Concincaid or accidents will decide it for you. It was signed with a simple jagged P. Eli crushed the paper in his fist. He looked south towards the endless stretch of fence he had to ride and then back at the house where smoke was just beginning to curl from the chimney. Clara was awake.
The wind kicked up again, whistling through the wire, sounding like a warning. Eli Concincaid stood between the open range and his front door. And for the first time, he did not look down. He looked at the horizon and his eyes were hard. He put the note in his pocket and turned back to the house.
The Wyoming wind did not bargain. It took what it wanted, stripping the moisture from the soil and the softness from the skin. For Clara Vale, the first month on the Concaid Ranch was a lesson in abrasion. Her hands, once accustomed to the smooth glass of whiskey tumblers and the velvet of worn cards, were now mapped with blisters that broke and bled and hardened into calluses. She woke before the sun.
The mornings were deceptively beautiful, the sky a bruised purple that lightened to a pale freezing blue, but the air bit deep. She hauled water from the pump near the barn, the bucket handled digging into her palms. The water was heavy, slushing over the rim to freeze on her boots. She chopped wood, her swing awkward at first, the axe head bouncing dangerously off the knots until she learned to read the grain. The landscape was brutal.
One afternoon, a dust storm rose up like a solid wall of copper, blotting out the sun and turning the noon sky to midnight. Clara had been caught near the chicken coupe. The grit filled her nose and mouth, blinding her. She had dropped to her knees, covering her head, waiting for it to pass. When the wind finally died, she stood up, shook the dust from her skirts, and finished gathering the eggs.
She refused to complain. To complain was to admit weakness, and in her experience, weakness attracted predators. Eli watched her. He did not hover, but he was always there on the periphery of her vision. He taught her with a quiet patience that unnerved her.
In the border town, men taught with shouts or the back of a hand. If you did it wrong, you were punished. Eli was different. You are cinching it too tight," he said. One morning in the barn, Clara jumped, dropping the leather strap.
She backed up against the stall door, her breath hitching. She waited for the reprimand. Eli stood by the mayor's shoulder. He did not look at Clara. He ran a hand down the horse's neck.
"If you pinch her skin, she will buck. She is not mean, just sensitive like us. " He gestured for Clara to step forward. Here, slide your fingers under the girth. If you can fit two fingers flat, it is right. Clara stepped closer, her heart hammering.
She reached out, sliding her hand between the warm horseair and the stiff leather. Eli's hand was inches from hers. He did not grab her. He did not correct her posture. He simply waited.
"It fits," she whispered. "Good," Eli said. You have a gentle touch, Clara. The animals like that. He walked away to gather the bridles.
Clara stared at his back. His patience felt like a trap. No man was this patient unless he was saving up for a truly terrible explosion. She kept her guard up, watching his hands, watching his eyes, waiting for the concaid tempers she had heard rumors about. But the days bled into weeks, and the explosion did not come.