well, it was little more than a hog wallow.
The ranch appeared to have prospered in his absence. There were fences along the boundaries now, and the peach trees he and Hannah had planted on their wedding day stood tall alongside the creekbed. He saw hundreds of cattle on the range, tough steers ready for market, cows that would provide fresh milk and increase the herd, and three powerful bulls for breeding. But the trees appeared dry, and the animals seemed thirsty.
Another week and the creek would be barren. What then?
The one eternal truth of West Texas life was that without water, a ranch was only so much dust doomed to blow in the wind. All the building, the back-breaking work done by three generations to build the Bar Double B was useless if Carpenter Creek dried up.
âWhat manner of man waves his hand and brings death to all this?â Blake asked himself as he surveyed his former homestead from the crest of a small rise. Across the creek stood the house. His eyes swept from the vegetable gardens to the corral, from the swing which hung beneath the tall white oak to the distant barn.
He then started across what was left of the creek, carefully avoiding the stretches that seemed likely hosts for quicksand. As he started up the hill toward the house, he drew his horse short and stared at two small boys playing near the chicken coop.
They were far too young to be Carter or Zach. There was a girl, too, a small thing dressed in a bright yellow sun dress. His eyes lingered as they fell on a more familiar figure, a woman whose petite frame and flowing blond hair concealed an inner strength heâd known but once in his entire life.
âHannah?â he called to her.
She waved, not with the excitement heâd expected, but casually, almost as if performing a scene from a play. As Blake approached, a man stepped out of the house, a large, muscular man with thinning brown hair and a large black mustache.
Blake slowed his horse and sat atop the saddle for a moment, watching her, waiting, trying to think of something to say.
âI, uh, I came,â he finally stammered.
âI knew you would,â she said sadly.
Blake dismounted, leaving his horse to chew the soft grass on the hillside. He wanted to reach out and hold her, lift her off the ground with a whirl the way he used to.
âYou remember Marsh Merritt,â Hannah said nervously. âI wrote you . . . about us.â
âHow are you?â Blake asked, extending a reluctant hand toward the man.
âDonât know what point there was to sending for you, Blake,â Marsh said. âThis is my place now. Iâll tend to Simpson.â
Blake glanced around. He hoped to catch a glimpse of his boys, but they were nowhere to be found. The younger boys had Marshâs dark hair, his thick shoulders. But the girl was Hannah reborn.
âThereâve been a lot of changes since you left,â Marsh went on. âWe concentrate on cattle now, only raise enough horses for our needs.â
âOh?â
Marsh went on to point out the new barn, the expanded gardens. Blake nodded, but he didnât pay much attention.
âI guess it was a mistake my corninâ,â Blake said, frowning. âIâll ride on to Dixâs place.â
âNo, wait,â Hannah said, taking Blakeâs hand and holding him there. âCaulie, stay.â
âHeâs got a right to do as he will,â Marsh said.
âI know this is hard on you, Marsh,â she said, releasing Blakeâs hand and turning toward her husband. âItâs going to be a strain for us all. But I asked him to come, and itâs not proper to turn him away now. Besides, we do need him.â
âI can do anything that needs to be done,â Marsh growled, a hint of bitterness in his voice. âThereâs not room here for the both of us, Hannah.â
âItâs better I go,â Blake said. âI donât mean to come as
John R. Little and Mark Allan Gunnells