Hanna untied the sash of the pinafore and slipped it off, uncovering the threadbare calico dress beneath. She could see that the pinafore was ruined. And new clothes cost money the family didn’t have. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she said. “I needed to wet down blankets so the men could fight the fire. The blankets were dirty. What could I do?”
“I suppose you could’ve taken the pinafore off and put it out of the way. But that might be asking too much of a young girl with other things on her mind.” Inga held up the pinafore, examined the soot stains, shook her head again, and rolled it into a ball. “So, did you have a good time at the dance?”
“It was . . . all right.”
“And did you behave yourself?”
“Of course, Mama.” Hanna knew better than to talk about the handsome, well-dressed man who’d almost kissed her. As for the news about Lillian’s accident and the rancher who’d rescued her, that would be best passed on by her father.
“Let me wash up, and I’ll set the table.” She dipped enough water into a shallow basin to get her hands and face clean. Her hair would have to be brushed clean at bedtime.
Mason Dollarhide.
Hanna’s lips shaped his name as she set the table with the tin plates and the few chipped, mismatched dishes that had been salvaged from their old home. When Mason Dollarhide had told her his name, he’d mentioned that he had his own ranch, so he wasn’t one of those common cowboys her mother had warned her about. She wasn’t fool enough to think she was in love, or that she had any future with such a man. But the memory of his pretty words caused her pulse to skip a little.
What if he had kissed her? Would his lips have felt like warm velvet touching hers? That was how she’d imagined her first kiss. There next to his buggy, with his hand tilting her face toward his, she’d been ready to let it happen. But then the other man had come—his brother—and sent her running back to her father like a scolded child, her face burning with shame.
“Hanna, didn’t you hear me?” Her mother’s voice broke into her musings. “I said, go outside and call your brothers and sisters to supper. For heaven’s sake, what’s got into you?”
With a sigh, Hanna obeyed. Daydreaming was a waste of time, she admonished herself. Her life was here with her family, plowing and planting, washing and mending, tending the animals and the younger children—all for a future in this land where nothing was won except by hard work. For now, at least, she would have to put away her secret longings and try to be content with her lot.
* * *
Blake and Mason had enjoyed two whiskeys each and were about to leave the saloon to go home and clean up when Mason’s friend, Doyle Petit, walked up to their table and sat down without an invitation.
“Doyle.” Blake gave him a nod. He didn’t especially like the young man who’d inherited his father’s cattle ranch and sold every stick and pebble of it to the wheat growers. Doyle was awash in money—some of which he’d spent on the county’s first automobile. He was keen to make more, even if it meant taking advantage of other people’s bad luck.
Blake pushed his chair back from the table. “You’re welcome to stay and visit with my brother. But I was just about to climb on my horse and head home.”
“But I came in to talk to you, Blake.” Doyle’s clothes were spotless. When the fire had needed fighting, he’d clearly been somewhere else. “Stay a minute,” he said. “I’ve got a business proposition for you. I’ll buy you a drink while you listen.”
Blake sighed. He already knew what his answer would be, but it wouldn’t hurt to know what Doyle had on his mind. “All right. But I’ve already had enough to drink. Just keep it short.” He left his chair pushed clear of the table, to make his getaway easier when he decided he’d heard enough.
Settling back in the chair, Blake waited for Doyle to begin his pitch. Four cowboys who’d been at the fire were sitting at the table behind him. They were talking and laughing, making a lot of noise, but Blake willed himself to ignore them. He didn’t plan to be here much longer.
“Here’s what I’m thinking, Blake,” Doyle said. “You sell a lot of cheap green lumber to those drylanders. But it’s a long drive for their wagons, out to your sawmill. I aim to start a lumber business here in town—buy the lumber from you, haul it to a lot I’ve staked out behind the general store, and sell it at a profit. I’m betting the drylanders will be glad to pay a little extra for the convenience. Mason thinks it’s a great idea. You even said so. Didn’t you, Mason?”
“I did. But it’s not up to me. It’s up to Blake.”
“So what do you think so far, Blake?” Doyle asked.
Blake shrugged. “As things stand now, you can buy all the lumber you want from me, Doyle. And once you’ve paid me, I don’t care what the hell you do with it. So what do you need me for?”
“Just this. If we’re partners, you can give me a better deal on the lumber and lend me one of your wagons to haul it. That way we can sell it cheaper, sell more, and still make a profit.”
“A profit for you, not for me. No thanks, Doyle. I’m not interested. You can buy all the lumber you want, but not at a discount.” Blake shifted in the chair, preparing to stand.
“No, wait.” Doyle took a small notepad and a pencil out of his vest and began scribbling. “I’ve thought this all out. Let me show you some figures.”
As Blake waited, knowing it was a waste of time, bits of conversation from the cowboys at the neighboring table broke into his awareness. He’d seen them come in, and he recognized a couple of them. They worked for the Calders.
“Can’t say I think much of them sodbusters, but glory hallelujah, they brought some good-lookin’ gals with ’em.” The speaker was a big, bearded man named Sig Hoskins.
“I’ll say,” another cowboy responded. “That redhead’s a pretty one. But it looks like Webb Calder’s already staked his claim to her, even if she’s married to that old geezer.”
“Hell, that won’t stop Webb. When he wants somethin’, he goes after it.”
“Webb can have her,” Hoskins said. “The one I want is Yellow Braids. Now there’s a fine little filly for you.”
Blake had been listening idly while Doyle scribbled on his pad. But the mention of Yellow Braids caught his full attention. He glanced at Mason. Either his brother hadn’t heard or he didn’t care.
“I’ll bet you that little filly ain’t never even been rode.” Hoskins’s voice rose above the buzz of conversation and the clink of glasses. “Twenty bucks says I’ll be the first one to get up her skirt. Anybody want to raise me?”
Blake’s blood had begun to boil. Forgetting Mason and Doyle, he stood up, turned around, and grabbed Hoskins by the front of his vest.
“Take this for your twenty bucks, you sonofabitch!” he muttered. Then his fist slammed into the cowboy’s jaw.
Letting the man fall, he turned away, stalked outside to his horse, and rode off into the dusk.
* * *
Hanna bowed her head while her mother said grace. The prayer included words for the Gilberg family whose home and wheat field had been destroyed by the fire. Tomorrow Hanna would be sent trudging across the fields with a basket of food—as much as Inga could spare, and then some—as well as a bundle of hand-me-down clothes for the little ones, clothes she’d put aside from her own children.