She gave it to me, Hannah said. I know. His thumb moved over the repaired seam. Anne wore blue. Hannah looked toward him.
It was the first time he had spoken his wife's name. Grant placed the ribbon down exactly where Hannah had left it. Thank you. Then he went outside before she could answer. 3 days later came the branding.
The morning broke cold enough for Hannah to see her breath when she opened the kitchen door. By 8, the sun had burned through the thin mist, and the lower corrals were loud with balling cattle, horses snorting against bits, men calling to one another over the pounding of hooves. Hannah had no business in the center of it. She knew that her work was at the house. Still, roundup meant 11 men instead of seven, and Walter had sent a boy up twice, already asking for coffee.
So, shortly before noon, Hannah loaded a wooden crate with tin mugs, a large coffee pot, bread, cold beef, and a jar of pickled beans. Henry insisted on carrying the cups. Molly came as far as the yard fence before deciding the noise was too much. "Stay there," Hannah told her. Molly nodded and curled her fingers around the top rail.
Hannah and Henry crossed toward the corrals. The air smelled of dust, cattle, sweat, and smoke from the branding fire. Grant stood inside the nearest pen beside Walter. Even at a distance, he was easy to find. His hat rode above everyone else's.
He was helping separate young cattle through a narrow gate. One gloved hand on the rail while Walter worked the latch. Hannah set the coffee crate on an overturned trough. "Lunch," she called. Walter lifted one hand.
Grant looked over. His eyes found her immediately. Then the steer hit the gate. It happened so fast that Hannah did not understand the shape of it until afterward. A young red steer twisted away from another animal, slammed shoulder first into the half-latched timberg gate, and sent the heavy top rail jumping loose from its notch.
Walter stumbled backward. Grant shoved him clear. The rail came down. Grant disappeared beneath it. Henry screamed, "Ph!" Every man in the corral moved at once.
The cattle were driven back. Walter dropped to one knee beside Grant. "Easy, easy." Grant was conscious. His face had gone gray beneath the dust. The timber had pinned him across the upper body, one end wedged against the ground.
Two ranch hands seized it. They lifted barely. Again, Walter said. Three men tried. The rail rose several inches, then dropped Bika when their footing slipped in the churned dirt.
Grant sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. Shoulder. He managed. Walter looked toward the house. We need the wagon, Jack.
It's in the north shed, someone shouted. Too far. Hannah was already moving. She handed Henry to one of the younger cowboys with a firmness that stopped him from following. Stay here, Miss Hannah.
Henry. Something in her voice held him. She stepped into the corral. Walter looked up. Hannah, best stay back.
Can he move his legs? Grant answered himself. Yes. Head. Fine.
She looked at the timber, then at the two long fence poles stacked beside the repair wagon. Walter, bring me those poles. He stared at her. What? The poles.