It was cold and late that same evening. A wild wind whipped and whistled about the eaves and doors, hunting, searching for a loose or rattling way inside the Lawless main house. On the other, warm side of those same walls, Glory made her evening rounds. The kerosene lamps were out, the front and back doors were locked. Gliding through the great room, her way lit by the glowing embers in the fireplace, she made her way to Biddy’s downstairs bedroom, just on the other side of the stairs.
She put an ear to the door and listened. Only quiet greeted her. She’d best be sure, she decided, in light of this afternoon’s pie-making and kitchen-scrubbing excitement. Glory opened the door and peered into the darkness. Deep, even breathing from the bed brought an indulgent smile to her face. Finally, her little patient was asleep. That liberal dose of whiskey she’d asked for, in her evening toddy, had seen her nodding off in contentment.
Taking great care to close the door quietly, Glory turned and rubbed her fingers across her forehead. Bone-tired, headachy, she wondered how Mama had so effortlessly taken care of them all. Straightening her spine, Glory resisted feeling sorry for herself and strode briskly toward the stairs. She had one remaining chore before she sought her own bed.
And that chore’s name was Riley Thorne. How dare he hire two new men, she intended to ask him. He had neither the right nor the authority to take on hands in her name. If a couple of drifters came hunting a station, all Riley need do was point them to her. Period. The end of his involvement. But no, she had to find out about the two new hands from Sourdough, who’d come to gripe about two more mouths to feed. Glory could only shake her head.
Worse, who was it again who’d preached cutting corners and letting men go? And here two new ones slept in the bunkhouse. It was a good thing Smiley wasn’t here. More than pie dough would have flown through the air if he had been. Just who did Riley think he was—a Lawless?
Granted, she conceded as she took the stairs one weary step at a time, he acted every bit as bold and rash as any Lawless, but the man was still a Thorne—one in her side, if anyone cared to ask her. Once upstairs, Glory passed her own room to stop two doors down in front of Riley’s. She fisted her hand to knock but, hearing Riley moving about inside the room, found she needed a moment to boost her courage.
She smoothed a hand over her hair, knotted back in its usual bun, and then ran it down her skirt. A clean skirt. A different skirt than the piemaking and paddling skirt of that afternoon.
Her determination thus restored, she knocked on the door and waited, listening. Riley’s whistling and bustling about continued. Glory pursed her lips and knocked again … a little harder. Again she waited and listened. Again, in vain. Shaking her head, the least bit angry now—was he ignoring her?—Glory knocked hard enough to make her knuckles hurt. And listened.
Now the man was singing … after a fashion. She listened another moment and then frowned. What awful, lilting lyrics he belted out.
“… Old Jake rode his mule to the valley town./It’d been a while since he’d come down, uh-huh./A rich man now from his gold-mining claim/He hunted some fun without no blame, uh-huh./He looked forward to spending all his money/And getting him a taste of Miss Bawdy’s honey. Uh-huh, uh-huh…”
Miss Bawdy’s honey? Certain now that Riley had heard her knocking and meant to embarrass her with such language, Glory pressed her lips into a peevish line, grabbed the knob, twisted it, and burst into his bedroom. Her pointing finger raised, her words already tipped against her tongue, Glory didn’t realize—in that first instant—exactly what it was that … faced her.
But then, it registered. Her breath—and her words—sucked right back down her throat. Every instinct implored her to turn away, to run. To cover her eyes, at least. But shocked beyond measure, Glory posed as she was—frozen, numb, blank. Staring.
A towel over his head, his … front facing her, and wearing only his boots, Riley was drying his hair. Perhaps sensing a draft or her presence or the thickened air—or all three—his hands stilled and he straightened up. Slowly he dragged the towel off his head. And stared openmouthed at her. “Glory.”
Then, he looked down at himself and whipped the towel around his waist. Holding it secure with one hand, he dragged his Stetson off the bureau and plopped it on his head. Red-faced, frowning his eyebrows into a V, he griped, “Don’t you ever knock? And close your mouth before you catch a fly.”
