LaBoeuf tucked the paper into his vest pocket and stepped out of the telegraph office onto the road. The weather had turned chilly overnight. A fierce gust of wind buffeted him to the side, making his steps a bit unsteady. He turned up his collar, pushed down his hat, and headed towards the Ross farm.

The chill and wind made for an unpleasant walk, and he was glad when he finally saw the Ross's barn through the trees. Mattie might still be angry with him, but she would surely offer him a cup of coffee. At least he hoped so.

His arrival was announced by Hector, the old bird dog, who barked a few times and then walked out on stiff legs to meet him. Mattie eyed him as he approached, but kept to her task.

"Good morning," he said, raising his voice so she might hear him above the wind.

"Good morning," she replied. She was not scowling at him outright, but the set of her mouth and jaw hinted at her displeasure.

"I must apologize to you, Mattie," he said.

She paused for a moment before continuing to work at the horse's traces. "Oh?" she asked, pressing her lips together.

"I was rude and impetuous last night."

That got her attention. She stopped what she was doing and looked at him. "Yes, you were."

"I am sorry for it."

"I see." She rested her hand on the horse's withers. "Thank you for saying that."

"I imagine it was the whiskey," he said.

"You will get no sympathy from me there," she said.

"I expect none."

"Hm," she said.

"Would you by chance have any coffee ready?" he asked. "I left my lodgings before my landlady made breakfast."

She shook her head and clucked her tongue at him. "Everyone says Mrs. Hayden sets a fine board for her lodgers."

"Well, you see, I was in no mood to wait," he said, and gave her a sheepish smile.

"There is coffee, but whether it is still warm I cannot say."

"I will take it, and gladly. Let me finish up with your cart here and then we can go."

"All right," she said, and put the straps in his hands.

A few minutes later, she came out from the kitchen with a steaming cup in her hand and something tucked under her amputated arm. He wiped his hands on his trousers and took the coffee from her with a murmured "Thank you." Then she gave him two thick pieces of buttered bread, wrapped awkwardly in waxed paper. "I thought you might want something to eat later," she said.

He tucked the food in his pocket, bolted the last of the coffee, and handed the cup back to her. "I think we are ready to go."

"I will put these things in the kitchen and tell Mama that we are going, then."

They were soon under way, heading west toward the mountain.

"Tell me about this Babcock," LaBoeuf said after they had got on the main road. "Was there anything unusual about him, anything to set him apart from other men?"

"He was a smooth talker, but that is not so unusual."

"What about his grooming?"

"His grooming? He kept himself tidy, I suppose. Lawyer Daggett called him a dandy, but…" Mattie stopped, wrinkling her nose.

"Yes?"

"He was too fond of the bay rum, I thought. A little bit is well enough, but he seemed to bathe in it."

LaBoeuf smiled.

"Oh, what is it, Mr. LaBoeuf? Have you heard something?"

"What of his height? Was he as tall as me? Taller or shorter?"

"Ah…I think his boots made him appear taller than he was. He was perhaps my height, but I never saw him in stocking feet, and never hope to."

LaBoeuf pulled the telegraph from his breast pocket. "Read this," he said, and handed it to her.

Wichita Falls, Tex, April 18th 1885

To: Sergeant LaBoeuf, Ranger Coy. B (Det), Dardanelle, Ark

Five nine slim

Brown hair beard 26

Bay Rum hence Stinky

Robbery assault

McMurry

She looked up at him. "Oh, Mr. LaBoeuf! That is him. It must be," Mattie said.

"There could be something in this for me after all," LaBoeuf said. "The bounty is sure to have gone up as his crimes have—" He stopped talking and cleared his throat.

"As his crimes have escalated," she murmured.

"I am sorry," he said.

"It is all right," she said, and sank into glum silence. None of his attempts at conversation was successful in drawing her out. They rode on for half a mile without speaking.

"It is my fault," Mattie said at length.

"What is?" LaBoeuf asked, startled to hear her voice again.

