Even thinking about that worried her. Was she making a giant mistake? “Then you heard me tell him no. For one thing, he only offered about half what Papa said the place is worth. I told you the ranch is for you. Hopefully, we can even make it successful enough to support all three of you.”
Davie laughed. “Then we could offer to buy out Mr. Winfield.”
“Wouldn’t that be funny?” She managed to laugh with the children. She definitely didn’t want them to know how terrified she was that they were going to lose everything. What would she do if they were homeless?
Davie leaned forward again and braced his foot on the front of the wagon. “But you couldn’t get anyone to work as ranch hands.”
She looked for excuses. “Maybe this is the wrong time of year to hire men. Those who are available are superstitious and afraid to work for a woman.”
Either that or they were lecherous when she interviewed them or had a reputation for being lazy. She couldn’t afford to carry the dead weight a lazy man would be on her finances. She certainly wasn’t about to tolerate a disrespectful man—especially with a vulnerable little girl on hand.
They were better off on their own than creating a problem. Heaven knew she had plenty of those already. She had no intention of inviting a fox into the hen house.
“I asked the sheriff to send anyone decent to the ranch. He said he would. If he sends someone, I’ll feel as if we can trust him.”
Davie leaned forward again. “Did he say he’d keep looking for the rustlers who shot Papa?”
“He said he’d let us know when he caught them. Frankly, children, I don’t hold out much hope Sheriff Haney will ever capture the rustlers or recover our cattle.”
One thing she knew—they needed help, the sooner the better.
Chapter Two
Bret sat shivering in the night. Spring might not be frigid but being dripping wet with a stiff wind pushing against him had left him half frozen. Setting up camp had sounded so easy when the salesman had explained the steps. The man hadn’t mentioned wind and rain and mud. Once Bret had battled his way to the opening, the collapsed tent hung around his shoulders like a giant cape.
This place had appeared picturesque when he’d arrived and set up his camp. Two hours later black clouds rolled overhead and opened to pour on him. Then, the tent had collapsed with him inside. Pushing at the canvas to get out had created a disaster.
His bedroll was wet.
His spare blanket was wet.
His clean clothes were wet.
Starting a fire in a downpour had been beyond him. His only luck had been bad. One consolation was that his sister and aunt didn’t know how dismally he’d failed. He would never tell—not them or anyone else.
By dawn he was stiff, sneezing, and sniffling. He couldn’t remember ever being this miserable. He was alarmed to note the water level in the creek had climbed only inches from where his tent had been. He packed his sodden gear as best he could and loaded the horses.
By mid day he’d reached the top of a hill with a small spring bubbling out of the side. He stopped and spread out his wet gear on the grass and the few bushes. In the warm sun his optimism returned. Sure he’d had bad luck but now he was off to a better setup.
He scoured his surroundings for rocks and made a fire ring. He was gathering sticks and cow chips for his fire when another rider came up to his camp.
“Hello the camp.” The man sat with his hands resting in sight on his pommel, the signal he was friendly.
“Hello, get off and rest a while.” Bret divided the fuel between the ring of stones and a nearby pile to keep the fire going.
“Appreciate it. I’m riding the grub line.”
On closer inspection, Bret realized the newcomer appeared too thin and his clothes were worn. His mustache was thick but otherwise he was clean shaven and women would probably consider him good looking. He looked to be about forty.
“I have plenty for both of us. Bret Craig is my name.”
“I’m Moses Tatum but folks call me Moose because of my long face.” While the newcomer unsaddled and tied his horse to a bush, he stared at all the gear spread around.
Bret felt the need to defend himself. “I had some bad luck last night. The downpour collapsed my tent and everything I owned got wet. Well, not the food because it’s packed in oiled-cloth bags.”
Moose swept his hand in an arc. “That stuff is what drew my notice. You know you’re calling attention to your whereabouts?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know any other way to dry this gear. You know anything about setting up a tent?”
Moose sat on the ground and leaned back on his saddle. “Never tried. There’ve been plenty of times one would have been handy. Only ones I ever saw were set up as a business.” He chuckled. “Usually a saloon or a bawdy house.”
Bret turned the tent to expose the other side. “At least my bedroll has mostly dried in this sunlight with the strong breeze. Clothes are already dry and put back in my bags. They’re gonna look terrible with no ironing.”
The other man laughed and slapped his thigh. “I never saw no traveler with ironed clothes less’n he was staying in a hotel. Where you headed?”
“West, maybe to California, unless something strikes my fancy before then. Where are you going?”
“Place to place until I find work. I was sick for a while and lost my last job. Money played out until I find the next one.”
Bret wondered if
