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  “Let’s skip the pleasantries, Mrs. Ames. I’m not here to collect any mail. There is something of a greater concern that I wish to discuss with you.”

  Diantha raised her eyebrows and tipped her head to the side. She purposely kept her voice soft and her words slow, using her most pronounced Southern accent for emphasis. “Why, Mr. Crane, I do declare. I cannot possibly, for the life of me, imagine what that might be. I own my own business and the land on which it is built. I have been to the bank and know there are no outstanding loans in my husband’s name. I know of no business we need to discuss between us.”

  His protruding belly pressing against the outside edge of the registration counter, Mortimer Crane leaned toward her. His eyes, behind his thick-framed spectacles, narrowed. “Oh, but we do, Mrs. Ames. You see, I am aware that you received one hundred dollars as your part of a settlement between the widows and the Gold King Mine to compensate you for the death of your husband. One hundred dollars, madam. Yet, in the over ten days since those settlement drafts were received by the widows in that ridiculous scavenger game some idiot came up with, not one dime of the money you received has been deposited in my bank. Where is that money, Mrs. Ames, hmm? Surely, you are not keeping it on your person or in the hotel. Surely, you are not mismanaging it. I know being only a weak-minded female, you are totally unqualified to run a business such as this hotel. However, I would think you are at least smart enough to know your money will be its safest in a bank—my bank—where your dear late husband already has an account set up for the hotel.”

  Diantha wished to throw something at the man and call him what he was—a slimy, dishonest, insulting reprobate. However, being raised as she had been, she restrained herself. She batted her eyelashes. “Even though I am no more than a weak-minded female, I know how to handle money, Mr. Crane. Part of my education in the finest finishing school in the South included learning how to manage the household accounts of a large plantation. However, I have paid expenses, some dating to before the death of my dear husband. I’m afraid it took a sizeable amount of my funds.” She sighed dramatically. “What a blessing to receive that money so I could pay off my creditors.”

  Diantha knew from the glare Mortimer gave her he did not believe her. “And what about all the cash payments you received from customers who were here the week of the horse auction, hmm? I do not recall seeing them deposited into your hotel account. In fact, you withdrew a sizeable sum from that account the week after the auction. Are you going to try to tell me all that money also went to pay outstanding bills?”

  Inhaling a deep breath, Diantha decided she needed to take a stronger stance. It was one thing to be occasionally bullied by her late husband, but this man had no claim on her. She refused to answer to him. “Why, Mr. Crane, I don’t intend to tell you anything. It is really none of your business how I manage the financial affairs of my hotel. I suggest you focus your attention on your own hotel.”

  “It is my business, Mrs. Ames. The settlement draft with your name on it was cashed at the bank in Curdy’s Crossing. I want to know why you would deposit your money using a bank six miles away when you have a perfectly sound bank not even a block from your hotel.”

  “Once again, it is not your concern, Mr. Crane.”

  Mortimer pounded his fist on the registration counter. “It’s because of that scurrilous gossip started by that incompetent, simple-minded, trouble-making liar of a teller, Birdie Templeton, who used to work for me until she ran out on me. Am I right?”

  You mean that sweet, honest, well-intentioned woman you terrorized by almost kidnapping her in order to force her into prostitution before the man who is now her husband rescued her?

  Diantha folded her hands in front of her. “I assure you, Mr. Crane. I do not make my business decisions based on gossip. We have nothing to discuss. I am asking you to leave.”

  “Not yet, Mrs. Ames. Mr. McCartney, my teller, reported he watched you not less than a half hour ago return from the direction of the Wells Fargo office. Since I do not believe you plan to leave your hotel unattended to travel anywhere, and since it is not the day the stagecoach arrives with the mail, just what were you doing there?”

  “My, that is quite a feat to be able to see the Wells Fargo office from Mr. McCartney’s teller station, set back from the front window, such as it is, and not facing that direction.”

  Mortimer raised his voice as he reached for Diantha. She stepped back to escape his grasp. “Do not toy with me, Mrs. Ames. I demand answers.”

