like betrayal. This was a topic Simon had avoided too emphatically and for too long. He felt he owed Frances an explanation, yet he had no idea how to go about giving one.
“Will you stop looking at me like that?” he finally snapped. It was the end of the day and they were in the barracks. The other hands were all there, but none of them were paying attention to Frances and Simon.
“Looking at you like what?” Frances asked, and Simon could tell from the boy’s expression that he didn’t realise exactly how obvious he’d been.
Simon sat down on the bed. He put his elbows on his knees and leant forward to stare at the floor. “Just ask already.”
A moment of stunned silence, and then Frances asked the question Simon had known was coming. “Why don’t you like to go to town?”
Simon put his head in his hands. Even though he’d known what the question would be, he still wasn’t sure he was ready to answer it.
“The thing is,” Frances went on, “if it were just since we’d been here, I’d get it. It’s a long trip. But you were like this at the BarChi, too, and…”
It wasn’t silent in the room, but Simon felt Frances’ silence like a weight on his back. “And…?” he prodded.
“Well…” Frances’ voice was quieter than before, pitched low so nobody else could hear. “It seems like it’s not town. It seems like it’s more about what’s in between.”
What’s in between. The McAllen ranch. Frances had hit the bull’s-eye with that one.
Simon propped his chin on his hands and looked up at Frances. “If I asked you to drop this, would you do it?”
Frances’ cheeks turned red. Simon could read his eyes—hurt at first, as if he’d been slapped, but then thoughtfulness.
“Yes,” he said at last, turning away. “I’m sorry I asked.”
If he’d dug in his heels and pushed, Simon would have been able to be defensive, but that wasn’t Frances’ way, which was why Simon valued his friendship as much as he did. He sighed. “Come here, kid. Sit down.”
Frances did, sitting close to him on the bunk as he always did so they could talk. “I’m sorry,” Frances said again. “It’s not my place.”
“Not always easy to figure out where the line is between friendship and privacy.”
Frances took a moment to digest that. It seemed to give him confidence. “I’ve noticed how even when we’re there, you never go with any of the girls. You always share a stall with me. Of course, I never go with them either, but I’m pretty sure our reasons aren’t the same.”
Simon wasn’t looking at Frances, but he heard the tiny note of hope in the boy’s voice. “No. They’re not the same.”
“I figured.” His disappointment probably wouldn’t have been detectable by anybody who didn’t know him so well. “So then, what is it?”
It took Simon a long time to figure out how to say the words. He wasn’t a man who was used to sharing. Especially not anything so personal as this. He’d only told the story once before. That had been to Garrett, and he’d been sensationally drunk. But now, he felt the need to pick his words carefully.
Frances waited, not saying a word. That was another thing Simon had always liked about him. He was infinitely patient.
Where to begin? The answer, it seemed, was at the beginning. “There was a girl.”
Four words. How could four words hurt so much to say? If he’d had to do it again, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able, but it seemed as if now he’d begun, he had no choice but to go on.
“I was young. Only eighteen when I met her. Her father owned the mercantile in Holtshire.” He stopped short. “You know where that is?”
“On the coast, I think? South of Francshire?”
“Right. It’s a fishing town. I was fresh off the ship from Lanstead. Didn’t know a soul, but I got a job on a fishing boat. Went in the store to buy a new knife, and she was there. The minute I saw her, I said, ‘That girl’s going to be my wife.’”
He remembered it
“Will you stop looking at me like that?” he finally snapped. It was the end of the day and they were in the barracks. The other hands were all there, but none of them were paying attention to Frances and Simon.
“Looking at you like what?” Frances asked, and Simon could tell from the boy’s expression that he didn’t realise exactly how obvious he’d been.
Simon sat down on the bed. He put his elbows on his knees and leant forward to stare at the floor. “Just ask already.”
A moment of stunned silence, and then Frances asked the question Simon had known was coming. “Why don’t you like to go to town?”
Simon put his head in his hands. Even though he’d known what the question would be, he still wasn’t sure he was ready to answer it.
“The thing is,” Frances went on, “if it were just since we’d been here, I’d get it. It’s a long trip. But you were like this at the BarChi, too, and…”
It wasn’t silent in the room, but Simon felt Frances’ silence like a weight on his back. “And…?” he prodded.
“Well…” Frances’ voice was quieter than before, pitched low so nobody else could hear. “It seems like it’s not town. It seems like it’s more about what’s in between.”
What’s in between. The McAllen ranch. Frances had hit the bull’s-eye with that one.
Simon propped his chin on his hands and looked up at Frances. “If I asked you to drop this, would you do it?”
Frances’ cheeks turned red. Simon could read his eyes—hurt at first, as if he’d been slapped, but then thoughtfulness.
“Yes,” he said at last, turning away. “I’m sorry I asked.”
If he’d dug in his heels and pushed, Simon would have been able to be defensive, but that wasn’t Frances’ way, which was why Simon valued his friendship as much as he did. He sighed. “Come here, kid. Sit down.”
Frances did, sitting close to him on the bunk as he always did so they could talk. “I’m sorry,” Frances said again. “It’s not my place.”
“Not always easy to figure out where the line is between friendship and privacy.”
Frances took a moment to digest that. It seemed to give him confidence. “I’ve noticed how even when we’re there, you never go with any of the girls. You always share a stall with me. Of course, I never go with them either, but I’m pretty sure our reasons aren’t the same.”
Simon wasn’t looking at Frances, but he heard the tiny note of hope in the boy’s voice. “No. They’re not the same.”
“I figured.” His disappointment probably wouldn’t have been detectable by anybody who didn’t know him so well. “So then, what is it?”
It took Simon a long time to figure out how to say the words. He wasn’t a man who was used to sharing. Especially not anything so personal as this. He’d only told the story once before. That had been to Garrett, and he’d been sensationally drunk. But now, he felt the need to pick his words carefully.
Frances waited, not saying a word. That was another thing Simon had always liked about him. He was infinitely patient.
Where to begin? The answer, it seemed, was at the beginning. “There was a girl.”
Four words. How could four words hurt so much to say? If he’d had to do it again, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able, but it seemed as if now he’d begun, he had no choice but to go on.
“I was young. Only eighteen when I met her. Her father owned the mercantile in Holtshire.” He stopped short. “You know where that is?”
“On the coast, I think? South of Francshire?”
“Right. It’s a fishing town. I was fresh off the ship from Lanstead. Didn’t know a soul, but I got a job on a fishing boat. Went in the store to buy a new knife, and she was there. The minute I saw her, I said, ‘That girl’s going to be my wife.’”
He remembered it
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