he couldn’t remember it. Bitterness did that to a person. Ty knew, because he’d felt its grip in prison. He’d been wrong to go after the Scudders, but the judge and jury had been harsh. Not until he’d forgiven everyone—the jury, himself, even God—had he found peace.
Josie needed that same surrender. With the hymn filling the church, Ty bowed his head and prayed. Please help her, Lord. She needs to forgive me as much as I need to be forgiven.
The ponderous hymn droned to a close. Ty usually appreciated the gravity of it, but today he felt burdened. The church felt too crowded, too full of goodness and hope, so he slipped out the door before the congregation sang the final “amen.” He couldn’t do anything for Josie except win the race, so he headed to the livery to see Wayne. Hungry for silence, he walked the long way instead of cutting through town. When he arrived at the livery barn, he felt steadier.
Wayne saw him first. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“Sir?” Ty laughed. “It’s me—”
“Ty Donner!” Wayne crossed the barn, shook Ty’s hand and clapped him on the back. The livery owner was as strong as ever, though his hair had signs of gray. “When’d you get out?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“It’s about time.” Wayne shook his head. “You paid a terrible price for shooting a horse thief. Do you need a place to stay? How about a job? How long are you staying, anyhow?”
Ty grinned. “You always did ask a lot of questions.”
“So answer ’em.”
“I’m working for the Brights, and I’m staying as long as it takes to help Josie get on her feet.”
Wayne’s expression sobered. “The Bright women have had a hard time, first Jeremiah and then Nate. Josie’s working herself to the bone.”
“That’s going to change,” Ty answered. “I’m working for them now. If I can win the Maze, Josie can restock and hire decent help.”
Wayne raised his brows. “The Maze, huh? What are you riding?”
“Smoke.”
“Well, how do you do!” the man exclaimed. “It’s going to be a glory of a horse race.”
“Where do I sign up?” Ty asked.
“Follow me.”
Wayne led him to the back room he used for an office, opened a ledger and wrote Ty’s name and the date. The race didn’t require an entry fee, which meant there would be a wide range of horses and riders. Ty craned his neck to see the list of names, but Wayne’s printing looked like chicken scratches. He gave up and asked, “Who all is riding?”
Wayne went down the list, describing every horse and rider. Ty recognized most of them, but two stood out. Grant Harper, an Englishman, bred Arabians in addition to running cattle. He’d be riding to win, and he had horses that could do it. The second name made Ty see red. Obie Jones had tossed his hat into the ring, but he hadn’t listed a horse.
“What’s Obie riding?” Ty asked.
“He said he was still sorting that out.”
The more information Ty had, the more prepared he’d be if Obie caused trouble. “Where’s