Glory closed her mouth so abruptly her teeth clacked together. She realized she was still pointing at his … at him. And jerked her arm down to her side. Words came and went, all unspoken. Finally she managed, “I did knock. I’m sorry.” Her hand still on the knob, she began backing up.
Riley reached out to her. “Wait. You’re here now. What’d you want?”
Still backing up in a hot-faced, lead-limbed retreat, Glory assured him, “It can wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” There was no need to finish her sentence as she finally stood in the hall and pulled the door closed.
Safe now on the other side of the wood barrier, she put her shaking hands to her face. How could she ever face him again? It just wasn’t possible. The door opened. Glory sucked in a breath and jerked back one clumsy step. And held her breath, since it, and certainly not her spine, was the only thing keeping her erect.
Still attired only in his towel and hat, Riley asked, “What can wait until tomorrow?”
Even though the man loomed large in her vision, Glory tried her best not to … see him. In sheer desperation, she cast her gaze both ways down the darkened hall, but found no help, no escape. Giving up, she finally settled her gaze on his chest—his face. Look at his face. “M-men,” she stammered. “The men. They can wait until tomorrow.”
Riley cocked his head. His Stetson’s brim shaded his face, made him appear sinister. “What men?”
Glory took another step back, only to conk her head against the wall behind her. Almost grateful for the physical jarring, she flattened her hands against the wall and began sidling down the hallway as she hedged, “The ones you hired. You can’t hire them. But they can wait. They’re alseep now. I should be, too. And you. Asleep. Both of us. But not together—I mean, in the same room. No. Umm, good night, Riley.”
Having edged her way down to her room’s door, Glory flung herself inside and slammed it closed. Wide-eyed and unblinking in the smoky light of the kerosene lamp on her dresser, she stared at her familiar surroundings as if she’d never seen them before. Mortified reaction set in. She clapped a hand over her mouth and doubled over, the better to trap her embarrassment inside. But it erupted. Glory stood straight up with her next gulping breath and burst out laughing.
Weak-kneed, she made her way to her bed, collapsing on it in a knees-drawn-to-her-chest heap. She groped for a pillow, found one, and stuffed it over her head. Oh, dear heavens, I saw Riley as God made him. I cannot ever come out of my room again. How will I face him? I just can’t. Never again can I look him in the eye after seeing his … him.
Glory sat up in the tangled heap of her clothing and stared blindly at the opposite wall. She’d seen Riley naked. Immediately, she flopped back onto the feather comfort of her bed, and lay there sprawled and again seeing Riley in all his glory. Then she rolled over onto her tummy and settled her head on her pillow, thinking My, he is magnificent.
Absently focusing on her lady’s vanity perched against the room’s opposite wall, Glory declared Riley’s physique perfect. Like one of those statues in the art books Mama included in their lessons. He was muscles everywhere. Long-limbed. Solid. And that hair on his chest. It had a most interesting pattern, thinning as it did down to a line below his waist that widened out into a—
A knocking on her door, accompanied by a husky drawl of “Glory?” sat her straight up. “Go away,” she called out, using the same childhood intensity she had when shooing scary monsters from the armoire on dark nights.
Only this monster was real. And apparently it didn’t shoo very well. “I’m not going away,” it said. “Now open this door, please.”
Her wary gaze trained on the door in question, Glory shook her head. “No,” she called out. “Go away. I’m sleeping.”
An exhalation from out in the hallway preceded, “No you’re not. You’re talking to me.”
Darn. He had her there. Glory swung her legs over the side of her bed and sat there, hands folded in her lap. “What do you want?”
Silence. Then, “I don’t rightly know. But here I am.”
Glory frowned. “Go to bed. You’re already undressed for it.” Her hand clamped itself over her mouth as her eyes widened and hot blooms burst upon her cheeks.
Silence. Then, “I suppose you’re right. Are you okay?”
