“Put our horses up for us, Jethro. We’re goin’ to the house.” He walked away without looking back, knowing the servant would obey and Scully would follow. He held his gaze on the open front door, wondering if the colonel had seen him and would come to meet him. He halfway hoped for a cordial reception, though he knew it was unlikely.

He was right. He stepped through the door and stopped a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the near-dark interior. The drapes were drawn, but he could see the colonel seated in the parlor, his huge bearlike body completely filling his favorite chair. Holding a glass of whiskey, the colonel stared at him with eagle eyes that offered no sign of welcome. As always, his was a formidable presence. Pete had seen strong men shake when the colonel confronted them.

Despite his intention of taking a strong initiative, Pete felt his face warming, his heartbeat quickening.

Damn it to hell, he was still a little afraid of the old man. He hoped the colonel could not see it.

Pete walked up almost within touching distance, trying to muster voice to speak. Caleb Dawkins spoke first, in a tone like a pronouncement of doom. “You back legally, or did you just run away?” Dawkins’s scowl matched his voice.

“The Confederacy is breakin’ up. Wasn’t no use stayin’ around for the funeral.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t try to run away sooner and get yourself shot for desertion.”

Pete had a sinking feeling. He had hoped his father might have softened a bit. Clearly, he was still the same bull-headed son of a bitch he had always been. “I didn’t know about Mama. You ought to’ve written to me. I’d have come.”

“If you hadn’t been a horse thief, you’d have been here to start with.” The colonel’s gaze went to Scully for only a second, then back to Pete. “I see you’re still runnin’ with the same trash as before.”

Scully took a step backward, toward the door. Pete summoned enough nerve to command, “Stand firm, Scully. We’ve got a right to be here.” He surprised himself a little. Emboldened, he stepped to the small table beside the colonel’s chair and picked up the bottle of whiskey from which Dawkins had filled his glass. Pete tipped it and took a long swallow. “You used to buy a better brand of bourbon.”

Dawkins said, “How would you know? I never gave you any.”

“I took it when you wasn’t lookin’.”

“Like you took my horses.” Dawkins finished what was in his glass and set it down. “Where do you plan to go from here?” The implication was plain enough: He did not intend for Pete to remain.

That stiffened Pete’s stubborn streak. “What makes you think I figure on goin’ anywhere?”

“I don’t intend to let you stay here.”