  “Don’t you go nowhere near her, or I’ll go get Marshal Wentz. That’s after I done clobbered you up the side of your head.”

  Both Diantha and Mortimer turned to see Hilaina running towards them from the front door, her hands holding a piece of firewood like a club, ready to strike.

  As relieved as she felt to have someone come to her rescue, Diantha immediately began to fear for the young woman. Mortimer, his arms akimbo, turned to her with a huff. “How dare you threaten me like that, young woman! Who are you?”

  “Ain’t none of your business.”

  “Don’t you dare be impertinent with me! Do you know who I am? I’m Mortimer Crane, and I own this town.”

  “Don’t rightly care. Don’t you nary go near Mrs. Ames. You do, I’ll knock you clean silly. Ain’t the first time I whupped a varmint with a stick of firewood.”

  Diantha gripped the edge of the counter as she watched Mortimer, his expression full of anger, step towards Hilaina. Instead of backing away, with her jaw thrust forward, she raised the firewood higher and advanced on him.

  “I ain’t afeared of you, Mr. Crane. There ain’t no call you talking to her thataway. Best you hightail it out of here.”

  Mortimer growled at Hilaina as he straightened to his full five-feet-six-inch height and tugged on the bottom of his suit coat. “You won’t get away with this, young woman.” He turned to face Diantha and pointed a finger at her. “This discussion is not over, Mrs. Ames.” Spinning on the ball of his foot and, refusing to make eye contact with Hilaina, strode out of the door.

  Diantha rushed around the counter and joined Hilaina, who lowered the stick of wood once they heard the door close. Through the front window of the lobby, they both watched Mortimer Crane storm in the direction of the bank building.

  Once she could no longer see him, Diantha threw her arms around the young woman. “Oh, Hilaina, I cannot thank you enough for coming when you did. However, I worry about you. No matter how ugly and disagreeable that man can get, he cannot legally touch me or my hotel. You and your mother are a different matter, I’m afraid. You live in one of the cabins he owns. Now that you’ve brought attention to yourself, he’ll find out who you are. I fear what he might do to retaliate.”

  Hilaina puffed a breath through her lips as she thought about the warning. Then she shrugged. “It don’t make no never mind, Diantha. What he done was plumb wrong. Best to stand up to him.” She stopped and grinned. “Like I done told you; we’re mostly Scots-Irish and a whole lot of too ornery to know when to give up. Ma and me will make do.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t know who you are.”

  “I ain’t one to set foot in his bank, and if she sees him coming, Ma tells me to make myself scarce.”

  Diantha sighed. “Well, I certainly admire your courage. If he takes your house away from you, Hilaina, one thing you and your mother can be assured of is this. You’ll always have a home in my hotel.”

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  Chapter 4

  ~o0o~

  Grassy Fork Ranch, Grand County, Colorado –late August, 1884

  H Is fingers interlaced and cradling the back of his head, Buck Kramer laid flat on the top bunk and stared at the bark peeling off the logs of the bunkhouse roof. He knew it to be a solid roof.

  Several years earlier, while José, Walsh’s all-around fix-it man, still lived, Buck had helped replace any rotten logs to make sure the roof
remained sound. On top of the logs, they laid flat boards crosswise, and then they covered the whole thing with cedar shingles. The roof had been built steep enough to slough off snow, and contained enough layers to keep the rain out and the heat in.

  Thinking about that roof and his role in maintaining it used to give Buck a sense of satisfaction. Lately, working hard, eating bunkhouse grub, and staring at bark peeling on a bunkhouse ceiling no longer seemed enough for him.

  It had been gradual, but the thing about being assigned farmhand and handyman duties because he was not the best cowhand on the ranch was, Buck ended up spending more time around the main ranch house than the other men. Nissa Walsh’s cute little son, Jamie Stillwell, liked to follow him and round and ask more questions than a meadow had blades of grass. Jamie constantly pestered him to teach him how to ride broncos—an ongoing conversation that started while they were back in Jamie’s previous hometown of Wildcat Ridge. Still, Buck found he usually did not mind the kid following him around when his stepfather, Dallin, was not available to spend time with him, even though much of the time he just got in the way. Buck liked teaching the boy skills that would benefit him as he grew.

