The
blacksmith double tapped the new bit then plunged it into the water again. He
held it under while it hissed and steamed then pulled it out and eyed it hard.
Henry bent and checked the angle. Seemed right. “Looks good. You have any
conchos?”
“No, trading
post might.”
Henry
turned and stopped short. He studied the sky. A wall of black, angry looking
clouds headed toward him. A fresh breeze cooled his face, then on its heels, a
blast of colder air. Holding his hat on in the whipping wind, he took another
step toward the trading post then froze.
Hair streamed
away from the most beautiful face he’d ever beheld. She filled his vision. Chin
held high, the lady gripped the porch’s post and seemed to dare the storm to blow
her down. In all his days, he’d never seen such a woman. Strength and
determination etched her face and stopped his heart cold. He stared, memorizing
her every feature. A bit of ice stung his face, then a gust carried pea
size hail drove him back under the smith’s shed.
He ducked
in and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Who’s that lady?”
The man
looked up, searched a bit, then shrugged. “What lady?”
Henry
turned back, she was gone. Had he only imagined her?
The storm
blew in and back out leaving only a half inch of rain and a light covering of
ice that quickly melted in the Tejas sun. He put the new bit into his saddlebag
then eased over to the Sulphur Fork Trading Post. At the
door, he held his palm out toward his dog. The animal sat like the good mutt he was, and Henry went on in.
The owner
turned around, a feather duster in his hand. “Well, howdy young man, Buckmeyer
right? You and your ma were in last month or so? ”
Henry
nodded. “Yes, sir.” He pointed at a five pound sack of salt on the shelf behind
the counter. “Need that and some sugar for Mother, and Smith said you might have some conchos””
“Afraid
not on the silver, anything else you need? Powder? Shot? Got plenty of that.”
“No, sir. The
lady who was here before the storm, you know her?”
The
shopkeeper grinned and gave him one nod. “Susannah Baylor, she has a right nice
block of black land a few miles south of here.”
“That so? Her
husband farm?”
The man
shook his head. “No, Andy and his brother were into timber. Had themselves a
nice steam sawmill that Jacob hauled all the way up from Memphis. Both of ‘em died in a logging accident
over by Langford Creek. Been five year now, maybe more.”
Henry
pulled a quarter piece of a silver coin from his trouser pocket and laid it on
the counter. “So, is the lady still a widow?”
“Yes, sir, she
sure is.”
Swinging
into the saddle, Henry reined his horse east. “Come on, Blue Dog. We’ve got
traps to set.”
That
evening, before, during, and after he and Blue made the rounds checking traps
and trotlines, he couldn’t get the image of the widow out of his mind’s eye.
