If he was going to win their inheritance for three women who had earned it and deserved it, he needed to be luckier than he’d ever been before.
“Dal?” When he lifted his head, he saw Alex pushing her chair through the soft summer darkness. “May I speak to you a moment?”
Stepping outside, he put his hat on and looked down at her. She had pinned her hair in place and found a minute to mend her skirt. She didn’t look like a woman who had been caught in the center of a stampede and lived to tell about it. Had in fact gone from surviving almost certain death to helping remove the bullet in Freddy’s shoulder and then prepare supper for twelve men. “Are you all right?” he asked, his gaze softening with admiration.
“I’ve had better days,” she said with a wan smile. “There’s coffee on my worktable.”
Nodding, he moved around behind her and pushed her back toward the chuck wagon, remembering that day—a century ago—when he had refused to assist her with her chair. None of them had been the same people then. He gave her one of the coffee cups and took the other, leaning against the side of the wagon, feeling the fatigue in his shoulders and thighs.
“Luther told us what you said, about Caldwell and Lola making you a dishonorable offer. I’d like to hear more about that,” Alex said quietly. “And I’d like to tell you how my heart stopped beating when I saw you bring Freddy in off the range. I’d like to know if Grady is right and Caldwell is responsible for most of our large losses.” She gazed up at him with a lifted eyebrow, firelight dancing across her complexion.
“We lost fifty-eight,” he said, anticipating her next question.
She nodded grimly and glanced down at the handkerchief she was twisting in her lap. “It’s been a long rough day and we’re all tired, so I’ll save the questions for another time. I just want to tell you that Freddy will recover.” Her eyes briefly closed then opened. “And there’s something—”
“John McCallister,” he guessed.
“Yes.” Bright pink flooded her face, obvious even in the glow of flames reflecting across her throat and forehead. “I don’t know what to do,” she said softly. “He won’t leave.”
They both looked up as John walked out of the darkness. He reached up on the side of the wagon, then removed a tool that he handed to Dal. Dal recognized the King’s Walk branding iron.
Turning the iron in his hands, he studied McCallister’s face. The blank, almost dreaming look was gone. McCallister’s gaze connected now. He carried himself differently.
“I think he’s giving us his cows,” Alex explained quietly.
“I’ll take them,” Dal said promptly. “I don’t believe there’s any prohibition against accepting cattle as a gift, but I’ll check with Luther.”
John nodded and stepped back, dropping a hand to Alex’s shoulder. Alex gazed at Dal. “When you speak to Luther, please ask him to add John to our list of observers,” she requested in a low voice, raising a hand to cover John’s fingers on her shoulder.
Dal had seen this coming, had thought about it. “John’s expenses will be deducted from your share of the inheritance. If we don’t deliver the right number of beeves,” he shrugged. “Then the widow Roark gets stuck with the extra expense.”
Alex smiled and nodded. Her next words, Dal suspected, were meant more for John than for him. “John and I will part in Abilene. But for the moment, we enjoy each other’s company.”
Dal extended his hand and clasped John McCollister’s palm. “Thank you for everything you did today. I’m glad you’re with us.”
Sensing they wanted privacy, he walked away. He didn’t feel like joining the drovers gathered around the fire, didn’t feel like riding out to check on the night watch although he would later. Glancing toward the observers’ campfire, he noted that no one slept there either. Les and Ward sat silently beside the embers. He spotted Luther and Caldwell hunched over coffee.
Straightening his shoulders, he adjusted the pistol on his hip, then crossed the grassy patch separating the two camps. Eyes burning down on Caldwell’s scabbed lip, he told them both about John’s three cows and Alex’s request to add John to the observer list.
Luther shrugged. “There’s no mention in Joe’s conditions prohibiting someone from giving cattle to the drive.”
Caldwell faced Dal. “If there isn’t a ruling against it, there should be.”
The red fell across his vision like a curtain and he wanted to slam his fist in Caklwell’s face. “If we can accept strays, we should be able to accept a gift.”
Luther glanced at their expressions, then stepped between them. “That’s correct. I’m ruling that you can accept McCallister’s three cows.”
“I want to file an official protest,” Caldwell snapped, staring at Dal.