The wealthy rancher and the desperate widow, both up before sunrise, both too stubborn to admit they were in over their heads. Then Kelly lowered the axe and wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "Good morning to you, too, Mr. Callahan. Coffee's on the stove if you want some." "Show me how you're holding that axe," Bo said instead.
Kelly's jaw set in that stubborn line he was beginning to recognize. "I've been chopping wood for eight years, Mr. Callahan. I think I know—" "Show me." For a moment he thought she'd refuse. Then, with a barely suppressed sigh, Kelly positioned another log and demonstrated her grip and swing.
Bo winced. "You're holding it too tight and swinging from the shoulders instead of using your whole body. That's why you're wearing yourself out and not getting clean splits." He held out his hand. "May I?"
Kelly hesitated, then handed him the axe. Bo positioned himself, adjusted his grip, and demonstrated the proper technique. Loose hands, using the weight of the axe and the motion of his body to generate force rather than pure muscle strength. The log split cleanly with a satisfying crack. "You let the axe do the work," he explained, setting up another log.
"Like this. See how I'm barely gripping it until the moment of impact? That's the secret. Tight grip wastes energy and throws off your aim." He split three more logs in quick succession, then handed the axe back to Kelly.
"Your turn." Kelly took the axe, mimicking his grip and stance. Her first swing was tentative, but the log split more cleanly than before. Her face lit up with surprised pleasure. "That's much easier. Why didn't Samuel ever show me that?"
"Maybe he didn't know. Not every man who swings an axe knows how to swing it right." Bo stepped back. "Keep practicing. I'm going to walk the wheat field, check how close it is to harvest." He started to turn away, then Kelly's voice stopped him.
"Mr. Callahan, thank you. For the lesson, I mean." Bo nodded without looking back, uncomfortable with her gratitude. He wasn't here to make friends or earn thanks. He was here to protect his investment, nothing more.
He kept telling himself that as he walked through the wheat field, running his hands over the golden stalks, checking the kernels for hardness, judging moisture content by feel and sight, the way his father had taught him 40 years ago in Missouri. The wheat was close. Three days, maybe four at most, before it would be at optimal harvest. Any longer and they risked losing it to weather or birds or any of the hundred calamities that could befall a crop.
But three days was enough time if they worked efficiently. Bo was doing mental calculations, how many man-hours of scything, how long to shock and dry the wheat, the logistics of getting it to the grain elevator in town, when a small voice interrupted his thoughts. "Are you really going to help Mama?" Bo turned to find a boy standing at the edge of the field, barefoot and wearing pants that had been patched so many times they were more patched than original fabric.
This must be Thomas, the six-year-old Kelly had mentioned. He had his mother's hazel eyes and a shock of dark hair that stuck up in the back like a rooster's tail. "That's the plan," Bo said carefully. He'd never been comfortable around children. They asked too many questions and had an unnerving way of seeing through adult pretenses.
"Papa used to say you were the richest man in Wyoming." Thomas squatted down and picked up a clot of dirt, examining it with the intense focus children brought to everything. "Are you really?" "One of them, I suppose." "Then why do you want our land? Don't you have enough land already?"
Out of the mouths of babes, Bo thought wryly. "It's complicated." "That's what grown-ups always say when they don't want to explain something." Thomas threw the dirt clot, watching it explode into dust. "Mama cried last night after she thought we were asleep."