Glory considered the door a moment, tried to see Riley on the other side of it. She gained an instant image of him … bare-chested, Stetson on, towel-wrapped hips. And bit her lip to keep from giggling again. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Silence. Then, “No reason, I guess. Umm, good night, Glory.”
Glory’s lips twitched, but finally she blurted a respectable, “Good night, Riley.”
* * *
“Biddy, something happened last night.”
Biddy frowned at Glory’s words as she watched the girl butter a flaky biscuit. Perched on the side of Biddy’s bed, and sharing her breakfast tray, Glory took a big bite and turned those grass-green eyes on her as she chewed.
Frowning, Biddy absently brushed a wispy gray hair back under her mobcap. She next lowered her china teacup and saucer onto the silver tray atop her lap. “Well, child, are ye going to tell me what, or must I guess?”
Glory shrugged, handed Biddy the other half of the biscuit. “Here. Eat this. Sourdough sent in a plate of them. The ones I baked … or tried to … could bring a jackrabbit down, if you hit him just right.” Satisfied only when Biddy accepted the treat and bit into it, Glory continued, “I saw Riley naked.”
The biscuit would go neither up nor down, neither in nor out. Biddy could get no air. She pitched forward, jerked her knees up, and knocked the tray in a slanting slide over the edge of the bed. Gasping, Glory jumped up and caught it at the last moment, saving most of the spill for the tray. She quickly sat it aside.
Hands clawing at her throat, lungs screaming for air, Biddy couldn’t even protest when Glory grabbed her arm up over her mobcapped head and shook it while she pounded on her hunched shoulders with her other.
“My word, Biddy, are you all right? Your face is absolutely purple.”
Biddy wrenched her arm out of Glory’s grasp and flapped her hand, wanting Glory to leave her be. Glory stepped back and stared wide-eyed, her hands clutching at her skirt. Just then, Biddy felt the biscuit dislodge. She swallowed in sheer relief, cleared her throat, and then waved at the tray. “Water,” she gurgled out, barely, recognizing the raspy voice as her own.
As Glory hopped to, scampered to the porcelain pitcher and cup on the nightstand, and poured out a measure of water, Biddy decided that today was the day she got out of bed … if she lived past this conversation, that was. And all these years, she’d thought for sure it would be Jacey who’d be the death of her. Breathing shallowly, Biddy accepted the water and drank it down as if it were a stiff tot of whiskey.
Sitting the glass back on the nightstand, she took a deep breath, testing her capabilities, and exhaled in relief. She’d live. Hand to her chest, wheezing, still coughing, she lay her head back against her pillows and stared up at the ceiling. Blessedly, her breathing slowly became normal.
When she could speak, she raised her head and patted the bed next to her. “Sit yerself right back down here, young lady. And tell me exactly how it was ye saw Riley without a stitch on.”
Settling herself atop the covers, Glory chirped, “Oh, he wasn’t completely naked, Biddy. Don’t be silly. He had his hat on. And then a towel.”
Biddy shrank against her plumped pillows and folded her hands together. “Well, in that case, the man was fully clothed.” She glared at Glory to let her know she didn’t mean that at all.
The child tried to smile, but it wouldn’t hold. She immediately found reason to jump up and begin straightening the large, sunny room. And apparently felt she should start as far away from the bed as possible. “Now, Biddy,” she chided, rearranging a silverbacked comb and brush set on the oak vanity across the room, “it’s not like you’re thinking.”
“Ha. Tell me what I’m thinkin’.”
Glory spun around, a hand over her heart. The girl at least had the decency to blush. “You’re thinking that we—? I think not. Riley was toweling off after his bath, and I heard him singing this awful tune. I merely went to his door and—Why, Biddy Jensen, shame on you for thinking we’d—”
Biddy stiffened. “Shame on me, is it? Let me remind ye, young lady, yer the one talking about seeing Riley as God made him.” Then, like a hen sitting on its roost, she settled into her covers and focused on Glory, shaking her head. “’Tis better I’m feelin’. I believe I’ll be up and on me feet by this afternoon.” Then she muttered, “Before I’m a grandmother and right under me own nose.”
