"I'm not breaking any laws," Andy said to Tracker. "Why are you here?"

"We thought The Ram was on fire," Ben said.

"Well, it's not," Andy said, tossing another book on the pile.

"It's your business if you want to burn books," Tracker said. "Only keep it contained."

"Get off my land," Andy said.

"All right," Tracker said. "We're going."

Ben headed back to Main Street. As Tracker turned, he saw a tear slide down Andy's cheek.

Chapter Thirty-One.

Charlie wiped the dirt off his legs as he sat at the supper table. Emily busied herself boiling water for coffee and searching through a cupboard. Jack sat on the other side of the table and lit the lamp.

If Charlie's pa had once been a prosperous rancher, the house didn't show it. It was barely large enough for a small family, with a loft for the children and a small bedroom in the far corner for the parents. The fireplace was small. To the left of the fireplace sat a counter for preparing meals, and a door leading to a back porch. On the far right, next to the bedroom, sat a washtub and washboard. Beside that sat a dusty rocking chair. A hand woven rug lay before the fireplace, covering the door to the root cellar.

The cabin Jack grew up in was smaller, but not by much.

"Four days ago," Charlie said.

"Maybe five," Emily said, closing one cupboard and opening another.

"So I just missed him." He paused. "Did he receive my letter?"

"Yes," she said, pulling out two cups. "He said you were coming home. He was sick, Charlie, but he smiled at that." She set the cups on the table.

"What was he sick from?" Jack asked.

"His breath wasn't right," she said. "Troy had his doc look at him, but he couldn't do much-something about water in his lungs." She fetched a plate of biscuits and set it on the table. "Held on as long as he could." She sat down in the last empty chair.

Three chairs. Jack hoped he wasn't sitting in their pa's chair.

"Have a biscuit, Mr. Devlin," she said to Jack.

Jack took one and bit into it.

She looked at him expectantly.

"Mm," he said. He wasn't particularly hungry, but it seemed to cheer her up a little.

"Made them this morning," she said. "I'm sorry we don't have jam."

"It's okay," Jack said. "I used to eat them this way when I was a boy."

Charlie stared at the biscuits but didn't take one.

"I'm glad your home," Emily said to him. "It's been hard, but Troy's been a help. He bought us a new andiron." She twisted around to look at the fireplace. "Said our old one was cracked, though I couldn't see it."

"Well, you won't have to worry about that much longer," Charlie said. "I don't suppose anything is worn or cracked over at his castle."

"It's not a castle," she said, smiling awkwardly. "You know it's not."

"Sounds large enough, the way he's always going on about it."

Wood crackled in the fireplace. Crickets chirped outside.

"Is he the good sort?" Jack asked.

"The rich sort," Charlie said, speaking over Emily. "A rich old widower."

"He's thirty-six," Emily said.

"Old enough."

She blushed. "Well, you weren't here, were you? The ranch was dying." Her eyes grew gla.s.sy. "Pa was dying and Troy-he-just wanted to help."

"He wanted our land," Charlie said. "Not to mention something else."

Emily caught her breath. Jack leaned back, waiting for the slap. h.e.l.l, a punch to the jaw would have been reasonable. Instead, she just looked at her hands and said nothing.

"Well, now that Pa's dead, I suppose he'll get his land," Charlie said.

"It's not Pa's land anymore," she said. "It's yours. Your land, your house. Such as it is." She wiped a few crumbs off the table and started to cry. Tears hung off her long, dark lashes.

Charlie snapped out of his dark mood. Reaching for his sister's hand, he said, "Stop crying. I'm sorry, Emily. This is our land, you hear me? Ours. We'll make that decision together."

She nodded.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"This isn't a time for tears," he said. "It's a time to be happy. In three days, you'll be married." He grinned. "And living in a gigantic castle."

She swatted his arm and smiled. "You're horrible."

After filling their cups with coffee, she fetched a broom from the corner and stepped out onto the porch. She shut the door behind her.

"I don't know how I'm going to do it," Charlie said.

"Do what?"

"Give her away. With Pa gone, it'll be my duty."

"Never seen a wedding, myself," Jack said. "I suppose you just walk out and hand her over to that Troy fella."

"That's not what I mean."

Jack sipped his coffee. "Seems to me you're in hitches over nothing. She's marrying a rich rancher. Old or not, he's rich. That means she'll never go hungry."

"But she doesn't fancy him."

"How do you figure that?" Jack asked. "She's marrying the man."

Charlie slipped his fingers around his cup. "I've been looking into those eyes for twenty years, Jack. I know her. Now that Pa's dead, she needs someone to care for her. She ain't young anymore, and Plymouth is the only man for miles. She's doing this because she has to, not because she wants to."

