The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1) by Brad Dennison (books that read to you .txt) 📕

coffee. “Wise words, I guess. I don’t know if I understand all of it, but wise words.”

Ginny smiled. “I don’t think anyone can truly understands how things really work. At least, not in this lifetime.”

“Even so, this boy, he might look a little like Johnny, but – “

She cut him off. “Not a little, Zack. And it’s not just the way he looks. It’s the way he moves. It’s the look in his eye. But you will see for yourself.”

His gaze had returned to the valley floor, but now he glanced back at her, his brows dropping with curiosity. “When?”

“In a short while. He’ll be riding out with Fred and Hunter.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“I don’t believe a young man would remain idly in town when his family might be in danger.”

Zack took a couple more sips of coffee, and drew in a deep lungfull of early evening air. He and Aunt Ginny remained in silence, watching the shadows of twilight creep across the flat, grassy meadow that stretched into the distance.

Shortly, three riders appeared, emerging from the woods at the western edge of the valley. They had been on the horse trail Josh used a few days earlier, and the riders from the ranch often took when going to town. It was a full mile shorter than the trail that crossed the wooden bridge, but was far too rough for a wagon.

Zack watched as they approached in the dimming light. Zack couldn’t see their faces, but he could easily recognize Fred by the relaxed set of his shoulders and the easy way he had with a horse. The other, larger and more heavily built, would be Hunter. The third Zack would recognize anywhere, in any light. The width of the shoulders, the narrowness of the hips. The way he moved with the horse as though he and the horse were one, as though he had been born on the back of a horse. His left hand gently grasped the reins, his right gripped a rifle he held across the pommel. Zack had logged more miles alongside this rider than any other.

“Aunt Ginny, look. It’s Johnny. He must have met them on the trail.”

“Is it Johnny? Look more closely.”

As they drew nearer, the realization that this was not Johnny McCabe struck him.

The riders reined up before the porch, and swung from the saddle.

“Howdy,” Hunter said.

Ginny was on her feet now, standing beside Zack, teacup resting steadily in a saucer held in one hand.

“Good evening, Mister Hunter,” she said, though her eyes were on Zack, obviously enjoying Zack’s reaction.

Zack could see the young man clearly now at this short distance. The edges of his chin, the contours of his cheekbones. The resemblance was startling.

Hunter introduced them to Dusty.

“Yes,” Ginny said. “We met earlier, in town.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance again, ma’am.”

“Coffee is on, in the kitchen. Strong and foul, just the way you men like it. I’m sure you’re no exception, young man. Zack and I will be right in.”

Dusty followed Fred and Hunter through the door. Only once the door was closed did Zack look at Aunt Ginny.

He said, “I...I don’t know what to say. It’s like looking into the past.”

“Isn’t it, though? Of course, you’ll find his eyes are darker. Like his mother’s.”

TWELVE

Dusty had not actually decided whether to let the McCabe family know who he really was, or simply light out to Oregon and leave well enough alone. And yet, here he was, standing on the front porch of the McCabe house, drinking coffee and enjoying the night air with Hunter, Miss Brackston, and the man introduced as Zack Johnson. Fred had taken the horses to the stable for tending.

Zack drained his cup and said, “I’m going to be hitting the road, now. Thanks for the coffee, Aunt Ginny, and the lunch.”

“Take care,” she said. “Have a safe ride home.”

Zack cast one more glance at Dusty, then stepped down from the porch and headed for the stable.

Dusty had glanced about the house quickly while following Hunter and Fred to the kitchen immediately after arriving, taking in all he could of the home built by the man who was his father. He liked what he saw. The openness of the design, the stone hearth, the exposed timbers overhead. The first floor was entirely open, like some Spanish haciendas he had seen, yet the overall structure was more like that of a cape. The house had a sense of strength about it. If you could truly tell much about a man by the work he does, and the character of what he builds, and Dusty believed you could, then he was indirectly getting his first real glimpse of his father beyond the legends.

When Dusty and Hunter had finished their coffee on the porch, Miss Brackston invited them in for a refill. As Dusty followed her through the great open room to the kitchen beyond, his eye caught the rifle rack. Winchesters. And an old Hawken. You can also tell much about a man by the way he fights, and the tools he chooses for such a thing. Dusty again found himself pleased by what he saw.

This woman, Miss Brackston, her presence seemed to be everywhere, too. The fine furniture. The little white, spider-web sort of things on the arms of the chairs – doilies, he thought they were called. A brass candelabra on the dining room table. The delicate design of the shades on the lamps. If what he had heard was correct, his father’s wife had died years earlier, and Miss Brackston was apparently the woman of the house.

In the kitchen, Dusty found the pretty dark-haired girl he had met earlier in town. An apron was tied about her middle, and she wore a blue bandanna over her hair like a kerchief, a few loose strands of dark hair flying about. Her face was flushed from the heat of the stove. As they stepped into the kitchen, she was bending to open the oven door, a