Then he went outside and joined the lunch line. A few days later, Rebecca carried a plate out and found Everett standing aside while an elderly ranch hand took the last open chair. You can sit inside, she told him. He got there first. You were ahead of him.
He needs the chair more. Everett sat on an overturned feed crate instead. His knees came nearly level with his chest. Rebecca looked at him. You look ridiculous.
I feel ridiculous. She handed him his plate. Good. He glanced up. Rebecca smiled.
This time he smiled first. The weeks settled into a rhythm. She began knowing which days he might appear without admitting to herself that she knew. Tuesday after the cattle auction. Friday when supply wagons came through.
Sometimes Saturday near dusk. She noticed the sound of his horse before she saw him. She also noticed when he didn't come. That annoyed her, mostly because she noticed. One afternoon, Harvey was repairing a wagon wheel while Rebecca rolled dough inside the shed.
Everett had eaten and gone 20 minutes earlier. Harvey hammered the iron rim into place. You know, Hail could probably afford a better meal than anything in Copper Ridge. Rebecca kept rolling. That's a strange way to compliment my cooking.
I mean, he could eat at his own table. So can most people. Harvey looked at her. You really don't know. Know what?
He lowered the hammer. Everett Hail isn't somebody's hired hand. Rebecca stopped rolling. I never said he was. You look at him like you think he's writing wages for some rancher.
Rebecca wiped flower from her fingers. What exactly am I supposed to think? Harvey nodded north toward the long valley beyond town. Hail Creek. Rebecca had seen the name painted on freight crates and stamped onto cattle sail receipts.
What about it? He owns it. Rebecca stared at him. Harvey continued fitting the wheel. Whole spread north pasture clear to the cottonwood flats.
Winter range up against the foothills. One of the biggest independent outfits left around here. Rebecca looked toward the empty road where Everett had disappeared. How big? Big enough that nobody owning it needs to ride six miles out of his way for fence staples.
Harvey struck the rim once. Clang. Rebecca looked down at the dough. For weeks, Everett had sat on feed crates, waited behind tired ranch hands, eaten from chipped plates, and asked why she saved bacon drippings. Never once had he mentioned Hail Creek Ranch.
That evening, she was sweeping flour from the floor when hoof beatats slowed outside. Rebecca stopped. Everett appeared in the doorway. He removed his hat. Evening.
Rebecca leaned both hands on the broom. Mr. Hail. Something in her voice made him pause. She studied the man standing beneath the low doorframe.
Same dusty boots, same worn shirt, same steady eyes. Only now she knew that somewhere north of Copper Ridge, acres of Wyoming grass, cattle, barns, fences, and men answered to his name. Everett glanced toward Harvey's Forge, then back at Rebecca. What did he tell you? Rebecca almost laughed.