"Victoria. It is my fault she ran off."

"I do not see how that could be," he said.

"Nevertheless. It is my fault."

"How do you figure?"

"After we received your letter, Little Frank began to tease me about you."

"Oh?"

"He loves to tease people, and the more he thinks it tells on you, the better. He kept on and on about how I was trying to show you what a good housekeeper I was so you could be induced to marry me." Her face was blotchy with embarrassment.

"I see," LaBoeuf said, a little red faced himself.

"Victoria was whining about the housework, and between that and my brother's jokes, I lost my temper. I asked her how she would like it if I, ah, married you, and went off, leaving her alone to take care of Mama and the farm and Frank. Well. She went all quiet, and the next day she was gone. So you see." She paused. "I am sorry to bring you into it, even in jest. You never asked for such gross speculation."

"Well," LaBoeuf said, and fell silent for a moment. "Well, there are worse things than being taken for the suitor of a lovely and respectable young woman."

Mattie looked sharply at him, as though trying to find an insult in his words. She sniffed. "Oh, yes, such an honor for you."

"It is not dishonor."

"Hm." She looked away, raising her eyebrows in dismissal.

"Have I offended you in some way?"

"I mistrust flattery, particularly when the flatterer has made no bones of how 'unattractive' I am."

LaBoeuf scrunched up his forehead. "When did I—" he began and stopped, but he still looked confused.

"In Ft. Smith, of course. When we first met."

LaBoeuf's face cleared. "Why, you thought little enough of me at that time. Dare I to hope that your opinion might have changed a little?"

Mattie shrugged. "A very little," she said, and LaBoeuf smiled at her.

"Well, there you have it."

"Would you like to play a game to pass the time?" Mattie asked.

"What sort of a game?" he asked.

"Something you can do while driving. Crambo, perhaps?"

"I suppose we could. What happens if I guess your answer or you forfeit? What do I win?"

She thought about it for a moment. "A penny."

He laughed out loud. "I will not enter into financial dealings with you, least of all over a parlor game. If just a few questions go poorly for me I could end up in your indenture for years."

She raised her eyebrows, as though acknowledging the possibility, absurd though it was. "Then what would you like?"

The road was clear and flat, and he just looked at her for a long time, long enough that she wanted to look away. By that point, though, maintaining eye contact with him felt like a contest, one that she could not bear to lose.

"A kiss."

Her jaw dropped in outrage even as her breath caught. "Is that all you ever think about?"

"Far from it; there are few things that could induce me to play at a silly game, though, and that is one of them."

"Absolutely not."

He shrugged, and turned his attention back to the road ahead.

She felt a fluttering, sinking sensation in her belly and an aching in her throat. It felt like a curious combination of relief and disappointment.

What could it hurt, though? There was little chance that she would forfeit, still less that she would lose her head and be overcome by some, heretofore unknown, ungovernable passion. A rude, silly boy had kissed her once at a picnic and it had not stirred her at all. To the contrary, she had found it silly, mildly unpleasant and easy to repent, especially after he had joked about it with his friends in her hearing. Even LaBoeuf's stolen kiss the night before had failed to shake her composure.

"I know a word that rhymes with 'coil,'" Mattie said before she could lose her nerve.

LaBoeuf looked over at her with sudden alertness and excitement. She saw his throat move as he swallowed. "Will it make me weary?" he asked in a low voice.

"No, it is not 'toil.'"

"Will it hinder my plans?" he asked.

She thought about that one for a bit, pursing her lips. His gaze went to her mouth and lingered there, and she had to look away to concentrate. "No," she said after a few moments. "It is not 'foil.'"

"I nearly had you there," he said, and she sniffed. "Do they make fine soap with it?"

"It is not 'oil.'"

"Is it how my wife might cook my supper?"

"Your wife?" she asked. "What wife is this?"

"Yes or no, or I will claim my forfeit," he said.

She made an exasperated sound. "No, it is not 'boil.' You told me you were not married, Mr. LaBoeuf."

