Suzanne rolled over on the cot in her small bedroom and squinted at the daylight sifting through the muslin curtains above her bed. She reached up to part a curtain, curious about the weather. Gray clouds settled over Morning Mountain. She rubbed her eyes and tried to clear her mind, still fogged by sleep. Slowly, yesterday’s strange events settled into her brain, and she bolted upright in bed, staring at the closed door of her bedroom. The stranger!
She swung her legs around and fumbled for her house shoes. The smell of coffee filled the cabin, a reminder of Hank’s habit of rising early to drink a cup and watch the sunrise.
Suzanne reached into the wardrobe and removed a pair of clean pants and a cotton shirt. Her mother would roll over in her grave if she could see her dressed in the boys’ clothes Suzanne had bought at the trading post. Still, there was no way she was going to muck out the stalls and ride over the range in a dress and petticoats. She shook her long blond hair back from her face, working the thickness into one fat braid at the nape. Her gray eyes ran over the clutter on her nightstand, wondering where the last grosgrain ribbon had landed. Abandoning the search, she grabbed a strip of leather and wound it around her braid.
She didn’t care about clothes or being a lady right now; she had her father to think about. It was all she could do to keep him at home until he healed.
A muffled cough interrupted her thoughts. The stranger! The front door closed, and she could hear Pa’s crutch stamping over the board floors to the bedroom.
Suzanne crossed the living room and stood looking through the open door of the bedroom. Hank was seated in a chair by the bed, talking to the stranger who was propped up on the pillow, sipping coffee. His dark hair was swept back from his face, and his blue eyes looked alert, rested.
“You were lucky the bullet passed through your shoulder without striking a bone,” Hank was saying.
As Suzanne paused in the door, the stranger’s eyes lifted to her and he nodded politely.
“Mr. Thomason…” Hank began.
“Just Luke…”
“This is my daughter, Suzanne.”
Suzanne smiled. “Hello.”
He nodded. “Hello. Your father was telling me how you saved my life. I’m grateful.”
“He’s from Kansas,” Hank said, twisting in his chair to survey his daughter. “On his way to Colorado Springs. Any low-down critter who’d shoot a man in the back…” Hank muttered, shaking his head.
Suzanne’s eyes darted to the stranger, seeking his reaction. He had closed his eyes momentarily, as though trying to shut out some horrible memory. Then slowly he spoke.
“I should never have stopped in Bordertown.”
“Bordertown?” Hank rasped. “No, son, you shouldn’t have. That’s an outlaws’ hangout. You figure someone trailed you from there?”
Luke Thomason shook his head slowly as he stared across the room, obviously thinking back to two nights before. “The truth is, I got in a poker game. And I won. I rode out of town late at night. The guy I cleaned out must have followed me and waited till I made camp. I’d been in the saddle for two days; once I crawled in the bedroll, a herd of cattle could have stampeded behind me, and I wouldn’t have heard.”
“He shot you in your bedroll? But how did you…?” Suzanne couldn’t imagine someone would do such a thing. Maybe he didn’t need to be talking about this. It had to have been a horrible experience.
“I hurt my back rodeoing this spring and—”
“Rodeoing?” Hank echoed, his gray eyes lighting up.
Suzanne studied her father’s face, knowing he could barely contain his excitement. At last, he had someone under his roof who could talk rodeoing with him. These two could have a good time.
“Sleeping on the ground aggravated my back,” the stranger continued, “so I put a pillow in my bedroll to support my shoulder.”
“So the scoundrel sneaked up to shoot you in the back, not knowing about the pillow, and it slowed up the bullet,” Hank finished, plowing a work-roughened hand through his gray hair.
“You think the man who shot you was the man from the poker table?” Suzanne asked.
Her mother would have said a lady did not pry, but she couldn’t help it. After all, she’d invested quite a bit of time and effort in saving this man’s life. She was curious to know just how he’d gotten himself into such a fix.
“I can’t be sure,” he answered. “I got shot, then I heard branches breaking and a horse taking off in the night. The man who lost his money to me looked like the kind who’d sneak up and shoot somebody in the back. And my wallet was the only thing missing.” His eyes blazed with anger for a moment, then slowly the anger seemed to fade, replaced by an expression of… what? Suzanne wondered. Indifference? Yes, he looked indifferent to the conversation. It made her wonder how a person could slip from one emotion to another so quickly. Maybe he was the kind of man who tried to keep his thoughts private.
“He got your money?” Hank guessed.
“All of it.” He stared into space for a moment then looked at Hank. “Exactly where am I?” he asked.
“Geographically speaking, you’re at the foot of Morning Mountain,” Hank said, absently rubbing his healing ribs. “We’re about half a day from Bordertown. Another day to Colorado Springs, but there’s a trading post down the road that serves as stage stop, café, and general store. We can get a deputy out here. You’ll be wanting to get a search on for the man who—”
“He’s long gone by now,” Luke sighed, staring into space.
Suzanne cleared her throat, trying to tactfully broach the subject. “Is there someone we should notify?”
He hesitated for a moment, studying his coffee cup. “No,” he finally replied.
Suzanne was thinking of the gold wedding band. He had obviously decided not to alarm his wife now. “Then I’ll get some breakfast,” she said, heading for the door.
“Not for me,” he called to her. “I’ll be leaving as soon as—”
“Best not be thinking of getting on a horse just yet,” Hank admonished. “You wouldn’t make it far.”
“Doc Browning stops by the post once a week, in case anyone in the area needs him,” Suzanne said. “I’ll leave word for him to come over.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Luke replied. “You and your father have done a good job of patching me up. I’ll be all right.”
Suzanne studied his pale face and doubted he felt as healthy as he tried to appear. Her eyes moved to her father, who had fallen silent. Hank sat with his lips pursed, his eyes narrowed, looking at Luke Thomason.
“Pa, I’ll get your breakfast,” she said, turning from the room and walking back to the kitchen. Maybe the stranger wasn’t hungry, but Hank would be wanting his biscuits and gravy, a ritual begun years ago by her mother and one he insisted on keeping.