Arness shuffled off, and a few moments later Gray heard the sound of receding hoofbeats. He shut the front door, locked it and moved into the kitchen. Halfway across the floor to the pantry he stumbled into Clarissa, with a heavy iron skillet gripped in one hand.
“Where’s Emily?” he barked.
“In—in the pantry.”
“How come you aren’t?”
“Well, I—I thought...”
He lifted the skillet out of her hand. “You thought I might need some help, is that it?”
“I th-thought you might want—”
He was trying hard to be angry at her, but the truth was he was touched. Darn fool woman. “Get Emily and go upstairs,” he said more brusquely than he intended.
She snapped to attention. “Yes, sir, Mister Harris, sir. I was only trying to—”
“Get yourself kidnapped or killed,” he grumbled. She said nothing, but he could hear her ragged breathing in the dark.
“Sorry, Clarissa. Go on to bed now. You know you’re safe here.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “I know. Thank you.”
Gray reined Rowdy around to face the tall, skinny ranch hand they all called Shorty. “Shorty, grab that roll of barbwire, will ya?”
“Sure, boss. Done rounded up all those cows that got out yesterday. Any idea what happened?”
“Same as last month. Arness and his crew of rustlers is what happened.”
“They cut the fence and try to take cows,” Ramon said. “But we see them.”
“We run ’em off,” Gray’s newest hand, Nebraska, chimed in. “And then we took out after the cattle.”
“Thanks, fellas,” Gray said. The new kid might be wet behind the ears, but he could sure ride. “Glad you work for me and not Arness.”
“I’m glad, too, boss. Don’t like cheaters or people who steal. Back in Nebraska we string ’em up.”
Shorty scratched his head. “Boss, how come Arness keeps doin’ us dirt? What’s he got against you?”
Gray spit off to one side. “He wants my ranch to fail. Wants me to go under.”
“Some reason?” the tall man queried.
“Guess maybe because I beat him out of buyin’ the place for himself when it came up for auction some years ago. Arness wanted it, but I’d saved up more money.”
“And now,” Ramon interjected, “he wants the señorita who lives here.”
Nebraska pricked up his big ears. “Might be that women are more important than cows, huh?”
“Way more important,” Shorty answered.
“Knock it off!” Gray snapped. “Got fences to mend.”
All four riders spurred their mounts and moved off into the meadow. Shaking his head, Nebraska followed with the wagonload of barbwire. Gray rode on ahead. Losing the number of cows he had this past year was making him plenty nervous. On the drive to Abilene, rustlers had made off with close to seventy head; he couldn’t afford to lose any more.
* * *
That evening the hands were lounging around the bunkhouse after the chores were done when Maria accosted Gray on the front porch.
“Señor Gray, Sunday is May first. We go to picnic, no?”
“No.” Ranch work was more important than picnics.
Maria peered at him. “The girl, Emily, she would like it.”
“Yeah, she probably would, Maria, but we’ve got calves to brand and—”
Maria propped her hands on her hips.
“Señor, is no work on Sunday. Is May Day.”
“Yeah, I know. So what? A ranch doesn’t care what day it is.”
“Señor, you think too much about ranch work. Think of Emily! She knows nothing of ranch work. She is a small child only. She deserves to have fun, is true?”
Gray sighed. In the five years he’d owned the Bar H, he’d never won a single argument with Maria. You’d think he’d have learned that by now. He threw up his hands. “Okay, okay. Make that chocolate cake you’re so famous for, huh?”
“Oh, si, Señor Gray. Gracias.”
* * *
“A picnic!” Emily squealed. “A real picnic with potato salad and everything?”
Gray set his coffee mug down on the supper table. “Yeah, ‘and everything.’ Would you like that?”
“And ice cream?”
Gray had to laugh. “Maybe.”
Clarissa sent him a pensive look. “I don’t have a recipe for potato salad.”
“Nobody has a recipe for potato salad,” he said. “You just boil up some eggs and some potatoes and mix ’em up together with some onion and a chopped pickle or two. And some salt,” he added. He was relieved when she laughed.
Emily patted his arm. “Are you gonna tell me a story tonight?”
“Maybe. Have you been a good girl today?”
“Not ’xactly, but I want a story, anyway.”
“How ’bout if your mama tells you a story tonight?”
“No!” the girl sang. “Mama’s stories aren’t exciting, like yours.”
That caught his interest. “Not exciting?” He caught Clarissa’s gaze. “Living in a big city like Boston isn’t exciting?”
“Not exciting the way things are out here in Smoke River,” Clarissa said. “Life in Boston is more...well, civilized. You know, with libraries and concerts and museums.”
“Man, I never thought of libraries and museums as bein’ exciting!”
Clarissa’s voice rose. “But they are!”
“Can’t wait to get back there, huh?”
Clarissa opened her mouth to reply, but Emily cut her off. “I can wait! I like it out here lots better.”
Gray stuffed down a chuckle. “Clarissa, looks like you’ve been outvoted.”
“About the picnic, yes. About going home to Boston—never. All I need is enough money for a train ticket.”
Gray said nothing. It wasn’t surprising that she wanted to go back to Boston; what was surprising was his reaction. He didn’t want to think about the stab of disappointment that knifed through his chest.
Emily tugged on his sleeve. “Please, Mister Gray, tell me a story about you.”
“Listen, Squirt, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you a story if your mama tells one, too.” He glanced up at Clarissa. “Well, how about it?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do any such thing,” she began.
“Why not? Doesn’t have to be about libraries or museums, does it?”
“Tell about when you an’ Papa were little,” Emily begged.
Gray stood up. “And