"I am not yet, of course, but will be eventually. Does it describe a king?"

"What?"

"This word that rhymes with 'coil;' does it describe a king?"

She frowned in concentration, looking up as she went through her mental tally of possible words.

"Have I gotten it?" he asked, and she held up her hand.

"One more moment."

"Your time is up," he said. "What was your word?"

She gave him an irritated look. "Mine was 'soil.' What was yours?"

"'Royal.'"

Her mouth worked before she sputtered at him. "'Royal' and 'soil' do not rhyme, Mr. LaBoeuf."

"They do when I say them: 'royal' and 'soil.' See?"

"Only in Texas could those words rhyme. I say you cheat."

He goggled at her in pretend shock. "That is exactly the sort of talk that could get you into serious trouble in my neck of the woods. You are fortunate that I have a temperate disposition."

"Temperate!" Mattie cried, scoffing.

"You owe me a forfeit, or will it be pistols at dawn?"

"Oh! Very well." She paused and turned so she was facing him. She screwed her eyes shut and puckered her lips so firmly that they stuck out as far as her nose.

He reined in the horse, and after looking both up and down the road, tied the reins to the dashboard. He moved himself closer to her, closer than propriety would allow for conversation. Flyaway strands of hair around her face danced as his breath stirred them. He touched her chin, tilting her face up, and there he stopped, just looking at her.

After a while she could not maintain the forced attitude of her eyes and mouth. She relaxed a tiny amount, opening her eyes by a sliver. She swallowed and her lips parted. Her hand was splayed against his chest, as though pushing him away but she did not push. He covered her hand with his own, and put his other arm around her shoulders. He dipped his head down to hers, but instead of going straight for her lips he traced the line of her nose with his own.

Well. It was odd, but inoffensive. Was this what people meant when they spoke of "billing and cooing"? She had never imagined herself being so silly, but she did not feel silly. She felt… tender. Like a fresh bruise or the start of a cold. Not uncomfortable precisely. Just strange.

He caressed her cheek in the same way, moving up towards her forehead. His breath was warm and soft on her skin. She swallowed.

He pressed a kiss—just a dabbing of pursed lips—to her temple and she closed her eyes again. This is how girls forget themselves, she thought, wondering at the notion. She turned her face to him like a sunflower to the sun.

And then he released her.

She did not wobble although she felt queer and off balance, as though she had taken a slug of Dr. Underwood's Bile Activator. Her teeth wanted to chatter together. She clenched her jaw, feeling relieved and angry and alarmed, all at once.

LaBoeuf picked up the reins and told Opal to walk on. He began to whistle, and Mattie scowled. The very gall of the man!

The summerhouse sat close to a small clearing, although trees grew thickly around it, shading it from the sun. Even from the cart it was plain that no one had disturbed the building in some time. A shrub had overgrown the path to the cabin, and leaves and pine needles lay in a thick mat against the threshold.

Even without looking at her, LaBoeuf was aware of Mattie's dismay. She said nothing, but she made a small, choked sound, and then he felt her sit straighter in her seat. He reached for her hand, giving it a quick squeeze, and then he cleared his throat. "Let us go and make sure, Mattie."

"Yes," she said, but she stayed where she was. LaBoeuf climbed out of the gig and went over to Mattie's side, holding out his hand for her to take. After a moment she did, and he helped her down.

She walked more slowly than he had ever seen her. When her skirt caught on the shrub, she paused and carefully disengaged the thorn before continuing. She pulled a key from her pocket and inserted it in the rusty padlock holding the door closed. LaBoeuf had to grab the lock to keep it from swinging while she turned the key. With a crusty, grinding sound, the lock finally disengaged, and LaBoeuf swung open the door.

The first thing he was aware of was the overpowering reek of mouse piss. The puncheon floor was littered with dust, pine needles, bare rodent bones and little tufts of fur and detritus that he identified as pack rat piles.

Mattie dropped the key in her pocket, and entered the cabin. "Will you open the shutters, please?" she asked him in a tight voice.

