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

old man doesn’t. Josh doesn’t.” Dusty shrugged. “I guess I wouldn’t either, in their places.”

“Sit, Dusty. Finish eating. I’ll put on some water for coffee.”

Ginny lifted a kettle and carried it to the iron pump mounted on a shelf on the same wall as the stove. She worked the handle until water gushed forth, and filled the kettle. She then set it on the stove and dumped in a proportionate amount of loose coffee.

She said to Dusty, “I normally crack an egg too, as the egg will catch most of the grounds, but you western men don’t seem to mind the grounds.”

Dusty shrugged. “Never really thought much about it. Just spit ‘em out if I get ‘em caught in my teeth.”

Dusty was suddenly embarrassed, realizing what he had said might seem inappropriate in front of this civilized lady, but she burst out laughing.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “Sometimes I don’t realize where I am. I’m used to sittin’ with cowhands in bunk houses.”

“Think nothing of it. I like your candor. I know most ladies like to pretend to be shocked and offended by the realities of the world, but I make no such pretense.”

Dusty looked at her curiously. She was an odd one, but he found he liked her.

She settled into a chair across the table from him. “Where are you from, Dusty? I mean, you were born in that mining town, but were you raised there?”

He had begun to lift his spoon from the stew, then stopped in mid-motion. How to tell her? How to tell her he had been raised by Sam Patterson, whose notoriety wasn’t quite on the level of Jesse James, but close enough. How would she react to learn the very survival tactics he had used to prepare this household for possible attack had been taught him by an outlaw? And she was now sharing her table with a product of that outlaw? Because, though Patterson had not fathered Dusty, he had raised him.

He did not like keeping his background secret, especially from this woman. For some reason, her opinion of him was becoming very important to him. And he also longed to be accepted simply for who he was, without hiding his background. However, he did not quite dare tell her.

It was more than he could have hoped for this evening to go as well as it had. After all, he hadn’t been told to leave. Not yet, at least. Old man McCabe had taken the news better than Dusty would have thought. Josh wasn’t overly pleased to learn he had a new brother, but Dusty did not really blame him. And here he was, sitting at the McCabe table. He didn’t want to push his luck, and so he decided to keep his connections to Sam Patterson a secret. At least for now.

She had asked where he was from. He let the spoon continue its way to his mouth, slurped down the stew, and said casually, “Oh, I’m from everywhere, I guess.” The standard lie. “I was raised by drifters, folks passin’ through.”

Ginny looked at him curiously. She had lived long enough and had learned enough about people to know when something was being held back. She wasn’t accustomed to being lied to, and if anyone was foolish enough to try it on her, she would quickly cut them down to size. But her instinct told her to go easy on this boy. At least for now.

She watched as he, without another word, drained his bowl, spoonful by spoonful.

She said, “You haven’t eaten regularly for a while, have you?”

“Not until I took the job with Hunter. Between Nevada and Montana, well, that’s a lot of miles. A lot of nights eating rabbit, or digging for roots. Or, a couple of times, I stopped by campfires and got a plate of beans and a cup of coffee. By the time I got to Montana, I had tightened my belt a couple of notches.”

She served the coffee and they chatted about the weather, about how Hunter was doing and what business was like at the saloon, now that Dusty was doing the cooking and they were serving meals. Miss Brackston asked him where he learned to cook, and he said from folks here and there. Not entirely a lie. He was just leaving a lot of the truth out.

Finally, he pushed away from the table and rose to his feet. He felt the heaviness of sleep now creeping into his eyes, as though it were finally ready to take him. “Well, I guess I’d best be getting back to the bunkhouse.”

“Nonsense. Family doesn’t sleep in the bunkhouse.”

“Well, that’s where I was told to bed down for the night.”

“Your father does not run this household. He operates the ranch, but the household is my territory.”

“What will he say if he finds me sleeping under his roof?”

“He’d better say nothing, if he knows what’s good for him. We made an agreement long ago. We never cross into each other’s territory. We have a guest room upstairs, second door on your right. You can have it.”

“I’m much obliged, Miss Brackston.”

“A few things. First, no hats are worn in the house. Ever. I don’t care about the cowboy rules of etiquette, that a cowboy wears his hat everywhere. Not in this house. Baths are taken regularly, and you wear clean clothes and are freshly shaven for meals. For Sunday dinners, a white shirt and tie are expected. You are allowed to wear a gun in the house at any time, however, even for Sunday dinner. Your father long ago convinced me of the impracticality of not having a gun handy in this land. And what did I tell you about calling me ‘Miss Brackston?’ Any child of his calls me ‘Aunt Ginny.’ Any questions?”

“Yes’m. I’m wearing about all that I have. Hunter paid for a couple shirts and a new pair of levis for me, but nothing fit for Sunday dinner.”

“You look to be about you father’s size. I’ll