“What do you want me to do, Mrs. Bennett?” Chance’s voice was as smooth as river-polished stone, except for the hint of amusement underneath.
There was a brief pause, followed by the click of her purse snapping shut and the chair scraping back. “I want you to file this deed today and notify Mr. Rivers that the court should set aside the will he has on file. Then, write a letter to Drum Bennett and my sons explaining the terms. They need to hear this from a lawyer, not me. Do you understand?”
Chance cleared his throat, and the chair groaned as he apparently leaned back, stretched, and then pushed himself upright. “Perfectly clear. Would you prefer to pay me now or . . .”
From the looks of his office, it was obvious the man needed money. Too many in the hills settled their differences by means other than lawyers. It would be years before the signs that hung in Omaha and North Platte advising men to leave their firearms at home appeared here. The excuse was always rattlesnakes and coyotes, but folks were generally more respectful toward a man with a pistol belted around his hips or a rifle on his saddle.
“Of course, but I would not appreciate a delay or a disclosure of our conversation until you file the will and transfer the deed. Do you understand?” This time her voice was low and even. Woe to the man who didn’t do her bidding. Graver smiled.
“You needn’t worry about my desire to converse with my fellow townsmen. I have been here five years and have yet to be invited to share a single meal or drink. There is little society for me here.”
This news surprised Graver. Chance was a tall, handsome man, a bachelor.
“You’re lucky then,” Dulcinea said. “This town is a sore on the rump of Balaam’s ass, as far as I’m concerned. You should move to Denver or Omaha, Ainsworth even. After you file for me, of course.” She laughed, and Graver could imagine the tilt of her head as she did so.
“Would you care to take a bite with me at the Cattleman’s Café?”
“I must decline today, Mr. Chance, but I’ll return in a week to discuss the reaction to my filing if you can send a rider out with the letters. I imagine there will be some noise from Drum Bennett, who is recuperating in my home at the moment.”
“I’ll bring the letters personally in a day or so, Mrs. Bennett. I’d be interested in seeing the ranch, and there’s nothing as soothing to the weary mind as a sojourn to the country.”
There was a moment of silence as the door opened, allowing him a glimpse of the office, the walls covered with an assortment of handmade Indian goods.
“What is it?” she said when she saw him waiting.
Graver didn’t need reminding that she was the boss, and her tone embarrassed him. “Wahl, boss, we got all them chores done.”
Her head jerked at his exaggerated servility.
Over her shoulder, Graver saw Chance grin. It put him on guard. The man found too much humor in things, as if he always had a hidden card to play and was never in danger of losing the game.
Outside the office Mrs. J.B. stopped, then looked up and down the street. “Have you seen the boys?”
“Not lately,” Graver admitted.
“Please find them.” She consulted the little watch that hung from a pin on her dress.
He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it and jammed on his hat as she turned and started for the livery stable.
“But first bring the runabout with my dog,” she called over her shoulder.
“Hello.” Dulcinea dug in her pocket, pulled out a lump of sugar, and offered it to the gray stallion. The horse looked at her, ears twitching back and forth. He blew high through his nostrils, arched his neck, and bared his teeth as if to bite. Then he grabbed the sugar from her palm and backed away to chew. Dulcinea pulled another lump from her pocket and offered it. This time the horse lowered his head, snorted, and edged over to take it carefully, chewing without backing away. Dulcinea reached up and rubbed his jaw and the side of his neck, working her way up to the ears, which she stroked between her fingers. The stud relaxed and nuzzled her shoulder.
“I’ll be riding him. Graver, you take the runabout. The boys will be on their horses,” she said. “And we’ll pony the two mares.”
“Ma’am.” Dun Riggins, the livery stable owner, cleared his throat, spit, bit down on the chew, and then shifted it to the other side of his mouth. “Where you want them boxes?”
She looked startled and glanced at the stack in the aisle. “We’ll need to rent a wagon from you.”
A crafty look stole into his eyes, and his lips set in a grim smile. “Yes, ma’am, we got us a wagon.” He paused, spit, shifted the chew again, and glanced at the stallion. Graver could tell he was toting up the cost of his general irritation at being ordered about by a woman.
“Yes?”
“Only one left in town, I’m afeared, and it’s seen better days.”
Graver almost groaned aloud.
“Will it make it to the ranch or not, Mr. Riggins?”
“T’aint no other,” he said in a mournful voice.
“I’m sure. Fetch it with a team and I’ll have my men load.” She opened her purse.
The wagon was a shambling wreck, the wood warped, cracked, and paintless, the wheels wobbly, the seat brace broken on one side and shored up with a log that meant the driver sat on a downhill slant. The team was a mismatched pair that would fight each other the whole way, Graver could tell, since the paint was a barely broke youngster with a small pig eye and Roman nose, already humping its back and trotting in place. The washed-out strawberry roan was an old broodmare whose ponderous belly swung so low to the ground, it looked as if she’d knock into it when she trotted. Judging from the bog spavins in her hocks and the hooves that hadn’t been trimmed in so long the toes were starting to curl, Graver knew she couldn’t do much more than a plodding walk. It was going to be a long journey home.
“This the best you can do?” Graver asked.
Riggins nodded, eyes sly, infuriating little smile in place as he harnessed the animals. He had a short club tucked in his belt that the paint eyed with disdain. Graver thought the horse probably deserved it as his teeth snapped the air beside the man’s head, and its hind leg snaked up and out in a swift cow kick that would have nailed Riggins had he not been agile enough to jump out of range. Graver saw Rose’s family standing beside their horse, which the child now rode, watching the spectacle. Jerome and Rose whispered and nodded to each other, until Rose came forward and stopped at Graver’s side without speaking.
“I can drive them,” she finally said in a flat voice.
Graver handed her the patched rein.
Mrs. Bennett saddled the gray stud, which looked to have Thoroughbred racing blood from its long body and fine head but was too heavy-boned for speed, and Graver brought out the two mares. He would ride the prancing black one with the too-alert eye, and tie the bay mare to the wagon, as she appeared calmer and less ambitious. Both were clean-legged and well set up. Where had she found Kentucky racing stock?
Graver took the boys’ horses back to the Emporium while Jerome tied his to the runabout and followed, driving as his daughter sat beside him and the dog rode in back, chewing a bone among the packages.
Graver found the boys at the Emporium in front of the glass-encased gun display quietly discussing the merits of the Smith & Wesson .44 Russians. Hefting the guns, Hayward pointed toward the target on the far wall, an Indian chief in war paint and full eagle feather bonnet. An old Spencer .56 and a Berdan sharpshooting rifle sat on the counter. Haven Smith peered at them over his round glasses between customers, and when he saw Graver join the boys, he seemed to sigh in relief.