Quinn by R.C. Ryan Page A

wife?” Cheyenne asked.
    Quinn shook his head, taking his time to enjoy every morsel. “Housekeeper at our ranch. She could make old leather taste good.”
    The old man chuckled. “Sounds like my kind of woman. Where’s this ranch of yours?”
    “About fifty miles east of here.”
    “East?” Cheyenne’s brow lifted. “The Conway ranch?” Her eyes widened as the truth dawned. “Of course. I guess I had other things on my mind. You’re one of those Conways?”
    “Yeah.” Quinn looked up. “You’ve heard of our place?”
    “Anybody who’s lived in Wyoming knows of it.”
    Micah nodded in agreement. “I even worked it a time or two in my cowboy days. I used to lend a hand bringing the cattle down from the high country. I know Big Jim and his son, Cole.”
    “My grandfather and father,” Quinn said.
    “Good men. Both of ’em.”
    That had Quinn smiling. “I can’t argue with that. They’re the best.”
    Seeing his bowl empty, the old man nodded toward the stove as he sat down and reached for the pipe in his breast pocket. “Help yourself to more stew.”
    “Thanks. I don’t even remember eating this.”
    Micah tamped tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and held a match to it, sucking until he drew smoke into his lungs and exhaled it into a wreath that circled his head in a rich, aromatic cloud. “When’s the last time you ate?”
    Quinn crossed the room and filled his bowl before returning to the table. “I had some dried jerky this morning. Dawn, I guess.”
    “Jerky.” Micah chuckled, shaking his head from side to side. “That saved my life more times than I can count. There were plenty of times on the trail that all I had for a week or more was jerky and melted snow to stave off starvation.”
    Cheyenne laughed. “I believe you refer to them as the good old days, right?”
    The old man’s eyes twinkled. “That’s right. And I honestly wouldn’t trade them for a month on some island paradise with half-naked females serving me rum punch.”
    “That’s good,” Cheyenne said with a laugh. “Because I can’t possibly spare you for a week, let alone a month.”
    “You better not try.” Micah leaned back and regarded the young woman through his smoke. “What were you two doing out on the trail on a night like this?”
    “Rescuing a newborn calf.”
    At her explanation he saw the way Quinn’s brow lifted.
    The old man chuckled. “I think there’s a story in there somewhere, but maybe you ought to save it until you’ve finished that stew.”
    “Good idea.” Quinn tucked into his food, mopping up the last of the gravy with a slice of warm bread.
    While he ate, Cheyenne drained a tall glass of milkbefore turning to the old man. “Quinn was trailing a pack of wolves.”
    “What for?” Micah poured himself a mug of coffee.
    “He says he studies wolves.”
    The old man shook his head. “Takes all kinds.”
    Quinn was too busy eating to explain. At the moment he didn’t feel the need to defend himself.
    “Anyway, I shot one, when I saw him about to attack one of my herd, and by the time Quinn trailed me to the barn, he’d worked himself into believing I was some kind of crazed wolf killer.” Cheyenne glanced over at Quinn. “That is what you called me, isn’t it?”
    He shrugged and continued eating. Between bites he said, “You’re doing a fine job of explaining. I’ll leave you to it.”
    She winked at Micah. “You know how I can’t ignore a challenge…”
    At that the old man burst into raucous laughter.
    She went on as though she hadn’t heard it. “… so when this deranged cowboy insisted that I’d killed a poor, misunderstood wolf, I had to prove him wrong.” She shot Quinn a triumphant smile. “And I did. Turns out his wolf wasn’t so innocent.”
    “That so?” Micah turned to Quinn. “So now what? Do you pick another wolf to study?”
    “Yeah. But not right away. First I’ll have some papers to write.”
    “Papers? Like newspapers?”
    Quinn shook his