I'm Off to Montana for to Throw the Hoolihan (Code of the West) by Stephen Bly

travel with me.”
    The high voice filtered downward from the top of the stairs like a feather on a light breeze. “I’ll go.”
    “Lil’ darlin’, I thought you were in bed.”
    “Obviously I’m not. Don’t worry, Mama. I’ll keep an eye on him and see he stays out of trouble.”
    “I’m sure that should be a great comfort to me. But somehow sending the two of you to town seems kind of like mixing dynamite with matches. Sooner or later everything’s going to blow up.”
    Right after daybreak Pepper waved from the window as A ngelita and Tap rode saddle horses out the front gate. She thought about watching them until they rode out of sight, but the ranch house was built with a view down the slope of the mountainside almost to the river. After ten minutes of watching their backsides, Pepper returned to her sewing folded on the end of the brown leather couch.
    Now, Lord, you know I’m kind of new at this faith bus iness. I don’t know a whole lot about how You lead, but this place surely seems like home, cows in the kitchen and all. The minute I waddled in, I knew this is where we’re goin’ to stay.
    That was what I thought about the Triple Creek Ranch down in Colorado too, but that was before I walked in this door. I just wanted to say thanks, Lord. A little over a year ago I was drin king watered-down whiskey and dancing every night at April’s.
    Please, Lord, let this baby be born healthy. I don’t think I could handle lo sing another one. And then, Lord, when You come to take my Tap home, don’t let him die on some far-off lonely mountain. Let it be in my arms, Lord . . . please. The only thing scares me more than him dying is he might die all alone.
    Pepper kicked off her slippers and stared at her round, puffy toes. She wanted desperately to rub her feet, but she didn’t bother to try.
    Should I make this bassinet slipcase pink or blue? Maybe You could just give me a hint about this baby I’ve been lugging around.
    No?
    I didn’t think so.
    “Well, Lil’ Tap—or Tapina, you are going to wake up in a boring white-sheeted bass inet.” With ruffles on the slipcase. White ruffles.
    Lorenzo toted his dinner plate to the barn, where he was r epairing the saddle cut off the dead horse. Pepper ate alone and then dragged her sewing and a shawl onto the porch. Sunlight blanketed the yard. The shadows swung slightly to the east, reminding her it was a little past noon. For the first time since they had arrived, there was absolutely no wind. She faced the southwest, watching the trail where Tap and Angelita had departed.
    This is not a good habit. If the wind picks up, it will blow right in my face. But .  . . I don’t want to just sit around in the house. Out here the air is fresh and clean. And . . . there’s some potential for something interesting to happen.
    She picked up her sewing and slowly rocked back and forth.
    I am not going to spend my life sitting on the porch waiting for him to come home. Once the baby comes, I’ll be too busy. And I’ll have to help Angelita study her schoolbooks. And I’ll have a garden to tend. But today it’s nice to hear the birds in the sky, feel the warm autumn sun, smell the fresh air, taste winter coming on, and watch a rider come up the drive.
    A rider?
    Pepper peered down the gradual slope of the mountainside. Wonder if Lorenzo sees him? Maybe I should call him. Or maybe I need to relax. This is our ranch. We don’t need to run. We don’t need to hide. We don’t need to grab a gun.
    Do we?
    From two miles away she could tell he was riding a black-and-white-splotched piebald. At one mile Pepper caught the reflection of sunlight off a silver saddle horn. At one hundred feet from the gate, she saw him pull off what looked like a yellow sash and stuff it in his bedroll. When he reached the gate, she spotted the carbine lying across his lap and a thick, drooping mustache peering out from under a dirty beaver felt hat with a Montana crease.
    He dismounted,