pocket.
He smoked little, even when he was in town and could buy tobacco, but he needed time by himself, and the
cigar seemed as good a reason as any. The night was cool, the sky clear for a change. Winter’s breath still hung
in the air, but it wouldn’t be long until spring. Jacob always loved the way spring rode the wind into this part of
the state.
As he lit up, the thin ribbon of smoke blended with the odors drifting from town. Dinners cooking, the oily
smoke from the last train, horses, and more . . . people. He’d spent so much time alone that all the familiar
smel s of town now bothered him.
He looked inside as though the window were a picture that had come to life. Everyone had moved from the
dining table to more comfortable chairs by the fireplace. He saw Gypsy, curled in an overstuffed chair in one of
the corners, sound asleep. Her duties as housekeeper didn’t seem to extend to cleanup after dinner. Jacob
couldn’t help but wonder if Nel knew her story. She’d lived in this house al Nel ’s life, but there’d been a time
when her home was a colorful wagon traveling between Galveston and Houston. Rumor was, back then, that
her people had been gold smugglers. They’d been robbed one night while on the road. Gypsy, even though
almost grown, was so tiny she hid in a cabinet. Al her people had been kil ed that night, and Jacob heard that
she wandered from one fort along the frontier line to another doing laundry and other services until she
reached here. Fat Alice gave her the first home she’d ever had.
Jacob smiled as he watched. Old Gypsy only had two speeds, jumpy and asleep, but Fat Alice must have known
Nel would make sure she continued to have a home here.
Rand Harrison, however, was another story. He looked out of place helping Marla clear the table. Rand must
have said something to the shy cook, for she smiled and nodded. Jacob studied him while Harrison couldn’t see
him watching. All the pieces of Randolph Harrison didn’t fit together. His manners were very proper, cold, but
not unkind. Yet tonight he said little and never tried to press his point about wanting to marry Nel . In fact, he
paid more attention to Marla and the food than he did anyone else at the table.
Maybe he was simply hungry, Jacob decided. Not that Marla was homely. The cook was a fine-looking woman,
but Jacob couldn’t help but wonder if Harrison would be as friendly when he found out what everyone, except
the few people inside Nell’s house, called Marla. She’d had a little trouble getting started as a cook. Everyone in
town referred to her as Last Meal Marla because her first few employers died.
The sheriff had rolled Nell’s chair to the desk, and they were busy looking over the blue letters Walter Farrow
had left behind.
Jacob knew he’d join them in a few minutes, but right now he wanted to be where he felt the most comfortable:
alone. It had been his life so long he couldn’t imagine any other way to live. To Nell and the sheriff he was just
someone who passed through now and then. But they were al the family he had. They’d probably be shocked to
know how much they meant to him and how often he talked about them when rangers sat around campfires
telling of their families.
Leaning against the porch railing, he stared into the night sky. Chasing a gang of bank robbers through Big Bend
Country was easier than having dinner in a dining room. He hated trying to follow conversation when he really
didn’t care where it was going most of the time. Or worse, managing to fol ow it and finding out the discussion
went nowhere. The sheriff loved to tell one story after another, and Nell had the nerve to encourage him. At
least Harrison wasn’t much of a talker. The man’s good traits were piling up. Jacob had trouble not liking him.
The door behind Jacob opened. He straightened as the sheriff and Harrison walked out.
“We’re heading back to town,” the sheriff said
He smoked little, even when he was in town and could buy tobacco, but he needed time by himself, and the
cigar seemed as good a reason as any. The night was cool, the sky clear for a change. Winter’s breath still hung
in the air, but it wouldn’t be long until spring. Jacob always loved the way spring rode the wind into this part of
the state.
As he lit up, the thin ribbon of smoke blended with the odors drifting from town. Dinners cooking, the oily
smoke from the last train, horses, and more . . . people. He’d spent so much time alone that all the familiar
smel s of town now bothered him.
He looked inside as though the window were a picture that had come to life. Everyone had moved from the
dining table to more comfortable chairs by the fireplace. He saw Gypsy, curled in an overstuffed chair in one of
the corners, sound asleep. Her duties as housekeeper didn’t seem to extend to cleanup after dinner. Jacob
couldn’t help but wonder if Nel knew her story. She’d lived in this house al Nel ’s life, but there’d been a time
when her home was a colorful wagon traveling between Galveston and Houston. Rumor was, back then, that
her people had been gold smugglers. They’d been robbed one night while on the road. Gypsy, even though
almost grown, was so tiny she hid in a cabinet. Al her people had been kil ed that night, and Jacob heard that
she wandered from one fort along the frontier line to another doing laundry and other services until she
reached here. Fat Alice gave her the first home she’d ever had.
Jacob smiled as he watched. Old Gypsy only had two speeds, jumpy and asleep, but Fat Alice must have known
Nel would make sure she continued to have a home here.
Rand Harrison, however, was another story. He looked out of place helping Marla clear the table. Rand must
have said something to the shy cook, for she smiled and nodded. Jacob studied him while Harrison couldn’t see
him watching. All the pieces of Randolph Harrison didn’t fit together. His manners were very proper, cold, but
not unkind. Yet tonight he said little and never tried to press his point about wanting to marry Nel . In fact, he
paid more attention to Marla and the food than he did anyone else at the table.
Maybe he was simply hungry, Jacob decided. Not that Marla was homely. The cook was a fine-looking woman,
but Jacob couldn’t help but wonder if Harrison would be as friendly when he found out what everyone, except
the few people inside Nell’s house, called Marla. She’d had a little trouble getting started as a cook. Everyone in
town referred to her as Last Meal Marla because her first few employers died.
The sheriff had rolled Nell’s chair to the desk, and they were busy looking over the blue letters Walter Farrow
had left behind.
Jacob knew he’d join them in a few minutes, but right now he wanted to be where he felt the most comfortable:
alone. It had been his life so long he couldn’t imagine any other way to live. To Nell and the sheriff he was just
someone who passed through now and then. But they were al the family he had. They’d probably be shocked to
know how much they meant to him and how often he talked about them when rangers sat around campfires
telling of their families.
Leaning against the porch railing, he stared into the night sky. Chasing a gang of bank robbers through Big Bend
Country was easier than having dinner in a dining room. He hated trying to follow conversation when he really
didn’t care where it was going most of the time. Or worse, managing to fol ow it and finding out the discussion
went nowhere. The sheriff loved to tell one story after another, and Nell had the nerve to encourage him. At
least Harrison wasn’t much of a talker. The man’s good traits were piling up. Jacob had trouble not liking him.
The door behind Jacob opened. He straightened as the sheriff and Harrison walked out.
“We’re heading back to town,” the sheriff said
Similar Books
