Chapter 2

Quickly I smooth down my clothing and turn to find Boss Daddy’s only daughter standing on the bunkhouse porch above me. She looks as fresh and pretty as a plucked daisy, her gingham dress clean and starched, her crinoline petticoats a rush of lacy foam above her buckled heels. Her long hair is pinned up in a bun at the nape of her neck, the color the same pale chestnut of the sandy ground in shadow. She has piercing eyes that seem to reflect the blue sky above.

The faintest smile toys at the corners of her heart-shaped lips when I catch her watching me. “Evening, Mr. Nat.”

I touch the top of my head, searching for my hat, but it’s hanging on the handle of the pump. I quickly pull it on, tugging it down over my ears, then almost immediately whip it off again and lower my head. “Evening, Miss Lucille,” I mumble. I don’t dare look at her direct.

When I don’t say anything further, she sighs. It’s a delicate sound, and it stirs my insides in ways I won’t let myself think about. “I ‘spect you’re just about ready to head on into town,” she says.

I nod. “Yes ‘m.”

She leans down over the porch railing and smiles at me. I stare hard at the ruffle on her skirts but I can feel that smile above me, as warm as the dying sun. “Mr. Nat,” she murmurs, “you can look up at me, you know. It’s just the two of us out here at the moment.”

“Boss Daddy’ll have my hide if I’m too friendly with you,” I mutter.

“Boss Daddy doesn’t have to know.”

Her voice is even lower than before, and I hear the rustle of her petticoats as she drops down to crouch in front of me. Before I know it, I’m no longer looking at her skirts but at her face between the slats in the porch railing. Her pretty features are framed by wisps of blowsy hair that managed to escape her bun. Her nose and cheeks and forehead are slightly darker than the rest of her skin, as if kissed by the sun. She’s the most beautiful lady in Junction—hell, in all the west, I’d reckon. How something so delicate and soft is descended from a hard, brass man like Boss Daddy is beyond me.

I clutch my hat in both hands and press it hard against my stomach. “I…uh, I really should go, Miss Lucille.”

She half-closes her eyes seductively. “Don’t you want to stay a while with me, Mr. Nat?”

Truth is, yes, I do. But her daddy isn’t the only thing I’m afraid of. “I must go,” I say, more sure of myself this time. For good measure, I plop my hat onto my head and turn away.

I don’t get far before I remember my manners. Turning back to her, I remove my hat again and bow. This time I don’t let myself get drawn into the prison of her gaze. “Good night, Miss Lucille.”

She’s still squatting in a very unladylike manner, and when she sighs, she leans her forehead against the railing. “Good night, Mr. Nat. Pleasant dreams.”

Her words chase me all the way into town. 2

The walk from Big Daddy’s BDT ranch into the clutch of weathered, board-faced buildings that make up the small town of Junction takes just under twenty minutes. It’s a little more than a mile away, and the only transportation in town are Big Daddy’s horses and the train that runs through Junction twice a week. All the ranch hands except for me live in the bunkhouse on the property. I walk the quiet road between the BDT and Junction twice a day, early in the morning before the sun’s barely peeked over the mountains and again in the evening, when the shadows lengthen around me. The other hands come into town on payday, when they head to Stubs’ to blow their hard-earned cash on cards, money, and women.

Or, well, woman. A town as small as Junction really only has room enough in it for one girl down at the saloon. Most nights Maddy doesn’t have to work; she just perches on the edge of the bar and surveys the empty room with hooded eyes. But she makes up for it when the rail rides through, and when Big Daddy pays out his boys.

With my hands shoved deep into the front pockets of my dungarees, I round the last curve in the road and Junction spreads out before me—a dozen rickety facades propped against each other on either side of the dirt road, looking for all the world like crooked, rotted teeth. The boardwalks out front are weathered and worn, and there’s an old, well-worn nag tied to the hitching post outside Miss Barbour’s boarding house. Hers is at the end of the street closest to me, and as I pass by, the horse’s tail slaps at me like I’m some sort of annoying fly. The horse is her nephew’s, which means he’s sniffing around for money again. The shiftless boozer hasn’t worked an honest day his whole life. Why a kind, old lady like Miss Barbour still lets him sweet-talk her out of her pension and rental earnings, I’ll never know.