Then she walked to the bed, sat on the edge, and folded her hands in her lap, her back ramrod straight. She looked like she was prepared to sit there all night. Caleb sighed. He didn't know what else to do. He brought in a bucket of fresh water from the pump and set it on a small washstand.
He put a plate of cold biscuits and jerky on the table. He laid a clean blanket at the foot of the bed. "Good night," he said to her still back. He climbed the ladder to the loft, pulled down a spare bedroll, and carried it out to the barn. As he settled into the hay, the familiar scent of horses and leather, a small comfort, he stared out the open barn door at the stardust sky.
He had wanted to cure his loneliness, but all he had done was invited different, more complicated kind of solitude into his home. The next few days passed in a strange, silent routine. Caleb would rise before dawn, do his chores, and leave a plate of food on the cabin table before heading out to check his fences or his small herd of cattle. When he returned at midday, the plate would be empty and washed, set back exactly where he'd left it. He'd see her sometimes walking by the creek, her red dress a startling slash of color against the greens and browns of the valley.
She never strayed far. She was quiet and unobtrusive, but her presence filled the small space of his life completely. A week after the poker game, Caleb knew he had to go back to town for supplies. He was low on flour and coffee, and his horses needed shoeing. He dreaded it.
He knew Bishop would be there, waiting. He saddled his horse, a steady bay named Buck, and rode out, leaving the young woman standing in the doorway of the cabin, watching him go. Harmony Creek was just as he'd left it, dusty and tense. As he tied Buck to the rail in front of the general store, he saw Bishop and two of his men leaning against the assayers office across the street. Bishop saw him and pushed himself off the wall, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across his face.
"Well, if it isn't the lucky rancher. " Bishop called out, his voice carrying across the street. "How's your new property settling in? Keeping you warm at night? " His men laughed. Caleb ignored them, his jaw tight, and pushed through the doors of the store. Mr.
Abernathy, the proprietor, was behind the counter. He looked up when Caleb entered, and his friendly expression immediately vanished. "Caleb. " He said, his tone cool. He started polishing the counter with a rag that was already clean. "Abernathy. " Caleb nodded.
"Need a sack of flour, pound of coffee, and some horseshoe nails. " Abernathy stopped polishing. He looked past Caleb, out the window toward Bishop. "Sorry, Caleb. Can't help you today. I'm waiting on a freight wagon, short on stock. " It was a lie, and they both knew it.
Sacks of flour were stacked high against the back wall. Caleb could smell the rich scent of coffee beans in a barrel right by the counter. "You've got plenty of flour right there. " Caleb said, his voice low and even. "Like I said. " Abernathy repeated, not meeting his eye. "That's spoken for.
Can't sell it to you. " The message was clear. Bishop had gotten to him. The town was closing ranks. Caleb was being shut out. He stood there for a long moment, the humiliation a hot brand on his neck.