Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and setting are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plots are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.
Chapter One
A tall, large man holding a shotgun stepped out on the wooden porch to confront the visitor who rode in on a big Appaloosa. A young boy peeked around the door frame to get a look at who was riding in but only for a few moments; a delicate hand pulled the boy back inside and then a woman went to the large front window and watched through the lace sheers.
"Who are you, mister, and what do you want?" the tall man asked as he held the shotgun on the stranger.
"I was hoping to find some work," the man said. He wore a shabby dark blue jacket that had once been part of a Union uniform and it clashed with the gray Stetson and the black wool trousers although the boots looked to be military issue though they hadn't been polished in quite a while. His black hair was to his shoulders and he hadn't shaved in a while, his beard rough and graying.
"Is that so?" the man on the porch asked.
"Yes, it is. I'm passing through and I need some work. I saw that your farm…"
"It's a ranch," the man corrected.
"Sorry. I didn't see any cattle."
"That's 'cause they been stolen."
"Sorry to hear that. Well, your ranch then, it needs work. Some of the fences are down, the barn needs painting and the shingles on the house look like they need some replacing. I've turned my hand to ranch work before and if you'll just give me my meals and a place to sleep for a while, I'll start the repairs around here. If you're not satisfied, just tell me to shove off. I've been in the saddle for a while now, not lighting anywhere in particular but now I'm heading home and I need the work, the money to keep going." The man sat straight, not moving his hands quickly—he didn't want to be blown off his saddle just because his nose itched.
"Where's home?" the man asked appraising the man on the horse; the rider looked gaunt, as if he hadn't had a full belly in quite a while and his eyes were guarded and were constantly scanning, looking for a yet unknown danger.
"Nevada."
"That's quite a ways. How do I know you weren't hired by Jeb Truck? How do I know that you're not here to destroy my place 'stead of fixin' it up? How do I know that you're not here to kill me?"
"I guess you really don't except that I say I'm not any of those things. Look, I'm bone-weary and I don't know this Jeb Truck or anyone else around here—I'm just passing through. Since you don't need a hand around here, I'll be off." He leisurely turned the Appaloosa's head and started to ride away when he heard a woman's voice—"Wait!" He pulled up the horse and looked back.
The woman who had been peeking through the sheers had called out and come out onto the porch. The boy stood in the doorway again.
"Elias, we need the help but if you don't want it, at least let him stay for dinner. We've more than enough stew—I'll just add a little more water." The woman had copper-colored hair that was contained in a snood but the corkscrew curls did their best to escape the confines of the crocheted mesh. Her pale skin was practically colorless and light freckles were the only thing marring her milky complexion. Even in the falling darkness, the rider could see that her eyes were bright blue. She was slender like a girl, hardly looking as if she had ever born a child, that is, if the boy was her child. The stranger on the horse wasn't sure; the woman seemed too young for the man with the shotgun. More like his daughter but one could never tell.
"You expect me to eat watered stew so that you can feed this saddle tramp?" The man spoke roughly to the woman but his eyes never left the rider.
"Elias, be charitable. Invite the man to stay for dinner."
"We may be inviting our own downfall to sit at our table."
"And we may also be entertaining angels unawares. Now ask." She stood and smiled gently at the man on the horse and he smiled slightly in response. It felt odd to smile; he hadn't really done so in a long time.
"What's your name, mister?" Elias asked.
"Cartwright—and I assure you, ma'am," Adam said, looking at the woman and tipping his hat, "I'm not a fiend come from hell but I'm no angel either."
"It doesn't matter, Mr. Cartwright. As long as you're hungry," she said, "you're welcome at our table, isn't he, Elias?"
"As long as he leaves his gun with me, he is."
'Thank you—both of you. And I am hungry ma'am. Both sides of my stomach have been stuck to each other for quite a while now." Adam again smiled at her and was rewarded with a shy grin from the woman as if this was the first attention from a man she had received in a long time.
Adam dismounted. "And here." Adam pulled his sidearm from its holster. "Here's my revolver." Adam had been wearing his revolver for so long, even sleeping with it on that the sudden lightness felt odd, as if he was off-balance. Then he pulled a rifle from its scabbard and handed it to Elias as well.
Elias took it and examined it and then scrutinized the scabbard; the leather had an insignia tooled into it. "Military issue." He looked back up at Adam, his shotgun under his arm. "You either fought or you stripped a dead soldier."
"I fought," Adam said, waiting to see if the man would say anything else.
"Elias, the war's been over for two years now. You can go wash up, Mr. Cartwright. There's a pump out back beside the kitchen door."
"Thank you, ma'am." Adam smiled in gratitude. The boy ran off the porch and took the horse's reins.
"This is one tall horse," the boy said. "I don't know that I can reach up high enough to take off his bridle to feed 'im."
"I tell you what," Adam said, "you just water him and let him graze in that patch over there and I'll take care of him later myself." The boy grinned and led the horse away and Adam went to the back of the house and found the pump. He pulled off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt so that he could tuck in his collar and a length of the front. He scrubbed his hands together and for the first time in a long time, he noticed the grime around and under his nails. With the nail of one index finger, her cleaned out the dirt from the nails of the opposite hand the best he could. Then he splashed the water on his face and neck. The water was cold and made him shiver. He could smell the stew through the open kitchen window. His stomach ached in anticipation of food; hunting had been poor and this land didn't yield much food on its own and he hadn't eaten in over a day.
"Here." At the proximity of the woman's voice, Adam jumped slightly and then stood up, the water running down his neck and wetting his shirt. The red-haired woman stood on the back steps holding a towel.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said reaching for it. She offered a smile and he grinned back. Then she disappeared back inside the house and Adam dried himself off; he wondered what their story was and why their cattle had been stolen and just who Jeb Truck was.