Chapter 10

The Fairchilds lived six miles south on a spread that had been in Tom Fairchild’s family since before the territory had a proper name for itself. Good land, well watered, running about two hundred head of mixed stock. Tom was a solid rancher, the kind of man who didn’t waste words or movement, who showed up when a neighbor needed help without being asked and expected the same in return. His wife Clara was quieter than him but sharper, the kind of woman who saw everything and filed it away and only spoke when she’d decided it was worth saying.

They had three sons. The oldest, Will, was seventeen and already doing a man’s work. The younger two, Daniel and Sam, were twelve and nine and spent most of their energy competing with each other over everything from fence post digging to biscuit eating.

Coulter had known Tom since they were both young men learning their respective pieces of land. They weren’t close in the way of men who sought each other out, but they were solid in the way of men who knew they could count on each other, which in this territory was worth considerably more.

He hadn’t seen Tom since before Cosay came.

It was a Tuesday morning when the Fairchild wagon came up the ranch road, Tom driving and Clara beside him on the bench. Coulter was replacing a board on the corral gate and looked up at the sound of wheels. Cosay was behind the barn doing something with the tack. The girls were at their lessons inside.

Tom pulled up and set the brake and climbed down with the unhurried ease of a man comfortable on other people’s land. Clara stayed on the bench, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes moving over the ranch with quiet assessment.

“Tom,” Coulter said, setting down his hammer.

“Coulter.” Tom shook his hand. “Been a while.”

“It has. Everything all right?”

“Fine, fine. Clara wanted to bring these over.” He reached into the wagon bed and produced a cloth-wrapped bundle. “She put up too many preserves again. Does it every year.”