“What?”
Biddy huffed out her breath. “Never ye mind. Just take the tray, child. I can eat no more. I said I’d be up and around today.”
“I don’t know, Biddy. It’s only been a few days.”
“And I’m much stronger for the rest. Now, go on. Be off with ye.”
Glory stayed where she was and looked consideringly at her. Biddy raised an eyebrow, daring her to challenge her word. Finally, Glory huffed out her breath and flounced over to the nightstand. Picking up the tray, she turned to Biddy and said, “Well, I’m glad you feel like getting up. The Good Lord knows I can use the help. But I want you to be careful because I can’t be inside with you, watching your every step, since I have to go out to the bunkhouse and—”
Biddy grabbed Glory’s wrist, rattling the tray precariously. Glory divided her attention between balancing her load and peering wide-eyed at Biddy. “Yer not hopin’ to see the rest of the men in their altogether, are ye?”
Glory’s jaw dropped. “Biddy! What a scandalous notion! I hardly think I’d—” She stopped, huffed out her breath and added, “I’ll be out at the bunkhouse—but having a few words with two new hands Riley hired yesterday. And that’s all.”
Biddy released her wrist, sat back. “I should hope so.” Then she frowned. “‘Riley hired,’ is it?”
“Yes. I intend to find him and remind him he’s not a Lawless. Then, because Smiley and some of the men are still out looking for strays, I also—”
“Oh? Smiley—umm, Mr. Rankin, I mean—is … away?” Biddy looked down, fiddled with her quilted spread, and then sought Glory’s gaze.
The shameless girl chuckled. “When are you going to tell him you’re sweet on him?”
Biddy puffed up in indignation. “I’m no such thing. Ye mind yer tongue, young lady.”
Glory’s green eyes lit with humor. “Of course, you’re not. And he didn’t come to see about you yesterday.”
Biddy ignored the heat on her cheeks and managed a tone of voice as blustery as the day outside her window. “’Twas about business, his call was. Nothing more. Now, go on with yer list of chores. The day’s gettin’ no younger.”
Glory grinned before wisely—to Biddy’s way of thinking—changing the subject. “Yes, ma’am. After I greet the new hands, I need to go check on the repairs to the corral fence. And then I’ll get an accounting from Sourdough on what he’ll need to outfit the chuck wagon for the spring drive up to Kansas.”
Biddy sat still, suddenly content just to listen to the doll-like, auburn-haired girl chatter on. She didn’t know what was stranger—having a conversation with Glory about seeing a man naked or one about the workings of the ranch. Up until the last few days, the girl hadn’t cared about either. Her baby was growing up.
She flicked her attentive nanny’s gaze over Glory’s person, from her neatly coiffed hair—still in that blasted bun—to her tucked white blouse and tan pocket-skirt, which met at her tiny, belted waist. Gone was the stringy hair and the pallor and indifference about her appearance of only a few days ago. Gone was the moping spirit, too. What had caused this rapid change in her? Not what, but who, Biddy realized. Riley Thorne. Her secret smile found its way to her face.
“Oh, and the good news is Skeeter came to the—Biddy, what on earth are you smiling about? I’m telling you all the troubles around here and you’re smiling at me as if I’ve just successfully baked a cake.”
Her heart full, Biddy’s smile became tremulous. “Will ye listen to yerself? Yer quite the strong one, Glory Bea, taking charge like ye have. Ye remind me of Hannah. I’m right proud of you. And yer sisters will be, too.”
Glory blinked at her and then her mouth worked, her eyes shone. She looked down at the spilled mess that was the breakfast tray, and then back up at Biddy. “That means a lot to me. I just want to do a good job and be the best darned Lawless that I can.”
