Olive unfolded her knife. “Hear there’s to be watermelon and gingersnaps.”
“Someone has molasses?”
She pressed her blade into the seam of the walnut. “That’s the story.”
After we’d shucked the pail of walnuts, and Olive blessedly cleaned my butter separator, leaving the pieces to dry on a cloth, we reclined against the bleached oak planks of my shack, the long wild rye tossing in the wind. A red dust cloud toppled across the meadow, obscuring the tree line. Olive opened the folds of gingham to reveal popcorn balls, her demeanor tranquil but her eyes solemn.
“What’s troubling you?” I asked.
She snapped her gaze to mine. “What do you mean?”
“You’re upset about something.”
She wiped beneath her eyes, sweat highlighting her cheekbones. “You hear talk of those missing cowboys?”
Warmth shot up my spine. No one had spoken of the cowboys in months—I’d hoped interest in the story had finally dwindled, that I was free of those awful men. If provoked, if this story started swarming, theLawman would surely offer me up to slaughter. Why had I assumed a renegade could be trustworthy? There was no loyalty between us.
I forced my hands to unclench. “What’s in the wind?”
Olive fiddled with the ribbon ties of her ivy-patterned bonnet. “Seen you out riding with the Lawman. You’re friendly with him?”
Course we weren’t friends, but Stot was useful on a hunt. And he’d re-sided my shack. “He’s helpful round my homestead,” I said.
“Just plain reckless to run about with him.”
I coughed a brittle laugh. Reckless was all I was, all I had left.
Olive scraped at mud caked on the arch of her foot. Was she insinuating that he was responsible for the missing cowboys? I liked her like this—not just the pristine, competent homesteader but someone with edge and dust. A woman full of her own opinions—even if she was wrong.
“I do appreciate your concern,” I said, “but I left Kansas because I tired of folks bossing me about.”
Olive scratched down her neck. “Right.”
I could tell she was annoyed—but I’d fought for my independence. I didn’t want others judging me. “And he’s not all bad,” I said.
“So you believe people are shades of gray?” She straightened the swoop of her ruffled collar.
I tended to sift humanity into two categories: full of shadows or full of light. As either a risk to me—or me, a risk to them. In my pocket, I gripped the curved bow of my key. “Actually, I see saints or sinners.”
“We’re not all one or the other, though, right?”
“No. I forget that.”
She grabbed a popcorn ball, handed one to me. I tasted the luxurious sweetness of the treat, my land fading in the distance, my thoughts muddled up with worry.
“I’ve seen your ease with horses.” Olive rubbed her thumb along an eyebrow. “Thad’s talking tales of joining a cattle drive come summer.”
“He can ride?” I asked. “Knows horses?”
“Fair enough.” She knocked her head back and forth. “As children, Asa and I were enslaved on the same plantation. He labored in thestables. But after we escaped—we haven’t had much notion to spend time round horses.”
“You fled during the war?”
“Yes.” She grasped the edges of her rounded collar, knuckles tight. “Now I’m looking to the future.”
When I mourned, folks’ condolences or questions made the suffering worse, so I just sat with her a moment, waited. Hanging from the rafters, bags of geese feathers, curing for pillows, warmed in the sunshine. She didn’t say any more.
“Send Thad on over,” I said. “I’ll teach him some ranching skills, so he’s not a tenderfoot.”
