“It sure seems that way. Maybe they didn’t want to do it bad enough, or they don’t have what it takes. I don’t know.” He was on the brink of saying that he knew they had someone who was capable, but he left it unsaid.
“But why?” she asked.
“I think they want to make an example out of someone. They started with Bill Selby, and now it looks as if they’re trying it on me.”
“But why you?”
“To begin with, I stuck up for him that day at his place. Then it happened again when we were on roundup, one day we went to get some cattle at the Argyle camp.”
“Well, so what if you stick up for someone else?”
“That’s what I would think, but it hasn’t set well. The way I’ve heard it, the other side wants to push out all the small-time stockmen and run in another big bunch of cattle for themselves. I think they started with Selby because they thought he would move—sort of a softer touch, you might say. But then I blundered in, and they have to push harder.”
She shook her head. “And to do it the way they did. I keep thinking of that poor boy.”
“So do I. And a large part of it is my fault. Sure, he got worked up and went for his gun, but if he hadn’t been with me, they wouldn’t have taken the bother to antagonize him. I got myself into this mess, and he went right along with me, not knowing any better.”
“Can’t you just get out, then?”
He shrugged. “For one thing, I got into it because I didn’t like the unfairness, the idea that someone can run over the top of others because he’s got money and connections. That hasn’t changed. And even if I did think I could walk out on Bill Selby and Richard Lodge and your father . . .” He hesitated and went on. “Well, I’d have to pull up everything on short order and go a long ways away. I could cancel the work I’ve got and say adios. But wherever I ended up, I would know I had been a quitter, and I wouldn’t want to live with that.”
Her eyes were moist as she held her hands out to him. “I’m glad you’re not a quitter,” she said, “but no one would blame you if you packed up and left.”
He held his hands so that hers lay in his. “That’s what Richard Lodge said. But he’s the kind of friend I couldn’t walk out on.” He felt a small tremor and went ahead. “And so are you.”
She gave a tender smile. “I have to say, I would be pretty sad if you just walked out, as you put it.”
“Maybe I’d take you with me.”
She lowered her lashes and looked up at him. “You think so?”
“I don’t know. I might have gone too far just then. It’s probably too early to talk about that.”
She took on an air of simplicity and said nothing.
Fielding thought of something to say. “Speaking of Richard Lodge, he gave me something that he said would make a nice gift.”
“A stone? Papa says he collects them, not anything of value but just rocks he picks up in his pasture.”
“I’ve seen him do that. By the way, where is your father? Is he at home?”
“He went to get some merchandise, as he called it. Probably something broken down that he thinks he’ll fix up and sell someday.”
That was good news, at least his being gone, but Fielding made no comment. He went to his horse and took the pomegranate from the saddlebag, then returned to where Isabel stood waiting.
“Here,” he said, holding out the unusual fruit on his upturned palm.
“What is it?”
“A pomegranate.”
“Oh, of course. My mother liked them. Is it ripe? Some of them, when they get big and ripen fast, they split open.”
“I think this one traveled a long ways.”
“Probably so. They wouldn’t last if they were split.”
“Take it. It’s for you.”
She took it in her hand and turned it. “Shall we cut it open?”
“Now?”
“Why not? If it’s for me, I’d like to share it.”
“Well, all right.”
“Let’s go around back. There’s still a little shade.”
He followed her to the back step, where she left him for a moment as she went in for a knife and board. When she came out, she pointed at the three-legged stool inside the lean-to.
“Pull that over for a seat if you’d like,” she said.
He got the stool beneath him and watched as she undertook the task.
Sitting on the step with the board in her lap, she scored the fruit at the blossom end and split it open. A few scarlet seeds fell on the board, and a wall of them stayed intact on one half of the divide. On the other half, a bumpy yellow layer of pith covered the ruby treasure.
With her thumb she worked off a palmful of seeds, which she poured into his cupped hands. Then she rubbed off a similar amount for herself, and with a shine in her eyes she said, “Here goes.” She raised her hand to her mouth.
Fielding popped about a dozen of the seeds in his mouth and mashed down on them, tasting the mixed flavor of astringency and sweetness. “Not bad,” he said. “Actually, pretty good.”
“Kind of exotic,” said Isabel. “Something of a wild taste, like chokecherries, but juicier and not so puckery.” She gave a thoughtful look as she ate a few more of the grainy little juice sacs. “Not so much like chokecherry, really. More like currants, though it’s been quite a while since I’ve tasted them. No, I think they taste like pomegranate, and that’s it.”
“Did you want to save any for your father?”
“Maybe a little, just to taste, but he complains about anything that gets stuck in his teeth. Here, can you get this off?” She handed him the paring knife and pointed at the pale yellow membrane.
As he went about the operation, he asked, “Are you all done with the grain harvest?”
“With my part. The threshing machine moved on north, and some of the crew went with it. I work as long as I can stay with Mrs. Good, but beyond that, it’s a little too far from home, and I don’t know the people very well.”
Fielding nodded. He wondered if the gallant sack jig had gone on with the crew, but he did not ask. If it mattered at all, he would find out without having to be inquisitive.
“That reminds me,” she said. “I wanted to give something to you. Would you mind holding this?” She handed him the board with the knife and the open fruit on it.
She went into the house and came out with the brown leather case that Fielding had seen before. As she opened it, the shiny needles came into view.
“I wonder if you’d like one of these,” she began.
“Well, um, sure. But I wouldn’t want to take something you would need later.”
She smiled as she reached to the board in his lap and picked up a few seeds. “You have a lot of things made of canvas, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I do.”
“Do you have a needle like this, or could you use one?” She pointed at the second-largest one, about four inches long, straight with a flare that came back to a spearlike point.
“That’s a nice one. I’ve got one a little shorter, without the flat part. Then I’ve got a couple of others for regular sewing, of course.”
She took it from the case and handed it to him. “A small token from me to you,” she said. “Even if you don’t use it.”
“I might. But I’ll keep it here for safekeeping.” He took off his hat and poked the needle through his hatband so that less than an inch showed at either end. He put his hat back on his head and said, “Do you like it?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Ever so much. It’s like the way the lady assists the knight in the stories.”
He set the board next to her on the step and took her hand as he leaned. “You know, you’re mighty pretty today. Every day, really, but especially so today.”
