"Sure thing, Boss. Sure thing." Jack wheeled his horse around, still grinning like a fool. "Come on, boys. Let's leave Mr. Callahan to his investment protection."
As the three riders disappeared over the rise, leaving a trail of dust hanging in the still air, Bo and Kelly stood in awkward silence. The reality of what he'd just committed to was starting to sink in. And Bo felt a flutter of something uncomfortably close to panic. What the hell had he just done?
"Mr. Callahan," Kelly said softly. When he looked at her, her eyes were full of something that made his chest ache. Gratitude, hope, and a fragile trust that felt like a physical weight settling on his shoulders. "I don't know what changed your mind, but I want you to know you're not a bad man."
"Whatever you think about yourself, whatever made you so hard, you're not a bad man." Bo wanted to tell her she was wrong. Wanted to explain about Catherine, about all the ways he'd learned that trust was a fool's currency and mercy a luxury he couldn't afford. Instead, he just nodded once curtly and looked away toward the fields of wheat rippling in the breeze.
"I'll set up camp by the creek," he said, "out of your way. You've got children to feed and work to do. I'll start on the fence repairs tomorrow. They're a hazard as they are." "Mr. Callahan—"
"And stop thanking me," Bo added more harshly than he intended. "This is business. Just business. Don't make it into something it's not." But as he walked back to his horse to retrieve his saddlebags, Bo couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just stepped onto a path he didn't understand.
One that led somewhere far from the safe, cold world he'd built for himself. "Seven days," he told himself firmly. Seven days, and then he'd ride back to his big, empty house and his ledgers and his carefully ordered life. Seven days. What could possibly change in seven days?
That first evening, Bo made camp by the creek as promised, about 50 yards from the main house. Close enough to be available if needed, far enough to maintain proper distance. He unsaddled his horse, picketed it on good grass, and laid out his bedroll under the spreading branches of an ancient cottonwood tree. The creek burbled softly over smooth stones, and somewhere in the distance a meadowlark sang its evening song.
It was peaceful. Too peaceful. Bo was used to the noise of the bunkhouse, the constant activity of ranch life, the distraction of a hundred daily tasks that kept his mind occupied. Out here, with nothing but the creek and the wind for company, unwelcome thoughts crept in.
As twilight deepened into night, Bo watched the lamplight flicker in the windows of the Bishop house. Shadows moved behind the thin curtains. Kelly, he assumed, putting her children to bed. He could hear faint voices carried on the evening breeze, though he couldn't make out words. A child's laugh, Kelly's voice, soft and melodic, probably singing a lullaby.
Bo closed his eyes and tried not to think about the empty rooms in his own house. The nursery he'd had built that had never held a child. The dreams he'd abandoned after Catherine's betrayal. He told himself he didn't want those things anymore. Told himself he was better off alone, independent, untouchable.
But listening to those distant sounds of family life, Bo wondered if he'd been lying to himself all along. He must have dozed off because he woke to the sound of footsteps approaching his camp. His hand went instinctively to the Colt .45 at his hip before he recognized the small figure moving through the darkness. Kelly.
She carried something wrapped in cloth, and even from a distance, he could smell fresh bread. "Didn't mean to startle you," she said quietly, stopping at what she clearly considered a respectful distance. "I thought you might be hungry. It's not much, just cornbread and some beans, but you're welcome to it." Bo sat up, automatically reaching for his hat even though he was already wearing it.