noticed the lone human breaking the unwritten rules of his own imprisonment.
The potential for trouble followed Asher into the kitchen, where the hum of voices seemed to be coming from.
He pushed the door open with more than a little trepidation.
“Took your sweet time,” Blackjack volleyed from his sprawl at the kitchen table. He balanced on the rear legs of his chair, his feet up on the windowsill, his pistol in one hand and an oil-streaked rag in the other. “Halloran said you’ve been up since dawn.”
How would he know? Asher decided he didn’t care to find out. “Where is he?”
“Left a while ago.” Blackjack’s cowherd flashed a smile. With no one else in the kitchen, his had to be the other voice Asher had heard.
Despite the ugly bruise on his neck and his blood-stained collar, the boy looked no worse for wear. His black eyes were clear and alert. The smattering of stubble on his cheeks and chin made him seem older than he had last night.
“Flapjack?” he offered as though in answer to Asher’s intense gaze.
“Uh, yeah.” At the mention of food, Asher’s stomach gave another guilty growl. “Thanks.”
“They ain’t as good as my mama makes ’em, but a man’s gotta eat, right?”
Asher mustered a tepid smile. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Charlie Wheeler.” The cowherd exchanged the frying pan from right hand to left, wiped his palm on his trousers and thrust it out in greeting. “Asher, right?”
“How did you know?”
Blackjack snorted. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Nah, it’s not that.” Charlie pumped Asher’s fist one last time and let go. “I used to work with the Foleys. You knew Wesley, right?”
‘Knew’ . Past tense. Asher nodded and filled his mouth with pancake.
“I’ll get you some coffee to wash it down.”
“You don’t—” Have to , Asher started to say, but talking around the flapjack was a choking hazard and Charlie had already brewed a pot of Arbuckle’s.
He seemed to have made himself quite at home at Willowbranch.
“Sure am,” Charlie acquiesced, which was how Asher realized he’d spoken aloud. “We drive the cattle through here in the spring, when there’s still prairie for ’em to graze. There’s a whole patch north of the ranch that’s perfect till mid-May or so. Then it gets all scorched and the cattle won’t touch it.”
Asher nodded. He’d gone by New Morning Farm once or twice, always with Wesley, when he was working. The one time he’d witnessed Wesley driving the cattle out of their pens, it had been a befuddling, chaotic experience and Asher, who didn’t think he had much of a future in watchmaking, had promptly returned to Uncle Howard’s shop with renewed interest in the family business.
“I still remember when the Willowbranch folks used to breed horses,” Charlie went on, at the stove. “Beautiful, big mustangs they bought in Santa Fe and brought back to train right here. Boy, I sure wanted to work in their stables when I was old enough…”
The longing in his voice prompted Asher to ask, “What happened?”
“Ranch got shut down.”
“Your old pal Ambrose,” Blackjack put in with a snide little smile.
Asher bristled at the charge but struggled to keep a lid on his temper. He’d walked a fine line last night and somehow got away without a much-deserved thrashing. He didn’t want to tempt fate twice in as many days. “And the horses?”
“Sold,” said Charlie, “for the most part. Few of ’em weren’t fit to ride yet so…”
They couldn’t be put up for profit, Asher understood, so they had to be disposed of. Given the value in horseflesh, an order like that could only have come from Ambrose.
“Good on you for finding somewhere else to work,” Asher said tepidly, concealing a grimace behind his coffee cup.
“True enough, but cattle ain’t the same, you know? ’Course, I could be rustlin’ instead.” Charlie let his eyes linger on Blackjack. “Hear there’s all kinds
The potential for trouble followed Asher into the kitchen, where the hum of voices seemed to be coming from.
He pushed the door open with more than a little trepidation.
“Took your sweet time,” Blackjack volleyed from his sprawl at the kitchen table. He balanced on the rear legs of his chair, his feet up on the windowsill, his pistol in one hand and an oil-streaked rag in the other. “Halloran said you’ve been up since dawn.”
How would he know? Asher decided he didn’t care to find out. “Where is he?”
“Left a while ago.” Blackjack’s cowherd flashed a smile. With no one else in the kitchen, his had to be the other voice Asher had heard.
Despite the ugly bruise on his neck and his blood-stained collar, the boy looked no worse for wear. His black eyes were clear and alert. The smattering of stubble on his cheeks and chin made him seem older than he had last night.
“Flapjack?” he offered as though in answer to Asher’s intense gaze.
“Uh, yeah.” At the mention of food, Asher’s stomach gave another guilty growl. “Thanks.”
“They ain’t as good as my mama makes ’em, but a man’s gotta eat, right?”
Asher mustered a tepid smile. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Charlie Wheeler.” The cowherd exchanged the frying pan from right hand to left, wiped his palm on his trousers and thrust it out in greeting. “Asher, right?”
“How did you know?”
Blackjack snorted. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Nah, it’s not that.” Charlie pumped Asher’s fist one last time and let go. “I used to work with the Foleys. You knew Wesley, right?”
‘Knew’ . Past tense. Asher nodded and filled his mouth with pancake.
“I’ll get you some coffee to wash it down.”
“You don’t—” Have to , Asher started to say, but talking around the flapjack was a choking hazard and Charlie had already brewed a pot of Arbuckle’s.
He seemed to have made himself quite at home at Willowbranch.
“Sure am,” Charlie acquiesced, which was how Asher realized he’d spoken aloud. “We drive the cattle through here in the spring, when there’s still prairie for ’em to graze. There’s a whole patch north of the ranch that’s perfect till mid-May or so. Then it gets all scorched and the cattle won’t touch it.”
Asher nodded. He’d gone by New Morning Farm once or twice, always with Wesley, when he was working. The one time he’d witnessed Wesley driving the cattle out of their pens, it had been a befuddling, chaotic experience and Asher, who didn’t think he had much of a future in watchmaking, had promptly returned to Uncle Howard’s shop with renewed interest in the family business.
“I still remember when the Willowbranch folks used to breed horses,” Charlie went on, at the stove. “Beautiful, big mustangs they bought in Santa Fe and brought back to train right here. Boy, I sure wanted to work in their stables when I was old enough…”
The longing in his voice prompted Asher to ask, “What happened?”
“Ranch got shut down.”
“Your old pal Ambrose,” Blackjack put in with a snide little smile.
Asher bristled at the charge but struggled to keep a lid on his temper. He’d walked a fine line last night and somehow got away without a much-deserved thrashing. He didn’t want to tempt fate twice in as many days. “And the horses?”
“Sold,” said Charlie, “for the most part. Few of ’em weren’t fit to ride yet so…”
They couldn’t be put up for profit, Asher understood, so they had to be disposed of. Given the value in horseflesh, an order like that could only have come from Ambrose.
“Good on you for finding somewhere else to work,” Asher said tepidly, concealing a grimace behind his coffee cup.
“True enough, but cattle ain’t the same, you know? ’Course, I could be rustlin’ instead.” Charlie let his eyes linger on Blackjack. “Hear there’s all kinds
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