Gideon had never entirely trusted him.
Now Jebediah wiped gravy from his mouth and smirked.
“Well, boys,” he said, “guess Caldwell bought a sow to feed the pigs.”
The room died.
Gideon’s chair crashed backward.
“Rust—”
Martha raised one hand.
Gideon stopped.
She walked toward Jebediah carrying an iron ladle.
Her expression remained calm.
“Are you finished with your meal, Mr. Rust?”
Jebediah grinned.
“I reckon.”
Then he spat beside her boot.
Martha set down the ladle.
She grabbed Jebediah by the collar.
He had perhaps forty pounds of muscle on her.
It didn’t matter.
Martha drove his gravy-covered plate directly into his chest.
The plate shattered.
Jebediah staggered backward.
Laughter exploded from somewhere.
Then he reached for his knife.
Three revolvers clicked.
Jebediah froze.
Elias Boone’s pistol was pointed at his head.
So were Sam Boyd’s and Tillman’s.
Elias spoke softly.
“I wouldn’t.”
Jebediah looked around.
Twenty-nine faces stared back.
No laughter now.
No mockery.
Something had changed.
Martha had cooked them supper.
But food alone hadn’t bought them.
They had watched her walk into disorder and produce competence.
They had watched her fire a drunk without trembling.
They had watched her work for six hours without complaint.
And now they watched her face humiliation without begging a man to defend her.
Martha released Jebediah’s collar.
“If my presence offends you,” she said, “my labor will no longer nourish you.”
Then she pointed toward the door.
“Get off my ranch.”
Jebediah stared at Gideon.
Gideon folded his arms.
“You heard Mrs. Caldwell.”
Jebediah’s face twisted.
“You’ll regret this.”
He walked out.
Nobody stopped him.
That evening Gideon stood beneath the stars feeling something dangerously close to hope.
The ranch lights glowed warmer.
Men laughed in the bunkhouse.
Someone played harmonica.
Elias walked past carrying coffee.
“She’s terrifying.”
Gideon glanced at him.
Elias sipped.
“I like her.”
Gideon laughed.
It was the first time he’d laughed in weeks.
Later, after the ranch quieted, Gideon walked toward Martha’s bedroom.
Their marriage had begun with separate rooms.
Martha had requested it.
“Until familiarity becomes trust,” she’d explained.
Gideon had respected that.
Now he wanted to thank her.
Her door stood partly open.
Gideon lifted his hand to knock.
Then he stopped.
Martha sat beside the oil lamp.
She wasn’t smiling.
She wasn’t reading.
She was terrified.
In her hands lay a stack of telegrams.
The top page trembled.
Gideon saw the signature.
JOSIAH TAGGART.
His warmth vanished.
He pushed open the door.
“Why is Taggart writing to you?”
Martha spun around.
For the first time since he had met her, she looked trapped.
“Gideon—”
“Give me those.”
She hesitated.
Then handed them over.
The first telegram was dated two months earlier.
Gideon read.
His blood turned cold.
HIGGINS’ NAME WON’T HIDE YOU. COME HOME BEFORE CALDWELL LEARNS WHAT YOU ARE.
The next:
RED CANYON WILL BE MINE BY SPRING. YOU DON’T HAVE TO FALL WITH HIM.
Another:
YOUR MOTHER’S ACCOUNT IS SETTLED. YOU OWE ME NOTHING EXCEPT THE TRUTH.
