Reaching inside Jennie lifted out two envelopes. The first had never been opened, addressed to her from her mother, Olivia Wilson Jones. From the second, she removed the telegram that had come two years before her father’s death. She stared at the black, unemotional type, her chest constricting at the recollection. She could still picture the way her father’s face had crumpled into tears when he’d read the few words.
OLIVIA DEAD STOP CONSUMPTION CITED AS CAUSE STOP
No other details from her mother’s sister. No condolences for a grieving husband and children. Nothing.
Jennie felt moisture on her face and realized she’d started to cry. Rubbing away the tears with the back of one hand, she returned both envelopes to the trunk.
Twice she’d survived the heartache and pain of her mother leaving: first from the ranch and then in death. I made it through then, and I can do it again. I won’t give up like she did.
After closing the trunk, Jennie extinguished the lamp and slipped into bed. Grandma Jones’s words from earlier repeated in her mind: I’m even more proud of you for asking Mr. Johnson to help. Asking others for help was something your mother never quite learned to do.
“But I don’t really need to ask others for help,” she whispered into the dark. “Not really. Not when I can handle things myself.”
Most of the time, she refused assistance, especially from those she loved. In that, perhaps she and her mother weren’t so different after all. But her mother hadn’t been able to handle things here. Jennie could. And would. With that resolution in mind, Jennie turned onto her side and tried to sleep.
* * *
Leaving the stuffiness of the barn, Caleb shut the double doors and breathed in the cool evening air. His first day on the ranch had mirrored those of his youth on his father’s farm. He’d repaired the roofs on the house and barn and mended a hole in the loft. Jennie had told him at supper they would go round up the calves from off their range in two days. The delay before dealing with the herd suited Caleb just fine. Though he hadn’t taken to farming, even with his own parcel of land, he preferred those familiar tasks over wrangling cattle.
A series of gunshots to his left made him spin around and reach for his holster out of habit before remembering he’d stowed his guns in his room. Then he saw Will, shooting at cans along the fence line.
Taking off his hat, Caleb wiped at the sweat on his forehead with his shirtsleeve and strode toward the boy. Four cans sat in a row on the top rail of the fence. The scene provoked memories of countless evenings spent shooting targets with his uncle.
“How many did you hit?” Caleb asked.
Will frowned. “None.”
“Let’s see.”
The boy reloaded his revolver and aimed. He fired all six rounds at the cans, but every shot missed its mark.
“I can’t even shoot one.” Will growled in disgust and started for the house.
“Hold up, Will.” Caleb motioned him back. “Try it again, but this time remember to relax. If you’re too stiff, you’re going to jerk and that throws your aim off.”
With a sigh, Will stalked over to him. He reloaded his gun and lifted his arm.
“You relaxed?”
“I guess so.”
Caleb studied the boy’s stance. “Let your shoulders drop a little more.” Will obeyed. “Now make sure you bury your first sight in the second one when you aim.”
Will stared down the barrel of the gun and adjusted the height of his arm.
“All right,” Caleb said with a nod. “Take a nice even breath, and when you feel ready, go ahead.”
Will fired the revolver and a can flew into the air. “I got one.” He grinned at Caleb over his shoulder before shooting again. This time the bullet flew wild. “What’d I do wrong that time?”
Caleb chuckled. “You just gotta practice relaxing and getting your sights lined up. Then you’ll be able to hit all four cans in seconds. May I?” He extended his hand toward Will’s gun.
“Sure.” The boy placed the gun in Caleb’s grasp. “You wanna try all four?”
“You bet. I’ve got to show you how’s it done.”
Will slipped between the fence posts to retrieve the can he’d hit. He set it up beside the others and returned to Caleb’s side.
Caleb aimed the gun at the first can, his eyes narrowing. His mind cleared and instinct replaced thoughts. He squeezed the trigger and shot the first can from the post with a satisfying crack of metal on metal. He dropped the second and third cans just as quickly.
He paused for a split second to readjust his aim and squeezed the trigger, but the last can shot up into the air before he could hit it. His bullet sailed over the empty fence post. Turning his head, he saw Jennie lower her pistol to her side, a pleased smile on her face.
“Thought I needed some help?” he teased.
“No. I thought I’d join in the fun.” She walked over to them.
“Caleb was helping me,” Will said. “I even hit a can off myself.”
“That’s great, Will.” Jennie glanced from him to Caleb. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” He liked the note of admiration he heard in her question.
“My uncle was a sheriff up north. Whenever he came to visit, he’d take me out back and make me target practice until we couldn’t see the cans in the dark.” Caleb passed the revolver back to Will. “Keep at it, Will, and you’ll be a crack shot like your sister.”
Will beamed and hurried back to the fence to set up the cans again. Caleb started for the house. Jennie fell into step beside him.
“Thanks...for teaching him,” she said, her voice low.
Caleb turned to see Will taking aim. “Mind my asking why you haven’t taught him?”
“I guess I didn’t see the need. He’s not quite fifteen.”
“Every young man wants to learn to shoot.” He allowed her to go ahead of him up the porch steps. “He’d probably prove to be a real good cowhand, too, if given the chance.”
Jennie clenched her jaw. He’d made a mistake telling her what to do.
“Not that I want him taking over my job, mind you,” Caleb quickly added with a smile.
Her face relaxed as she stepped through the front door. “You know anything about roping?”
“Sure. I roped stumps as a child. Even caught the family dog a time or two.”
Jennie laughed as she shut the door behind them. Caleb liked the singsong inflection. He hadn’t made a pretty girl laugh in a long time.
“I meant, have you ever roped something moving?” she asked.
“You should’ve seen how that dog ran.”
She shook her head, her brown eyes still bright with amusement. “Have you used a lasso before?”
“Not exactly,” he said, “but I can assure you, Miss Jones, I can handle any job you throw at me.” Compared to bounty hunting, cattle ranching looked as simple as babysitting a bunch of cows.
Her eyebrows lifted. “Well, then. Let’s see how well you do tomorrow. You can practice with a lasso and a sawhorse.”
“Sounds easy enough.”
* * *
The next morning he opened his door to find a bright bandanna, a lasso and a newer pair of boots waiting for him on the landing. Slipping back