* * *
Glory grabbed Papa’s big old sheepskin coat off its peg by the kitchen door. Looking back at the messy room—not at all the way Biddy usually kept it—she renewed her efforts to be nowhere around when her doting nanny dressed and found what awaited her. The sight could end her doting era.
Slinging the heavy garment across her shoulders, feeling its hem hit her behind her knees, Glory poked her hands through the armholes, already rolled up to thick cuffs from her new habit of wearing it. She nestled down into its woolly folds, pulling its comforting weight and memories around herself. She had other, better coats, certainly ones more suited to her size, but Papa’s was … well, Papa’s.
Looking down at herself as she pushed the big leather buttons through their corresponding holes, Glory marveled anew at how close she felt to Papa when engulfed in his favorite coat. Perhaps she was being superstitious, but she believed her judgment and decisions about the ranch were sharper when she had it on. For sure, the men recognized it as J. C. Lawless’s. They didn’t say anything, but they eyed it and then her, and called her Miss Lawless. Some of these men had known her since she was a baby, had always called her Miss Glory. But now she was Miss Lawless, boss lady.
Smiling at the thought, still flushed with Biddy’s high praise of her, Glory stepped outside. And caught her breath. A cold blast of air, laden with choking dust, brought tears to her eyes and nearly blew her off the landing. Coughing, blinking, she grabbed the heavy kitchen door and held on when the wind threatened to wrench it free of its hinges and send it spiraling about the yard.
Barely able to see, her watery eyes scratchy with dust, Glory suddenly realized she was no longer alone on the narrow clapboard landing. Someone—a strong someone—helped her slam the uncooperative door closed. Wrenching around, tugging the coat’s collar up around her neck, Glory found herself pressed up against a stranger’s body.
His head ducked, his broad, pockmarked face turned in profile to hers as he too fought the wind, the man held her pinioned between his strong arms as he forced the door into its frame. Even though he was helping her, and his actions were the most innocent, Glory felt her heartbeat thud, as if in warning. This man had to be one of the drifters that Riley’d hired yesterday. She knew all the other men.
“You all right, ma’am?” came his yelled question.
Glory nodded. “I had no idea the wind was this strong. Thank you.”
“Glad to help. Where you headed?”
She managed to get him to move one of his hands away from her by pointing toward the bunkhouse. “Out there.”
Hatless, his dark hair whipped up onto its ends, adding to his sinister appearance. Suddenly, the man clutched her elbow. Glory caught her breath. And couldn’t really say why her heart pounded as she looked up into his face. “You’d best allow me to escort you. A little thing like you is liable to get blown all the way to Texas.”
Another gale-force gust rocked them, held them in place, robbed Glory of a chance to respond. Huddled in Papa’s coat, her eyes squeezed shut against the pinprick sting of the blowing grit, she stiffened when the man hunched over her and put an arm around her. A protective gesture to anchor her against the wind. Nothing more. But Glory resisted. She didn’t like him. It was that simple, that gut-deep. Opening her eyes to narrow, watering slits, she stiffened against him and pushed back. Raising her voice to be heard above the wind’s howl, she called out, “I can make my own way.”
“No, I can’t let you do that.” His iron-hard grip tightened around her as he braced them against a renewed gust.
Glory sucked in an alarmed breath. This danger was real, and her options were meager. She couldn’t best him in a physical struggle. She wasn’t about to make an excuse to go back inside, where only she and Biddy would be at this man’s mercy. She therefore had to get to the bunkhouse, where other men, hopefully Riley among them, would be. As soon as the gust subsided, Glory pointed to the bunkhouse, signaling she was ready to make a dash for it.
“Then let’s go,” he called out, gripping her arm as he directed her steps to the ground. Frightened lest he carry her off, never to be seen again, Glory exhaled only when she realized the tall, squarely built stranger was indeed leading her to the bunkhouse office door. A man of his word, he opened the door, handed her in, and closed it behind them.
