“The Lawman.”
Ezra grimaced, cigarette between his teeth, and Willie seemed unsure what to say.
“Don’t you dare give me any more promises.” I shoved a hammer in the crook beneath my shoulder, anger flashing hot along my back.
Stot hollered then that it was time to raise the side and methodically explained everyone’s roles. Some nodded, but not everyone wanted to listen to reason from the Lawman. I noticed Ezra’s lip curling in judgment, others wide eyed with nerves, sweaty handsbrushing their trousers. Stot played well the brigand: never smiling, boots heavy against the dusty ground, palm resting atop the wooden handle of his Peacemaker. I dug my woolen mittens from my pocket and tugged them on, my hands raw and knobby; then I gripped a plank, the raw oak the undertone of wheatgrass.
Stot directed everyone to lift—there was chatter and grunting and the cascade of music, strands of hair escaping my twist, unfiltered light slashing our hands. We pushed up the side, Stot guiding how to tug the ropes and pulleys, and soon enough we raised the wall. Some held it upright as others hammered. Stot crouched several paces away, a few nails in his mouth. He aligned a hammer, his biceps straining against flannel, and caught my gaze across the grid of wood.
“You alright over yonder, outlaw?” I asked.
The lady behind me sucked in a breath, and a couple of men nervously laughed. Stot stood, lined up another nail. His eyes crinkled, just slightly, at the corners. “Actually, can you hold the wall for me, right here?”
I bit my lip, tasting the salt of sweat, and stood before him, my hands pressing the wood upright, everyone watching him. Of course they did, he was so blustery and bold. Different from everyone else—a tale just waiting to happen. I understood then the tall tales of Paul Bunyan or Pecos Bill, those men larger than life, who spit lightning across the sky and dragged down the stars as a blanket. Such presences that made stories. I glanced over my shoulder. He pulled another nail from his mouth, his gaze sliding down my face. I gulped a bucketful of winter air.
After a time, I walked to the refreshments, straightening my skirt, altogether too hot. Lord have mercy, it was tricky as a thorny bramble to be near him. I flung fiery banter at everyone, but with him—my taunting became molten. I must figure a way to exist with him, for his sweetheart waited, somewhere.
I scooped the ladle into the water bucket, and Willie joined me. He bumped me with his shoulder. “You know I love you—told you about that stallion, didn’t I?”
I hesitated, then bumped back his shoulder.
“But what are you going on about, anyhow,” Willie said, “being so friendly with the Lawman? After months battling these plains, you still have that death wish?”
I lifted the well water to my mouth, sipped. “Naturally.”
“You hear of that shoot-out by the township of Bison, day before yesterday? Couple cattlehands met a violent end.” Willie gnawed tobacco, his mustache bobbing. His fussy cobalt and copper silk tie knotted loose. “Rumor goes it was Bitter Creek—but could’ve just been some hell-fired vigilantes. This vendetta between the Lawman and the bunch is a’brewing.” His gaze roamed the crowd. I took a sip of water. “Folks say,” Willie continued, “I reckon you’ve heard tell, that the Lawman murdered some woman and her baby.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Well, that’s what many a feller declare.”
“He’s complicated,” I said. “But he’s not cruel.”
I couldn’t believe Stot would hurt a woman and her baby—there must be more to the story. Willie took off his hat, scraped back his flop of wheat-brown hair. “You sure about that notion?”
“When have I ever been sure of anything?” I dropped the ladle in the bucket. “And what’s got you prying? Of everyone, you’ve always joined me in havoc.”
He resettled his hat, a showy sunburst motif burnt round the brim. “This one’s dark.”
He strode away. I didn’t know Stot’s story. Had no idea why I’d found him by the water’s edge the week before, shot up by bandits. But—did it matter? What were tales but one person’s perspective? Dreams and phantoms. Even the stories I told myself of my own past, the stories I’d told myself the length of my life, all those stories had been delusions. If I could lie to myself, well then, surely everyone lied. Stot’s past probablywasfull of depravity. I just wasn’t sure it mattered anymore.
Who’d helped dig my well?
If not for Stot, I’d still be ladling out the piles of earth with my soup can. I didn’t know Stot’s secrets, but I knew he would be neighborly. At least for a little while. And a little while was all I needed anyhow.
After sweat and hollers and a thread of too-thin jokes, we finally had the sides raised. We’d done it, the barn lifted against the colorless winter sky. Willie picked up his banjo and charmed the crowd with his crooning. And we celebrated: cider and cellar-cold apples and pie. Ezra halted beside me, removing his gloves. He didn’t say anything.
The last time we’d built a barn together, I’d painted the dormers white with a flat, bristly brush. Below our expansive live oak, Ma showed Magnolia how to cut dough for pie, Ma’s red gingham apron the anchoring color of the memory. I leaned close to keep my paint strokes straight, Ezra correcting my every move from a pace away. Since he’d finished schooling that spring, his irritability shifted to downright cruelty.
“Don’t need supervision,” I told him.
His bowler hat shaded his eyes, the bottom half of his face reddened in the thick sunshine. “Girls need a man’s direction.”
“Wait a minute, now.” Pa wiped sweat from his brow, his saw hanging at his side. “We don’t talk to womenfolk like such in this house.”
Ezra lifted his chin, his black mustache bushy. They argued, Pa shaking his head, saying he hadn’t raised his children to be cruel. I should feel wretched that a wedge drove between the two of them on my behalf—but I felt safeguarded. I knew men could be vicious. I just hadn’t realized that the men I should avoid might be my own kin.
On Olive’s homestead, Ezra stood beside me, the same soot-colored bowler hat casting darkness on his scowl. I pressed back my hair. “What is it?”