  Then, when he helped his foreman, Hal Summers, build his cabin for his new wife, Birdie, and later learned both Boss and Hal were expecting new youngsters come spring, Buck could no longer muster up a sense of contentment about much of anything.

  “Awful quiet, Buck. You got something stuck in your craw?”

  Buck glanced at Shorty, the cowhand who spoke. He was involved in a poker game with the other men at the table now it was cleared of dishes from supper. With a mostly bald pate and a thick moustache almost solid gray, he studied the fan of playing cards in his hand before he discarded one and tapped the table for a hit while he waited for Buck’s response.

  “Nope. Just don’t feel like talking is all.”

  The man shrugged. “Just wondering. You been like this quite a spell, acting like you’re off your feed. Haven’t heard any whistling from you in a long time—not that we’re complaining, mind you.”

  “Yeah, well, count your blessings, like my ma used to say.” With that, Buck shifted in his bunk to turn his back to the room.

  He shouldn’t have said anything about his ma. He didn’t feel like remembering her or how much he missed her at times. It was bad enough he didn’t feel like whistling anymore. Every time his did, it reminded him of that sassy little redhead, Hilaina Dowd, he met in Wildcat Ridge earlier in the summer. He had met other women over the years and enjoyed their company, but he was lucky if he remembered their names the next time he got to town. Such was not the case with Hilaina. Every time he started whistling, he would remember how she would get to talking, and then he would get to whistling, and the next thing he knew, she would hush right up because her pa, who died in the big mind disaster in Wildcat Ridge, used to whistle. She liked to hear him whistle because it reminded her of her pa. He figured the only way to put her to the back of his mind until her name faded was to stop whistling.

  Voices coming from outside caught Buck’s attention. He rolled the upper half of his body around so he could look in the direction of the commotion. The way the others put a halt to their card game to turn their heads towards the door told Buck they were as curious as he was. Next thing Buck knew, the door opened, and two young teenage boys, followed by Hal, entered the room. Lanky and underfed, with clothes too tight in places and sleeves and pant legs too short, the pair shuffled their feet nervously as, with eyes wide in gaunt faces, they stared at the group of men who studied them. His face creased with worry lines, the youngest turned his head to look up at Hal.

  Buck pulled himself to a sitting position. Grasping the side rails of his bunk, he leaned forward with his feet hanging over the edge.

  In deference to Shorty, now the senior ranch hand after the death of the former foreman, Curly, Hal nodded in his direction. “Shorty, men, this is Danny Layton and his younger brother, Will. They’re riding the grub line.” He focused on Shorty who did most of the cooking for the men in the bunkhouse. “By chance, do you have anything left from supper you could give these two?”

  Shorty, moving fast for a man his age, rose from the table and lifted the lid off the cast iron pot. “Not enough for the both of them, Hal. I can heat up a can of beans, though. The men already went through all the biscuits, but I can whip some more up as soon as I build back up the fire.”

  One of the men at the table leaned to his side and fished a slightly crumbled biscuit out of his pocket. With a sheepish expression, he glanced around at the others. “Was saving it for later.” He held it out towards the boys. “You can split this for now until Shorty gets another batch made.”

  The older boy, Danny, snatched the offered biscuit and took a large bite before he handed the two-thirds that remained to Will. “You take the rest.” As soon as he gulped down the food, he looked up at the man who had offered it. “Thank you, mister. We ran out of provisions yesterday.” He turned to face Hal. “We appreciate the meal, but we’re also looking for work—permanent work. You got any jobs around here available?”

  Buck watched Hal glance over at his stockinged feet before he nodded to another of the men who still had his boots on. “Joe, please go up to the ranch house and see if Mrs. Walsh has some bread or biscuits already made up she can spare. Also, ask her if she has some stew or soup left from supper that’s still warm we can give these two. And better ask Boss if he can join us for a few minutes.”