After the howling wind and the banging shutters and barn doors, the cramped and cluttered office was quiet. Too quiet. Filled with dust motes and leather tack and carelessly stacked papers atop a small desk, it was otherwise empty. Of men. Of help. Then so be it—she was on her own. Despite her fear-weakened knees wobbling with each step, Glory crossed the room to stand behind the desk. Not much of a barrier, but it made her feel better.
She turned to her escort, noting with relief that he’d stayed by the door. He ran a big, thick-fingered hand through his hair and smiled at her. “That’s some wind, ma’am.”
Struck by his rough, craggy appearance, and contrasting it with his straightforward actions, Glory barely managed a nod of acknowledgment for his words. She reached up and smoothed her completely undone and knotted hair from her line of vision. She had to get ahold of herself, had to quit jumping at every noise, at every—The man was watching her. Not simply looking at her, but watching her. Like a wolf did its prey before it roused itself for the kill.
Show no fear, Glory. Lifting her chin a notch, mustering all the authority she could, she said, “I’m Glory Lawless. This ranch is mine and my sisters’. You must be one of the hands Mr. Thorne hired last evening.”
The man grinned at her, showing big, square teeth. “Yes, ma’am. Name’s Carter Brown.”
Glory nodded, didn’t know what to say next. So she busied her hands with straightening piles of invoices on Smiley’s desk. There was something else about this man. The way he talked. His voice. That’s it. Glory raised her head, saw he hadn’t moved, and called herself glad for that. “You’re not from around here, are you, Mr. Brown?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I’m from back east.”
Back east. Where Mama’s family is. Wariness shot through Glory, tightening her throat. “I see. Where back east?”
“A small town outside of Boston. You probably never heard of it.”
Boston? Mama’s family lives in Boston. And Hannah’s there. “You’re a long way from home, Mr. Brown.” Be calm, Glory. Think. If he’s one of the murderers, he’d lie about where he was from. Wouldn’t he?
Mr. Brown smiled, narrowing his dark eyes. “Yes, ma’am. A long way from home. But we all have our reasons.”
Glory swallowed and nodded. “That’s true.” And realized she had no idea what to do or say next. The silence stretched out.
Carter Brown abruptly ended it. “I didn’t know I’d be working for a woman. I thought Mr. Thorne was in charge here.”
“Mr. Thorne is not in charge here. I am.” Then it suddenly occurred to her that if she didn’t like this man, she could fire him. Her fear remolded itself into angry authority, rendering her capable of looking him in the eye and informing him, “I’ll be giving the orders, and you’ll be following them, like every other drover here. If it’s a problem for you, you’re free to ride out under the same gate you rode in under.”
Mr. Brown held up a big hand. “Easy now, little filly. I didn’t say it was a problem. I just said I didn’t know. In fact”—he raked his gaze up and down her—“I’m beginning to think it might be a most pleasing experience.”
Glory’s hands fisted at her sides as her heartbeat picked up speed. “Perhaps, Mr. Brown, you’d be better off to—”
The door from the bunkhouse into the office opened. Glory jerked toward the sound. In stepped Riley—Thank you, God—and, right behind him, a short man of slight build who pulled up short when Riley stopped suddenly. “Glory! What’re you doing out here?” He then caught sight of the new man. “Brown, where’ve you been? I was looking for you.”
Carter Brown smoothed out his hungry expression. “Sorry, boss—no, that’s not right, is it? Seems Miss Lawless is the boss. Leastwise, that’s what she was just telling me. I’m supposed to be following her orders. Not yours.”
Silence met Carter Brown’s words. Riley settled his brown-eyed, questioning gaze on Glory. She raised her chin in defiance of the heat blooming on her suddenly warm cheeks. She’d meant only to make a strong point with the new hand—and she had, but perhaps she’d gone over the top a bit.
Riley’s unreadable gaze shamed Glory. She barely stopped herself from looking down at her shoes. Ever the same Riley, though, he kept his thoughts to himself and said, “As long as you’re out here, Miss Lawless, this is your other new hand, Abel Justice.” He then stepped aside, bringing into view the beak-nosed stranger behind him.