"That may be," Jack said. "But this Plymouth must be sweet on her."

"She's a half-breed," Charlie said. "What white man wants a half-breed?" He smirked. "Somehow, I doubt he'd fancy her as much if I refused to sell the land."

After sleeping on the ground for so many nights, Jack had forgotten how soft a cot could feel. He and Charlie shared the bed up in the loft, while Emily stayed in her pa's room below. Charlie fell asleep quickly, but Jack lay awake and listened to Emily pad around beneath them. She hummed softly as she bolted the door and extinguished the fire.

Charlie was wrong. Troy Plymouth had to be sweet on her. Half-breed or not, Emily was a stargazer and no doubt. She reminded him of a china doll he once saw in a toy shop in Bear Hunt. It had the same black hair and brown eyes, only it wore buckskins and feathers instead of a dress.

But it wasn't only her pretty face. She also seemed the kind sort, not a sharp edge to her. She wasn't anything like the girls at The Ram.

Beneath him, the lantern light turned low. The door of her bedroom shut.

Jack fell asleep. He didn't remember falling asleep, but when he re-opened his eyes he saw grey morning light shining through the loft window. Charlie and Emily were talking below him. He smelled fried eggs and coffee.

As he climbed down, Emily said, "Good morning." She wore a pale yellow dress. Her hair was twisted into a braid over her back.

"Good morning," Jack said. Charlie sat at the table digging into a plate piled high with eggs, bacon, and thick slices of black bread. Jack sat down as Emily placed a similar plate in front of him. He started eating.

"No grace?" she said to him.

He paused, the fork perched in his open mouth.

"Jack, say grace?" Charlie said. "Not him. He thinks it's nothing but wind."

"Not all of it," Jack said, accepting a cup of coffee from her.

"Don't fret, you won't insult me," Emily said. "I'm not the preacher."

"Almost," Charlie said.

"I'm not almost the preacher," she said. "Besides, I like mama's stories better." After fetching her own plate, she brought it over to the table and sat down. "Speaking of stories," she said. "Either of you has yet to speak of your travels."

Jack and Charlie stopped eating.

"Not much to tell," Charlie said.

"Nothing, really," Jack said.

"I don't believe that," Emily said. "And this food comes with a price. That price is either a story, or ch.o.r.es."

"I can't do any ch.o.r.es," Charlie said. "I'm wounded."

"Oh," she said brightly. "Then I expect a good story. With lots of adventure."

Jack stared at Charlie.

"Well, come on," she said.

Charlie gave Jack a near imperceptible shrug. Then, taking a gulp of his coffee, he cleared his throat and began.

Turns out, Charlie was a pretty good storyteller. Emily sat fully absorbed in his account of their time in the Badlands. She cringed when he told her about hitting Jack over the head with a rock ("You could have killed him!" she exclaimed), weaved around Cole Smith so that he never existed, and nearly brought her to tears as he recounted shooting the horse.

Even Jack joined in, talking about Mary's cooking and how his bones jostled in the wagon and the way its bonnet glowed like a candle flame in the sunrise.

He liked talking to Emily. Most people interrupt so much it's hardly worth telling a story, but she just listened, giggling at Silas' brashness, looking terrified when Charlie told her about Brush's no guns sign.

Charlie didn't say a word about the gunfight. Perhaps he wanted to tell Emily what had happened but couldn't bring himself to do it. Maybe he figured she'd had enough heartache for a while.

That was fine with Jack. He kept his mouth shut about it.

After breakfast, they worked. Jack chopped two cords of wood, gathered eggs from the coop, milked their cow, and repaired a sizable hole in the roof. Charlie couldn't do much more than provide conversation and hand him the occasional tool, but Jack didn't mind. It felt good doing ch.o.r.es again. The muscles of his arms and legs ached, but it was the kind of soreness a man could be proud of. After a lunch of vegetable stew, he fixed the barn door, cleaned the coop, and then moved inside the house to wash the windows, sweep the floor, and fetch water. At first, Emily accepted his help graciously, but Jack proved to be so fast that she shooed him out, declaring that he'd leave her no work. "Out," she ordered. She was baking biscuits and had managed to dust both cheeks with flour. "Go bother Charlie."

"I can stoke the fire," Jack offered.

"The fire is fine."

"I can-"

"Go!" she commanded, pointing at the door. Jack left, hanging his head like a kicked puppy. She laughed.

He found Charlie smoking his pipe at the corral.

"She give you the boot?" Charlie asked.

"Yeah."

"It's best to stay out from under foot while she's baking."

Jack leaned on the fence. The sweet smell of tobacco wafted over his face. He couldn't even remember the last time he had a proper smoke.

"Quite the horse, huh?" Charlie said, nodding at the Clydesdale.