Elliott Marston stood on the top of the hill and stared at the far end of
his valley. He squinted against the glare of the late afternoon sun.
The wagons were already three days late. He would have a reckoning from his men about the delay. That was how he ran things on Marston Ranch: he would be in total control of his domain and woe betide any man who thought differently.
Of course, one man had thought differently and very recently, too. Marston scowled. Just the thought of Quigley could ruin his day and he was determined to be in a good mood today to greet his new guest.
Not that Quigley had had everything his own way. His mood lightened a bit at the memory. As if he would give a man a gun with real bullets in the chamber; the idea was laughable. The first two bullets were the real things; the others were blanks. It was a pity about his two men; he made a mental note to let the sheep loose on their graves to make sure the grass was trimmed.
No, he had to be honest with himself. The Quigley episode was not one he could look back on with pride. But that was in the past now. The only thing that really mattered was the future. And the resumption of his plans.
A slight movement caught his eye. He leaned forward and peered at the horizon. Yes, there it was again. The wagons had arrived.
He turned and rushed down the back slope of the hill where the incline wasn't as steep. Reaching his horse in a cloud of red dust, for once not caring how disheveled his appearance would be as a result, Marston swung himself into the saddle. Grinning from ear to ear, he spurred his horse forward and headed for his ranch.
The oxen were ponderous and the wagons slow; he had plenty of time to repair the ravages of the dust. He waited on his porch as the newcomers entered the gates. A sudden memory of greeting Matthew Quigley on a similar day came into his head; ruthlessly he banished the image.
The wagons pulled to a halt. Marston rushed across the yard. Fred and Jack looked at him, nodding their heads in greeting. He gave them the barest nod in return, his attention focused on the back of the lead wagon. Had he been more observant, he would have seen that they looked nervous.
The sun was in his eyes again as he came to a halt. "Welcome! Welcome to Marston Ranch." He squinted and reached out a hand in greeting. "I'm glad you've finally arrived."
A figure in the back of the wagon sat up, a dark silhouette against the sun. It stood up then jumped to the ground. To his surprise, Marston found himself looking down into the other's face.
He shifted his position to get a look at the features of the newcomer. Long blonde hair, tied back in a sweeping ponytail, vivid blue eyes like the sky after a winter rain, a curvaceous figure in denims and a linen shirt: for a moment the shock rendered him speechless.
"You." he croaked. Clearing his throat he tried again. "You're.Sam Flanagan?!?!"
"Yes, I am." She had a beautiful smile, with dimples in both cheeks.
"The gunslinger!?!?!"
"Well, no. Actually, that's Dad. I have to explain about that." She reached into the back of the wagon and pulled out a thick bedroll, slinging it over one shoulder. "Could we discuss this somewhere there's more shade?"
"Uh, yes, of course." He could not seem to stop blinking. "Right this way. Er, dinner is almost ready."
She adjusted the bedroll so that it was easier to carry. With a smile at the men still sitting motionless at the front of the wagon, she headed for the double doors of the house.
Fred and Jack watched the rancher and the lady disappear into the house. Fred tilted his hat back and whistled low. "Boy, I would surely like to be a fly on the wall at that dinner."
Jack nodded. "The Boss is in for an interesting evening."
The wagons were already three days late. He would have a reckoning from his men about the delay. That was how he ran things on Marston Ranch: he would be in total control of his domain and woe betide any man who thought differently.
Of course, one man had thought differently and very recently, too. Marston scowled. Just the thought of Quigley could ruin his day and he was determined to be in a good mood today to greet his new guest.
Not that Quigley had had everything his own way. His mood lightened a bit at the memory. As if he would give a man a gun with real bullets in the chamber; the idea was laughable. The first two bullets were the real things; the others were blanks. It was a pity about his two men; he made a mental note to let the sheep loose on their graves to make sure the grass was trimmed.
No, he had to be honest with himself. The Quigley episode was not one he could look back on with pride. But that was in the past now. The only thing that really mattered was the future. And the resumption of his plans.
A slight movement caught his eye. He leaned forward and peered at the horizon. Yes, there it was again. The wagons had arrived.
He turned and rushed down the back slope of the hill where the incline wasn't as steep. Reaching his horse in a cloud of red dust, for once not caring how disheveled his appearance would be as a result, Marston swung himself into the saddle. Grinning from ear to ear, he spurred his horse forward and headed for his ranch.
The oxen were ponderous and the wagons slow; he had plenty of time to repair the ravages of the dust. He waited on his porch as the newcomers entered the gates. A sudden memory of greeting Matthew Quigley on a similar day came into his head; ruthlessly he banished the image.
The wagons pulled to a halt. Marston rushed across the yard. Fred and Jack looked at him, nodding their heads in greeting. He gave them the barest nod in return, his attention focused on the back of the lead wagon. Had he been more observant, he would have seen that they looked nervous.
The sun was in his eyes again as he came to a halt. "Welcome! Welcome to Marston Ranch." He squinted and reached out a hand in greeting. "I'm glad you've finally arrived."
A figure in the back of the wagon sat up, a dark silhouette against the sun. It stood up then jumped to the ground. To his surprise, Marston found himself looking down into the other's face.
He shifted his position to get a look at the features of the newcomer. Long blonde hair, tied back in a sweeping ponytail, vivid blue eyes like the sky after a winter rain, a curvaceous figure in denims and a linen shirt: for a moment the shock rendered him speechless.
"You." he croaked. Clearing his throat he tried again. "You're.Sam Flanagan?!?!"
"Yes, I am." She had a beautiful smile, with dimples in both cheeks.
"The gunslinger!?!?!"
"Well, no. Actually, that's Dad. I have to explain about that." She reached into the back of the wagon and pulled out a thick bedroll, slinging it over one shoulder. "Could we discuss this somewhere there's more shade?"
"Uh, yes, of course." He could not seem to stop blinking. "Right this way. Er, dinner is almost ready."
She adjusted the bedroll so that it was easier to carry. With a smile at the men still sitting motionless at the front of the wagon, she headed for the double doors of the house.
Fred and Jack watched the rancher and the lady disappear into the house. Fred tilted his hat back and whistled low. "Boy, I would surely like to be a fly on the wall at that dinner."
Jack nodded. "The Boss is in for an interesting evening."