Riley’d called her Miss Lawless. She’d hear about this later. Ready to look at anyone but Riley right now, Glory focused on Mr. Justice. Grinning and deferential, the gap-toothed drifter tipped his battered old felt hat to her. Now, this man she liked. All but chirping, Glory acknowledged his greeting. “Pleased to have you on the place.”
“Yes, ma’am, and it’s right proud I am to make your acquaintance. I have a heap of respect for the Lawless name. And I count myself proud to be one of your drovers. I’ll work hard and do a good job for you, ma’am.”
Glory turned a genuine smile on him. “I can’t ask for more than that from a man, Mr. Justice.” Sobering, she turned to Carter Brown. “Nor will I.”
She’d no more than chilled the air with that before the door behind Carter Brown flew open. He jumped out of the way as it banged against the wall. Glory raised her arms protectively against an intruding blast of cold air. As if possessed of a mischievous will of its own, a whirlwind lifted and scattered the random stacks of invoices, adding them to the spiraling dance of dry leaves and twigs captured in its energy.
Also blowing into the cramped office was a sputtering, cussing Sourdough. Using both hands, the camp cook wrenched the door away from the wall, slammed it closed, and held it there until he was apparently satisfied that the wind would obey him and stay outside. Only then did he turn and rub his hands together. “That wind is so fierce that Ah’ll swear and be damned if Ah didn’t just see a hen out yonder lay the same egg twice.”
His felt hat secured to his head and mashed down over his ears by his bandanna, which he’d knotted under his chin—giving himself the appearance of a bonneted and incredibly ugly old woman in need of a shave—Sourdough glared out his displeasure with the nature of Nature. His gaze then lit on Glory. “There you are. What you doin’ out here, Miz Glory?”
Stooping to retrieve yet another invoice from the floor, and taking those handed to her by Riley and the two new men, Glory straightened up, hands and invoices held at her waist. “I have every right to be out here, Sourdough. And if you don’t think so, just look to see who signs the drafts to pay these.” She held up a fistful of bills and shook them.
Riley stepped in between her and the old cook’s defiantly puckering mouth. “I need to speak with Miss Lawless, Sourdough.”
“Well, so do I, boy. Ah just come from the main house, lookin’ for her. Miss Biddy said she seen her bein’ all but carried out here by some big varmint of a man.” He sized up Carter Brown. “Ah reckon that’d be you.” He then went on with his story. “Miz Biddy said, from what she could see, Miz Glory here didn’t look none too pleased to be in his company. So what with all the recent troubles, Ah thought it best if Ah made sure she hadn’t come to no harm.”
The air thickened at the end of this remarkably long speech for Sourdough. Glory shifted her gaze from the cook to Riley. He studied her a moment, as if sorting out events, and then turned his head to glare at Carter Brown. “The main house? You want to explain what you were doing over there when I sent you out to the horse barn?”
Carter Brown shifted his weight and hitched at his belt. A gunbelt, Glory noticed. “I thought I saw something.”
Riley narrowed his eyes, mirroring the skepticism he voiced. “You saw something? Maybe Miss Lawless here? I’ll say this one time, Brown—stay away from the main house. And especially stay away from Miss Lawless.”
Carter Brown turned his lip up in what some might call a grin, and others a sneer. His black eyes alight with challenge, he looked from Riley to Glory and then back to Riley. “I will, if she says so. She’s the boss lady. And the way I hear it, she’s the one should be giving orders.”
Glory’s heart plummeted to her feet. Riley might be the one standing in the middle, but she was the one in the hard place. Four sets of male eyes stared at her, waited for her comeback. She had no choice. Caught like this, there was only one answer she could give. And it would seal Riley’s place here and extend his authority over Lawless concerns.
Exhaling her reluctance, and not liking this one bit more than she knew the Lawless hands would when they heard about it, Glory stated, “Mr. Thorne acts on my behalf, Mr. Brown. You’ll take your orders from him.”