“So what are you waiting for?” Mr. Collins checked his pocket watch again. “In ten minutes.”
“Just what you think. Mail order.”
“From Chicago.”
“From New York.”
The station agent whistled softly. “We take a lot of orders shipped from Chicago, St. Louis, even Philadelphia. New York is just about as rare these days as Paris, France. ’Course we do take delivery of books from Mr. Coltrane. He sends them regular. You heard of Nat Church? Whole series of dime novels about his adventures. Everyone in town reads them.”
“Read them at the ranch, too.”
“Is that right? Well, we get them from New York.”
“Huh.” Morgan shifted, crossed his ankles. He peered down at his boots. They were scuffed and dull with dust. He had not taken time to give them a shine. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; he hadn’t wanted to be late. He considered giving them a spit and polish now but decided against it. He told himself that he would rather be judged for who he was than who he was pretending to be. It might even be the truth.
Morgan removed his hat, knocked it against his thigh a couple of times to dislodge dust, and raked his hair with his fingers before he returned the Stetson to his head.
“Funny thing how my mind plays tricks,” said Mr. Collins. “I didn’t recollect that you were a redhead. Folks ever call you Red?”
“Never twice.”
There was a pause, then, “Oh.”
Satisfied, one corner of Morgan’s mouth lifted a fraction. The expression faded a moment later when the station agent had more to say on the subject.
“I’m thinking maybe I never saw you without your hat. There’s more orange under that Stetson than red anyway. Seems like I would remember that properly.”
“Seems like.”
Jefferson Collins rubbed the back of his head where his own hair was thinning. He sighed and dropped his hand back to the countertop. “You staying in town long?”
“Haven’t decided.”
“I like to recommend the Pennyroyal if you care to take your dinner here. Ida Mae serves good fare.”
“I’m familiar with Mrs. Sterling’s cooking.”
On the verge of another question, Mr. Collins’s lips parted. They closed again, this time in a firm line when his grandsons raced past the window. He blinked once, and then they were pushing their way into the station office.
Morgan felt the telltale rumble under his boot heels before the boys pounded down the platform. He was on his feet by the time Rabbit and Finn worked out the contortions necessary for both boys to burst into the room simultaneously.
“Train’s comin’!” Rabbit announced.
Finn echoed his older brother, but while Rabbit delivered the message to his grandfather, Finn had turned sharply at the point of entry and spoke to Morgan Longstreet.
It went through Morgan’s mind that it was easier to hold ground in the face of stampeding cattle. The enthusiasm of two boys was a force to be reckoned with.
Morgan looked from Finn to Rabbit and back again. He imagined that at one time the boys were a closely matched pair of towheads, but the couple of years that Rabbit had on his brother had darkened his hair, broadened his shoulders, and added several inches to his height. Finn would grow, but he might never catch up.
Morgan hadn’t.
Finn stopped toe-to-toe with Morgan Longstreet. “Train’s comin’,” he said again, this time an echo of himself. “You want some help? I saw right off that you didn’t bring any hands with you.”
“Just my own,” said Morgan. He set those hands on Finn’s narrow shoulders.
Finn grinned. “You know what I mean, Mr. Longstreet. Your ranch hands.”
“I know what you mean.”