"Yes, of course," he said.

Mattie remained inside while he walked around outside, unhooking the latches on the shutters and opening them. The insides of the two windows were somewhat covered by canvas stretched on wooden frames fitted to each opening. The canvas was old and sagging and riddled with holes both small and large. Mattie pulled the frames free, allowing light to enter the cabin.

LaBoeuf went back inside. With the windows and door open the smell was starting to improve. Mattie had located a bedraggled broom, and was dragging it across the floor, trying to clear away some of the mess. He could now see a hand-hewn table in the room, surrounded by sawed stump seats, a small stone hearth, and a threadbare straw tick mattress moldering in its bed frame on the opposite wall. A sturdy-looking ladder led to a small sleeping loft.

"They did not come through here," Mattie said.

"It does not look like it," LaBoeuf said.

"At the least I should have brought soap and scrub brushes," Mattie said, almost to herself.

"Perhaps later in the year," LaBoeuf said.

"Yes," she said.

LaBoeuf pulled one of the stumps from under the table and sat heavily upon it. "When is the last time you were here?"

"Before Papa died. Mama is always so bothered by the mosquitoes in summer, so he would bring us up here to stay while he mostly remained at the farm, which is what I do. Little Frank is supposed to take care of it, but clearly…"

"Clearly." LaBoeuf exhaled, impatient. "He should be doing more to help you, Mattie."

"I know," she said. She nudged another stump away from the table and sat beside him.

"I mean it. I know that you have had a lot to shoulder since your father died."

"I am proud to take care of my family. It is my duty to Papa."

"It is Frank's duty, also."

She nodded "Yes, it is."

"And your mother's. And…and your sister's. If no one helps you, how are you supposed to leave and start your own family someday?"

"I expect that I will not; I must be content with that," she said, her expression taking on a mulish look.

LaBoeuf sighed. "I doubt that your father would want you to live as an anchorite, tied to vows you never made."

"Who else is there? Frank hates the farm and will leave at his earliest opportunity. Victoria—if she comes home—she has no aptitude for numbers or cotton. The doctor insists that Mama must always take chloral for her nerves. So it all falls to me."

LaBoeuf shook his head slowly and chewed on his lower lip. "You deserve better," he said finally.

"It is neither here nor there."

"What if—" LaBoeuf began, and then closed his mouth.

"What if…" she prompted, looking at him, but he said nothing, and they just sat listening to the wind rustling through the pines and Opal and her tack shifting in the clearing.

After a moment or two, he stood. "I should get water for the horse. Is there a bucket I could fill at that pump?" he asked, pointing vaguely out front.

Mattie went over to the door and closed it partway, revealing some shelves and a tin bucket hanging on a peg. "You will have to prime it first," she said, handing the bucket to him.

"I never travel without water, just in case," LaBoeuf said, and went outside. Mattie followed him.

He went to the gig and retrieved a cloth-covered canteen from behind the seat, and carried it to the hand pump. Mattie watched as he drizzled water down the throat of the pump, wetting the gasket, and then worked the handle. It took a while; by the time water ran freely, LaBoeuf had removed his jacket and tossed it to the grass and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He dragged his powerful forearm across his forehead, and then tipped out the canteen before refilling it from the stream of water. He drank deeply from the vessel even as he worked the pump handle; the bucket caught the excess.

"Whew!" he said. "That is a good well. Cold and sweet." He wiped his lip with his sleeve. "Forgive me; would you like some water?"

"Yes, thank you," she said. He handed her the canteen before carrying the filled bucket to the horse. The water tasted as good as she had remembered it.

He returned to her side, smelling of exertion and sunshine and something that was LaBoeuf alone. She shivered.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"Just a chill," she said.

He nodded and took the canteen from her, taking another great swig from the bottle. She watched the muscles in his throat as he drank. He was only a little taller than she was, but she felt overpowered and fluttery, like a chicken next to a Cooper's hawk. Was that how Victoria had felt with Babcock?

