Aware that all eyes were on them, Chase took Emily by the arm and moved her as far away from Royce as possible.

“Yes,” he said, his calm voice belying his concerns. Royce was up to something; Chase could feel it in his bones. “Everything’s…just dandy.”

23

The following week passed quickly for Emily. Attending church had made her realize how much she missed a social life. To fill the void, she’d begun joining the ranch hands around their nightly campfires, and that helped pass the time. At least it made the long evening hours more bearable.

At first, the men seemed uneasy and reserved in her presence. Their constant “yes, ma’ams” and “no, ma’ams” made them sound like a bunch of schoolboys on their best behavior.

Fortunately, their mannerly behavior didn’t last more than a day, and the flow of tall tales and bad jokes were unlike any that she’d ever heard. In Boston, female parlor talk invariably involved fashion and gossip, while the men discussed business.

She attended the campfire every night but Saturday. That was the night the cowhands rode into town and stayed until the wee hours of the morning.

She especially enjoying listening to Foxhound tell the stories of his people. The Cherokee Indians seemed to have an explanation for everything, from how a rabbit got a short tail to the great flood.

Boomer’s tales always involved the weather in some way. One of his most outrageous tales involved a norther that blew his house clear off its foundation.

“So, what did you do?” the most gullible of the lot, Rusty, asked.

“Why I just waited for the wind to change direction and blow my house back,” he said to appreciative laughter.

After listening to the men’s tales for several nights, Emily decided to tell one of her own.

“I have one,” she said with a wave of her hand.

The men exchanged glances before Boomer motioned her to take her place in front of the others. Conscious that all eyes were focused on her, she began the story of Tall Barney Beal.

“He’s of such a towering height,” she explained, “he has to stick his feet out the window at night to sleep.”

She then went on to explain his strength. “He can drink from the bottom hole of a hundred-and-fifty-pound barrel.” Beal was a real person, and his legend was well known on the East Coast, and some of what she said was true. But in the spirit of fun, she went on to exaggerate his other feats. By the time she had completed her tale, the men were practically eating out of her hand.

After telling her story, she tried yet again to draw the man they called Gabby out of his shell but to no avail. Instead of joining in the jovial banter, he sat silently braiding long strips of rawhide, his nimble fingers working them into a fine rope.

As much as she hated to admit Ginny was right, Gabby’s demeanor could be interpreted as anger. He’d only worked on the ranch for a couple of months, and no one knew anything about his background. He was a compact, nondescript man. His only defining feature was his ears, which stuck straight out like handles on a sugar bowl.