Rising almost endlessly from one of the rough-wood chairs that graced the porch came a tall, sturdy-looking stranger who was perhaps fifty, with an easygoing smile that seemed to claim the right to do so. He wore a blue shirt and a brown vest with a red bandana at his neck; a dark brown Boss of the Plains hat was in his hand. He wore Levi’s, and no gun rode his hip.
The clothes looked new, but their guest seemed weathered. That friendly face was oblong, trimly salt-and-pepper bearded, and the eyes in it were a dark blue that caught the light and reflected it.
“Don’t you recognize me, you old reprobate?” their guest asked Papa in a voice both casual and rough edged. “Have I changed so doggone much?”
Her father froze at the front door, then wheeled toward the visitor, who was sauntering over to him with a jangle of spurs.
“Burt?” Papa said, his voice hushed, his eyebrows high. Then he said, “Burt!”
And lunged forward to thrust out a hand for the visitor to find, which he did, grasping it, shaking it. The man’s friendly expression vanished, and sadness took its place, as the blindness of his host became clear by way of those milky eyes.
“George,” the man said softly, “I hadn’t heard of your...”
“My affliction?” her father said, grinning, their hands still clasped. “Seems age finally caught up with me. Anyway, I seen enough in my lifetime to last me two. And leastways I don’t have to see what’s become of you.”
The easy grin broadened. “You’ll just have to believe me, old friend, when I say I still cut a mighty strikin’ figure.”
They shared laughter.
The man called Burt turned toward her, releasing Papa’s hand.
“You must be what become of that ornery tyke Willa,” he said and shook his head and made a “tch” in a cheek. “Now look at you, so much like your mother.”
“I’m Willa,” she admitted. Suddenly her plaid shirt and jeans didn’t seem feminine enough.
The visitor approached her and rather shyly said, “I’m Burt O’Malley. You wouldn’t remember me — you were just a slip of a thing when I, uh, left. But maybe your daddy mentioned me.”
She was lying, but it seemed right to say, “Oh, of course I remember you, Mr. O’Malley. And Papa has spoken of you often, and so fondly.”
The latter, at least, was true enough.
The visitor raised an almost benedictory palm. “There’ll be none of that ‘Mr. O’Malley’ nonsense. I’ll accept Burt or Uncle Burt, and general terms of endearment... but no ‘mister.’”
She took both of his hands in hers. “Uncle Burt it is. How did you get out here? I don’t see a horse.”
“I came by stage this morning to Trinidad and hired a man at the livery to drive me out in his buckboard. I’m afraid I’ve taken some liberties...”
He gestured over to where he’d been sitting — next to the wooden chair was a carpetbag.
O’Malley said, “I kind of assumed I’d have a place to stay out at the Bar-O, least till I got my feet under me.”
Papa was next to their guest now and slung an arm around the taller man’s shoulder. “Today, tomorrow, and always, you’re welcome here. Ain’t you the O in Bar-O?”
She opened the cut-glass and carved-wood front door for them, and Papa gently nudged his old friend to go in first. Both men hung their hats on the wall pegs just inside to the right, then the sightless host led his friend into the sprawling central area of the house.
Like that fancy front door from Mexico, the living room retained her mother’s touch, finely carved Spanish-style furniture mingling with her father’s hand-hewn, bark-and-all carpentry. This was more her papa’s domain than the late Kate Cullen’s, however, with its beam ceilings, hides on the floor, and mounted antler heads. A formidable stone fireplace seemed protected by a Sharps rifle at left and a Winchester at right, each supported by mounted upturned deer hooves.
Papa had come west with that Sharps, and buffalo hunting had provided the funds that built this ranch. The Winchester was the tool of the spread’s early days.
But George Cullen had not been alone in building the Bar-O. There had been Raymond Parker, who a decade and a half ago had sold out his share and was now a successful businessman in Denver. And there had been Burt O’Malley, as well, almost a legendary figure around here...
Willa played hostess and made tea for the two men, who soon were sitting, sipping at china cups, in the twin rough-wood chairs with Indian blankets serving as cushions. She got a fire going in the fireplace they were facing. Then, as she often did when inserting herself into the affairs of the men who dropped by to speak with her daddy, Willa perched on the stone lip of the hearth, positioned between the two men, with views of both.
They were reminiscing about buffalo-hunting days — that was when and where Papa, Parker, and O’Malley had met — when a lull came along, and she filled it, telling their guest that she had beef stew on the stove and that there was plenty enough for him.
“Very kind,” O’Malley told her, “but the kitchen smells waftin’ in done give you away. I’m happy to sit at your table, and I’m hopin’ you Cullens can put up with me for a day or two, till I can line up lodgings in town.”
“Nonsense,” her father said. “We’ve a guest bedroom that is yours as long as you want it.”
Sitting forward, Willa said, “And don’t be embarrassed about asking for a helping hand. I’m sure Papa will stake you to—”
But Papa raised a palm, like an Indian chief in greeting, only what he meant was, Silence.
“Daughter, there’s something I’ve kept from you,” Papa said. “It was wrong of me, particularly since you have grown into such a strong young woman and, I am embarrassed to say, the real rancher on this spread. But you were just a slip of a thing when I made this decision, and I assure you your mother approved.”
Willa leaned forward even farther, her brow creased with confusion. “Papa, whatever are you talking about?”
O’Malley was frowning, and he, too, sat forward. “George, are you saying your daughter has no idea what you’ve been doin’ for me all these years?”
Papa sighed deep and, as he exhaled, nodded. “I’m afraid so. So much time passed, and it was just a... well, kind of a routine business matter, in a way.”
“Papa!” Willa blurted, and if she’d leaned forward any more, she’d have been a pile of herself on the floor. “What in blazes are you talking about?”
Papa sat there, squinting at nothing, and licked his lips, mouth moving as if words were forming that refused to come out.
Finally, O’Malley spoke, his eyes on her steadily. “Willa, you know that Raymond Parker sold out his interest in this spread to your father years ago... He’s invested in businesses all around the Southwest. Denver, Kansas City, Omaha... owns hotels and restaurants, and, well, he’s a very successful individual.”
“That’s Mr. Parker,” she said, returning their guest’s gaze. “But there were three of you in the Bar-O. You, as my father says, are the O, Mr. O’Malley... Uncle Burt. But my understanding is that you... you killed a man and went to prison for it. Or do I misspeak?”
O’Malley shook his head gravely. “No, you are quite correct, young lady. I indeed shot and killed a man. But it wasn’t murder. Not in my view. They called it manslaughter, but in my mind, it was self-defense and somewhat of an accident. I can tell you about it, if you wish.”
Sitting back, she shook her head. “Not my business.”