As if reading her mind, LaBoeuf said, "I understand why you wanted to check this place. If I wanted a place to elope to, this would be it." Their gazes met, and she felt something sharp and hungry stab at her belly. LaBoeuf cleared his throat and dropped his eyes. "I mean, plenty of water, game everywhere, and hardly anyone around. This would be a good spot to hide. Let me refill this, and then we can close up the cabin and return to town."

"Of course," Mattie said. She went back and began to fit the canvas frames back inside the window openings. It took a few minutes, because she had to strike one side of the frame with the heel of her hand, which made the other side jump out of place, but eventually the windows were covered and LaBoeuf latched the shutters. He tipped out the last drops from the bucket and hung it on its peg before closing the door and forcing the padlock closed again.

The drive back to town was uneventful at first. They talked of inconsequential things every so often, but they were largely silent. They passed a few farmers and riders on the way, but they were no one that Mattie knew.

LaBoeuf's body was warm and solid in the seat next to her. She watched his hands and wrists as he held the reins, almost painfully aware of the sharp bones and muscles and calluses that marked him as a man who worked capably with his hands. She had always been put off by men with soft, smooth hands, the Yankee drummer being the most recent example. There was something untrustworthy, even unwholesome, about them.

Of course, Lawyer Daggett's hands were a little soft now, but he was the exception. When he had lived on their property, he had worked as hard as any man, and now that he was wealthy he had earned the right to hire others to work for him.

When she had been a very young girl, before Mrs. Daggett had come from Memphis and before Tom Chaney, Mattie had figured that she would someday marry Mr. Daggett. Aside from her father, he had been the only man who had approved of her or encouraged her odd turns of mind. She had thought it would be a very agreeable life.

That had been before she grew up, though. When she had learned enough to piece together a few bare facts about marital relations, she was glad that her girlhood imaginings had not come to pass. While she loved Mr. Daggett, she did not think she would have liked sharing a bed—or anything else—with him. He had continued to treat her with the same avuncular fondness as always, and she was glad of it.

And then there was LaBoeuf. She looked up at him, making a study of the lines of his face as he drove. The vertical plane from his forehead to his chin indicated intelligence, and his strong jaw indicated stubbornness, both of which she could confirm from life. His eyes were hooded, which gave him a deceptively sleepy look until he turned the force of his gaze on her.

Which, of course, he did, clearly smiling at her even though the corners of his mouth turned down. "What is it?" he asked.

She dropped her eyes. "Nothing."

"If you were looking for flaws you would not have to study so closely. I keep them right out front, where everyone can see." He wiggled the tip of his nose like a rabbit.

"Perhaps I am looking for signs of intelligence," she quipped.

"Ah," he said. "You would not be the first. Let me know how you get on."

Mattie laughed. "The Mr. LaBoeuf I used to know would never have said this. He seemed very set on securing my good opinion."

LaBoeuf nodded. "He was. You were a tough customer. But I like to think that you and I understand one another better now."

"Do we?" she asked.

"Very much so." He gave her a look that made her breath catch in her throat. "For instance, I know that you hate to lose."

"Everyone does," Mattie sniffed.

"…And that having lost, you would relish the chance to even the score."

Mattie just looked at him as though he were the greatest fool in Yell County.

"Which is why I would be willing to engage in one—just one—more round of Crambo with you. To spare your pride. It is the least I can do for an old trail pardner."

This was so patently ridiculous that she hooted before clapping her hand over her mouth. "Oh, you would, would you? What a saintly sacrifice."

He chuckled at her, and then rubbed one of his knuckles against his lower lip. "I know a word that rhymes with 'sweet.'"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Oh, very well. Are they in my shoes?"

"No, it is not 'feet'."

"Is it tidy?"

"No, it is not 'neat.'"

"Is it the sound a sheep makes?"

"No, it is not 'bleat.'"

"Is it how Paddy O'Brien keeps warm?"

He was silent for a few moments.