  Buck felt his entire body seize up at the words. He breathed deeply, willing his muscles to relax enough he could roll his back and lean against the wall at the far side of his bunk. He could feel an edginess build up inside of him, although he could not identify the cause. He only knew, even though it was still summer, leaves had already started to turn. Winter would come quick and fast this high in the mountains. If Boss refused to take these two in, the boys probably wouldn’t make it. Afraid of blurting out something he might later regret, he decided for the time being to stay out of the way and observe.

  Shorty dished up a half ladleful of stew into each of two tin bowls. “Move the card game down to the far end of the table, boys. Let these kids eat here close to the fire so they can warm up.”

  After the two boys gulped down the small serving of leftover beef stew Shorty handed them, they turned to their tin cups of coffee. Buck watched as they each scrunched their faces—whether it was from the heat or the taste, he did not know—as they sipped the liquid. Shorty brewed strong enough to eat rust off of iron.

  While staring at the older boy, just barely beginning to get his height, Buck felt transported back eight years to when he showed up at the Grassy Fork after spending months looking for work. He also had been half-starved and riding a horse barely able to carry him. His story was the usual for boys who found themselves out on their own. His parents had died, and he and his younger brother were sent to live with an aunt and uncle. The uncle soon decided there wasn’t enough food to feed two additional teenage boys. One night at the supper table, Buck, as the oldest at age fourteen, had been ordered to leave the next day to farm himself out and make his own way in the world. He left early enough the following morning that his uncle was not yet awake. His aunt, sympathetic to his plight, but unwilling to defy her husband, handed him a sack of supplies and whatever food she could find suitable for travel. Buck had saddled up the one horse that had come from his father’s farm his uncle had not yet sold and left without saying goodbye to either his uncle or his brother.

  When he finally reached the Grassy Fork and Dallin agreed to give him a try, for the first time in months, Buck felt like he was going to survive. He quickly realized he could not have asked for a better boss than Boss. Both Dallin and the foreman at the time, Curly, tolerated him pretty well, in spite of his tendency to trip over his feet as his body grew inches within months. They joked about his tendency to talk more than most of the others. Then there was his whistling—they gave him what-for ov
er that every chance they got.

  Only problem was, Dallin ran a cattle ranch and Buck was no cowhand. Dallin figured out early on he was a farmer, not a rancher. He was good with animals, including horses, chickens, and milk cows. Dallin had put him to work taking care of them. Buck planted and cared for the garden to provide the all-male ranch with a variety of vegetables to add to their otherwise monotonous diet. Buck also fixed fences and maintained the line shacks. When it came to the roundups and working cattle, though, Buck stayed behind and worked around the ranch buildings.

  Buck exhibited a natural ability to build things. Dallin discovered this after sending him to help José, whom he had picked up along the way to care for the house and ranch buildings. Due to his age, José no longer had the strength to hold heavy pieces of wood or equipment while doing repairs or new construction. Buck quickly picked up on everything José taught him about building or making furniture. In fact, Buck’s chest nearly burst open with pride the day Dallin told him the new oak writing desk with its one center drawer Buck had made for him out of planks he ordered from Denver had become one of his prized possessions.

  A hard worker by nature, Buck had been eager to please from the start. He had found his place on the Grassy Fork Ranch. Or, so he thought. Now, he was not so sure.

  Hal waited until the boys finished eating before he questioned them. “How old are you two?”

  Danny turned towards Hal, his expression one of unease. “I'm fourteen. Will, here, is going to be thirteen next month.”

  The men at the table looked each other. As for Buck, he fisted his hands and clenched his back teeth. The oldest boy, Danny, was the same age as he was when he came to the Grassy Fork. Buck knew the same things that every other man in the room was aware of. They only had one free bunk, and that one Hal had reserved in hopes of hiring a man temporarily to help with the fall roundup. After that, they did not need extra cowhands on the ranch during the winter, especially young teenage boys who, when they went through their growing streaks, would out-eat three full-grown men. Boss could have used one of the boys if he were a little bit older and had experience working with cattle. However, there was no room for two wet-behind-the-ears greenhorns.