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

to reach one hand to those shoulders in a show of concern and support, but didn’t. You did not touch Josh. He was the most closed-up person she knew. She was the only one he would confide in at all, and then only in limited doses. If you touched him, he would just close up more.

Most of what she knew about him she had surmised from what little he had said over the years, combined with body language and a lot of reading between the lines. He carried a burden, a terrible one, of feeling inadequate compared to Pa. A man like Pa, with the legends that were growing about him, and the fact that most of the things said about him were based on truth, was mighty hard to live up to. Pa had always encouraged Josh to be his own man, and she knew Josh understood the wisdom of those words, but he was young and their father was almost a living legend, and when people looked at Josh, they saw the son of a living legend. They saw not Josh McCabe, but the son of Johnny McCabe. Can the boy shoot like his father? Can he fight like him, or ride like him? Is he the man his father is? No one had the brass to ask these questions directly to Josh, but he could see it in their eyes. He was a young man, with a young man’s pride, and such things hurt. And so, Bree cut him a lot of slack. If he was rude or impatient, or cantankerous, she let it pass. She tried to take none of it personally.

She was about to let this pass, and was about to say, if he wanted to talk to let her know, when he drew a deep, almost shuddering breath, and said, “I’ve done a terrible thing, Bree.”

Her brows dropped into a quick frown. But she remained silent, letting him continue at his own pace.

He drew another breath. Definitely a shudder. And his head was now hanging. “I knew about them riders, Bree. I knew about them all along. I found out about ‘em the day I fired Reno and the others. I’d seen their tracks out there. It looked to me like they were bearing north, so I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to worry you or Aunt Ginny unnecessarily. They were cutting some cows from our herd and taking them for beef. When I went to get the line riders to ride with me and face them, well, you know the rest. They wouldn’t follow my orders and I fired them.”

He turned to face her. “I didn’t know them riders would turn around and head straight to the valley. I didn’t know.”

Bree decided to take a chance, and dropped one hand gently to his shoulder. “Josh..,”

Wrong move. He shook free of her and bolted from the porch. “Just leave me alone.”

He turned off toward the stable. He stood for a while by the fence, staring toward the grass at his feet, then he leaned against the top rail of the fence, folding his arms atop it and burying his face.

How was he going to look Pa in the eye when he returned home? And how could Pa ever trust him to look after the ranch again?

He had beat Whitey in a gunfight. He had defeated Reno with his fists in Hunter’s saloon. With both situations he had enforced the authority Pa had bestowed upon him. He had hired some new men, and ridden with them rounding up the herd. Taking care of business, he had thought with pride. And yet, he had failed at the most important job of all - keeping Aunt Ginny and Bree safe. He was grateful for Zack, Hunter and even that gunhawk, Dusty, or whatever his name was.

Josh raised his eyes and looked off toward the meadow that opened up behind the house. The remuda grazed. One mustang pranced about in the late morning breeze.

A cup of coffee might taste good, he thought. Go into the kitchen, pour a cup, and then decide how he was going to tell Pa, and to prepare for the disappointment he would see in Pa’s eye.

Josh walked around to the kitchen door, and found Aunt Ginny sitting at the table, a tea cup and saucer before her.

He nodded to her, then continued to the kettle resting on the stove.

“It’s probably a little cold,” she said. “I let the fire go out.”

“That’s all right.” He opened a cupboard door for a cup, and filled it.

Ginny inward shuddered at the thought of what was in that pot. Cold, thick as mud, and probably gritty with grounds. How western men could drink it was something she could never fathom, but they seemed to almost crave it. Trail coffee, they called it. Mud would be the more appropriate name, she thought.

Josh started for the kitchen door, but Aunt Ginny stopped him in the doorway with one word. “Joshua.”

“Yes’m?”

“Come and sit down, please.”

“I’d really like to be alone right now, ma’am.”

“Pardon me. I didn’t mean to make it sound like a request. Come and sit down.”

Josh reluctantly ambled to the table, slid out a chair, and dropped into it.

“Joshua, did I ever tell you that you’ve grown into a good man? A reliable man? One your father can be proud of?”

Oh, no, he thought. She must have overhead his conversation with Bree out on the porch. Or Bree ran in and detailed it to her. “No, I ain’t, ma’am. Not by a long shot.”

She did not correct his grammar. “Joshua, don’t you think your father has ever made a mistake?”

He shrugged. “Everyone has, I reckon. But any mistakes he’s made are only little ones. I beat him at checkers a few months ago because he missed one move. But he was tired that night.”

“Oh, Joshua,” she chuckled. “Your father has made some mistakes. Some very big mistakes. I’ve know him for a long time, and he’s