The second rider was younger, 18 or 19, and had the look of a ranch hand, who hadn't yet decided what kind of man he wanted to be. The older man stopped his horse a respectful distance from the porch. "Ma'am, " he said. He touched his hat brim. "Name's Bramwell Concaid.
" "I run Red Spur Ranch about nine miles northeast of here. " He paused. I heard Orson Hensley left the territory. She kept her face neutral. Where did you hear that?
Town. Word travels. He didn't seem apologetic about this. Just straightforward. I'm not here to make trouble, ma'am.
I came because I've got a situation on my ranch and I think you might be the person who could help me with it. Is that right? Yes, ma'am. She watched him. The knife was behind her skirt, held loosely in her right hand.
He hadn't looked at it, which meant either he hadn't noticed it or he was being polite about pretending he hadn't. What kind of situation? She said, "I've got a ranch house that needs managing, " he said. 12 hands to cook for through the winter, supplies to organize and preserve, repairs to handle inside the house, accounts to keep straight. My last housekeeper left in September to join her daughter in Oregon, and I haven't found someone to replace her.
He stopped. I'm told you ran this homestead yourself. I'm told you're good with accounts. Who told you that? Mrs. Callaway at the general store.
She said, "You were the one who kept the Hensley accounts and paid the bills when they had money to pay them. " Miriam said nothing. That was accurate. But she hadn't realized anyone outside the household had been paying close enough attention to know it. "What I'm offering, " Bramwell Concaid said, "is honest work with honest wages.
" "A room in the house with a stove and good walls. Food for you and your children through the winter. " He looked at her steadily. "All of your children? I understand there are six.