"Your time is spent; do you forfeit, Mr. LaBoeuf?" Her face grew warm as laughter threatened to burst out.

"No, I do not, and it is not 'peat.'" He grinned at her. "You figured I would say 'heat,' did you?"

She shrugged. "Is it where you keep your brains?" she asked, in a tone that was as close to 'sweet' as she could muster.

He had two choices: he could admit to her that his brains were in his 'seat,' or he could forfeit, neither of which he could find particularly appealing, she thought. He gave a long-suffering sigh and spoke. "No, it is not 'seat.'"

"Are you certain of that?"

"Ask your question or forfeit," he snapped.

"Is it… is it subtle?"

He blinked. "Yes, it is 'discreet.'" He reined in the horse and then tilted his head to the side, regarding her. "What must I forfeit?"

She thought for a moment. Could she really be so wicked? "The same as before, I think," she said in a low voice, staring at his lapels.

He swallowed, tied off the reins, and then rubbed his palms against his trouser legs. "Only the one, though; I do not want you thinking I am fast." His eyes twinkled at his joke, but Mattie's throat was too dry to laugh at him.

He dipped his head a little, and she leaned forward a little and pressed a kiss to his mouth. The momentum was all hers: she made it happen. His lips were warm and soft against hers. A bright, silver thrill ran through her body, making her shiver, and then he put his arms around her and kissed her right back.

After what seemed like forever but was probably less than a minute, she started and pulled away a little, putting some space between them.

He sighed and pressed his forehead to hers. "Oh, my girl. You are sweet."

As a rule she disliked tobacco. She disliked the mess and she most particularly disliked the expense. But on LaBoeuf's breath the trace of pipe tobacco was pleasant, even comforting. She breathed him in, humming a little as she exhaled.

He stroked her cheek with his knuckles, which was unaccountably nice, and then he pulled her closer, tucking her under his arm and kissing her as she flailed a little, trying to find her balance. His mouth slanted across hers, and he was holding her so closely, kissing her with such focus that it took a long time for her to realize that his cheek was pressed against her nose and she couldn't breathe. She struggled, trying to catch her breath, and he released her, but not all the way.

"Are you my girl, Mattie?" he murmured. He cupped her face in his hands.

Her breathing was easier, but she still sounded winded when she spoke. "Yes," she whispered. "I think I am."

He had the strangest look on his face, she thought, happy and worried all at once. His mouth was red and his eyes were so blue… She closed her eyes and kissed him again until he took her shoulders between his hands and gently moved her away from him.

"There, now," he said in a rough voice. He seemed to be concentrating on taking deep breaths. "There. We should get going. This road will not be empty all day."

Her face burned from LaBoeuf's whiskers, and she could taste him on her lips.

"Are you ready?" he asked. "Do we need to make a stop here first?"

Mattie nodded, lost in her thoughts.

"Do you need to stop?" LaBoeuf asked, elaborately patient.

"Oh! Ah, no," she said, and he directed the horse to walk.

The new and tenuous thing between them did not seem to admit much speech, but they spent the next little while taking turns at watching the other and making shy, silly grins. Anyone riding up on them would have thought them escaped lunatics, Mattie thought with her usual asperity, even though her thoughts seemed muffled by a thick layer of wool padding. A couple of kisses and she was lost to all good sense.

They made a left turn to take the road to Mattie's house, and soon overcame a slight young man on a safety bicycle. As soon as he saw Mattie, he began waving madly, flagging them down, and LaBoeuf pulled the gig to a halt.

"Miss Ross," the man said, gasping. Mattie recognized him as the assistant to the telegraph operator.

"Yes, Mr. Harrison?"

"Telegraph for you," he said, handing her the envelope. She fished a few coins from her pocket for a tip, and then the telegraph man was wheeling his bicycle around and heading back to town.

Without ceremony she tore open the envelope with her teeth and tugged out the slip of paper. "Oh!" she said and her mouth dropped open.

"What is it?" LaBoeuf asked.

"Little Frank has found her. She is in Hot Springs."