Bret didn't get up quite as early as Bart had the day before; he was too fond of sleeping late to do that. He did saddle Blackthorn and get the stallion ready to go before going to Molly's for breakfast, and was surprised to find Bart already sitting inside drinking coffee.
"You were still asleep when I left for the barn," Bret announced.
"I move faster than you do," was his brother's reply.
"Only sometimes."
"Coffee?" Molly asked as she hovered over his empty cup.
He nodded and smiled. "Yes, ma'am. How far's Fort Yuma from here?"
"About two hours," the girl answered. "Will you stay there overnight?"
"No, no, no," came the gambler's reply. "I'd rather ride back in the dark than stay at the fort. I've had enough of those to last a lifetime."
"Forts?"
Bret's mouth was full of coffee and Bart answered for his brother. "Forts. We spent three years as Indian fighters after we got captured by the Yankees."
"As bad as it sounds?"
"Not all of it," Bret finally answered. "At least we got more food than in Camp Douglas. And we weren't freezin' to death all the time."
"Nope. Just half the Indian nation tryin' to kill us." Bart thought about that for a minute. "Maybe not half. A third."
"But you both survived."
"That we did. So I'll be back sometime tonight. Save me some supper."
Bart set his fork down, having finished his eggs and ham. "Delacroix."
"Hmmmm?"
"Be careful."
"I plan on it. You two do the same." He stood from the table and grabbed what was left of his ham, taking it with him. Minutes later Bart and Molly heard him ride away.
"You ready to get started?" she asked and watched the look of unhappiness spread across his face.
"No, but let's do it anyway."
Fortunately today was cooler than yesterday had been, and the two of them worked well together. It was the first time Bart had done any branding with a woman, and Molly certainly knew what she was doing. It was hard work, and both of them worked up a sweat. Finally at lunchtime Molly called a halt to the proceedings. "I'm sure not hungry yet, but if I don't get something to drink and sit down for a few minutes I may pass out," she told Bart. "Sound good to you?"
"Sure," came the standard answer, and he followed her back to the house, where he deposited himself in one of the rockers on the porch. "Ah, feels good to sit down."
"At least it's not as bad as branding cattle," Molly told him as she brought two glasses of tea out to the porch.
"You've done that, too?"
"I grew up on a cattle ranch. My father taught me to brand when I was about twelve. He wouldn't let me help until then."
"I'm surprised he taught you at all."
"Hmmpf," she practically snorted. "He didn't have a son to teach and he needed all the help he could get come spring branding."
"Still, it is a rather unusual skill for a woman to have."
"I suppose. What about your parents? What did they teach you?" Molly wondered if Hancock would reveal any more to her than Delacroix had.
"Momma taught me how to read. Pappy . . . among other things, Pappy taught me poker."
"Then who taught you branding?"
"I worked one summer on a neighbor's spread. That's where I learned about Arabian's, too. He had one and I was told to take care of 'im."
"What about Joe?"
Bart had to stop and think for a second before it dawned on him that she was talking about his brother. "I don't know where he learned to brand. You'd have to ask him." That was the absolute truth. He had no idea when or where Bret had learned to brand livestock.
"Can we finish this today?" Molly asked.
"I don't see why not. You ready to start breedin'?"
"Yes, I am. I've got a whole plan laid out on paper. This time next year I should have my third batch of foals."
"You've done this before?"
"Twice, already. I sold the second batch to another breeder up north. He's workin' on fourth generation cross-breeds."
"How's it goin' so far?"
"We both think we're going in the right direction."
"Speakin' of directions, let's get back to work," Bart told her. Much as he didn't want to, better to get it done and get it over with rather than sit still any longer.
They were walking across the yard to the corral when the first shot was fired. He grabbed her by the arm and pushed her ahead of him, behind the barn door, which was standing open. He hadn't worn a gun this morning so it wouldn't get in the way of the branding, and quickly followed her. "Is there a rifle in the barn?" he asked her. She nodded.
"On the back wall. Above the empty stall." He grabbed her hand and pulled her forward and inside the barn.
"Get down and stay down," Bart told Molly, and she did as she was told. He made his way to the back of the barn and got the rifle down from the wall, then worked his way back to the front of the shed. "I think the war just escalated," he told her, and seconds later another shot rang out. One of the mares squealed in pain.
"They're shooting my girls!" Molly cried, and tried to grab the rifle away from him. Another shot was fired and shattered the glass in the barn window, only inches from Molly's head.
"Get down!" Bart yelled as he aimed the rifle out the broken panes and fired. Two more shots came crashing through what was left of the window, one of them too close for comfort. The remaining glass destroyed, one of the shards caught Bart in the back of his left hand and blood immediately started running down his arm.
"You're hit!" Molly hissed, and he glanced down at the blood.
"It's just a piece of glass, it's alright. Keep your head down."
"Who's doing this?" she cried. "What did I ever do? What did my horses do?"
"You hired us," Bart told her. "Stay here. I'm goin' out the back."
He ran to the back of the barn and snuck out the door, the rifle carried low against his body. There was a flash of something in the trees up on the hill and he quickly aimed and fired, and was rewarded with a squeal of pain. A human squeal of pain. No more shots rained from the hill and some seconds later a horse could be heard crashing through the trees and fallen foliage, then hightailing it away from the ranch perimeter. Molly heard it too and yelled out, "Are they gone?"
"I think so," Bart answered. "Stay there until I tell you it's alright." He crept around the side of the barn and heard nothing; no further shots. He waited almost five minutes and then took a calculated risk and walked along the outside of the barn. When he got to the front and all remained quiet, he re-entered the barn through the front door. "They're gone. Come take the rifle, I'll see to the horses." He handed her the gun and she covered him through the window as he went to check on the injured mare.
Fortunately it was a minor wound on the left rear fetlock, and should heal with little problem. Molly finally came out into the corral with the rifle and handed it to Bart, who took it with his right hand. "Let's have a look at that hand," she pleaded, and he showed it to her. "The glass is still in it. Let's go back to the house."
He followed her back up the small hill and into the house. She washed his hand carefully, then pulled the large shard of glass out and poured whiskey over the cut. She made him sit down at the table so that she could bandage the wound, and he finally asked her, "Are you alright?"
"Not really, but I will be. The mare's really good?"
"She's really good. But I think we've finished with the branding for the day."
"I agree. Joe can help me finish up tomorrow."
"I can help you finish up. Better yet, you can stay inside where it's safe and he can help me finish the branding."
She taped the bandage closed but didn't let go of his hand. "What, so they can take potshots at the two of you?"
"We'll be fine as long as they don't send somebody with better aim."
"This isn't your fight, you know."
"It is now," Bart told her. "Besides, I may have caused the escalation."
"Why do you say that?"
"I pushed on the marshal yesterday, let him know I suspected he might be in on whatever was goin' on around here."
"If that's true, then Conrad is in on whatever it is."
"They could be after your land. This probably is valuable cattle property."
"You've been through that before, haven't you?" She remembered what Bret had told her about Bart's wife.
"I . . . yeah, a long time ago. Delacroix told you about Caroline?"
"Your wife? A little, yes."
"That was different."
"Why?"
"It just was." His tone was that of "no more questions, please," and she decided the best thing to do was let it go.
"You sure you wanna stay here, on this land, no matter what?"
Something in the way he asked the question made her look at him. His eyes . . . there was something there, old, tired and angry, cautious and pained; a reflection of something from his past that he didn't want to remember but did anyway, perhaps? Something that deserved a truthful and honest answer, even if it was difficult to hear.
"I'm sure. The only way I'm leaving this ranch is in a pine box."