powerless as he had been a thousand miles away at college. More than anything, Horace hated his father’s now-frequent tears. They reminded him too sharply of how proud Papa had been. And they made Horace feel so guilty that he nearly wept himself.
He should be more patient . And he should have done something to stop Judge Cameron years before.
It took another half-hour’s effort to feed his father half the bowl of lukewarm bean and ham soup . Afterward, Horace threw two more split logs into the bunkhouse stove and rubbed his own cold hands amid the sparks. A chill wind whistled through the gaps between loose boards.
He supposed they had been lucky that Judge Cameron had left them this . An old bunkhouse on the nearest section of what once had been their ranch. The rest had been sold for back-taxes two years after the attack. So close to Copper Ridge, the land’s value had risen. Horace shouldn’t have been shocked when Judge Cameron bought it, shouldn’t have been outraged when Cameron tore down the comfortable house where he and Laurel had been raised and replaced it with a newer, grander residence. The only vestige the judge kept of the old place was the ranch house’s name, The Pines.
Yet Horace couldn’t help but think about how neatly it had worked out for the bastard . How after Hamby’s raiders had come and beaten his father, then driven off the herd, Judge Cameron had been so harsh about the tax bill. How suddenly, the bank ─ even family friends ─ wouldn’t loan Papa so much as a Yankee dime. How amazingly, when the ranch at last came up for auction, the judge had been the only bidder.
Not surprisingly, he had bought it for a song.
All this had occurred while Horace had been away, working on his education. He’d had to return home, his degree unfinished, but not his long-held dream.
Oh, no . Never his dream. If he couldn’t find work with one of the big newspapers in the States, as he had planned, then he would start one of his own. And with it, Horace would ruin Judge Ward Cameron, for all the neat coincidences that had worked like deadly poison against Papa’s will to live.
* * *
Ward Cameron nearly choked on the cuernito his housekeeper had baked when the realization struck him. Anna Bennett . There was a damned good reason that name stuck in his craw. Already, it had prompted him to take out Singletary’s letter more times than he cared to admit, even to himself.
He brushed off his hands, showering the gleaming walnut desktop with crumbs of sugary cinnamon . Not noticing the mess, he scooted back his chair and reached pulled out a journal, one hidden in his desk’s bottom drawer. Unlike the dime novels that currently popularized an outlandish version of the west, his writings told the true tales, stories he could not afford to share. Yet he documented them religiously, for the pure joy of seeing his true exploits on paper, the feeling of power that it gave him to read of how he’d gone from nothing to a position where he decided whether men should live and die.
Guessing at the year it happened, Cameron flipped through his journal to the section written in 1878 . He chuckled in appreciation of his cunning as he revisited the story of how he’d fined a drunken rancher into ruin as a result of a spree in Three Cow Crossing. When the man grew sufficiently desperate to sell his ranch, Cameron had stepped in as the “sympathetic” buyer – and then resold the property at a terrific profit. In another case, he’d shown mercy to a copper miner’s son accused of stealing horses. In exchange, the grateful father had cut him in as a part-owner of that mine. And then there’d been that larcenous blond singer who’d been brought to him for justice. What was it she’d gone by? There it was. It had been Annie Faith, but later he’d learned her real name was Anna Bennett.
He smiled, recalling how the sheriff caught her mere steps out of Mud Wasp . Riding a stolen horse,
He should be more patient . And he should have done something to stop Judge Cameron years before.
It took another half-hour’s effort to feed his father half the bowl of lukewarm bean and ham soup . Afterward, Horace threw two more split logs into the bunkhouse stove and rubbed his own cold hands amid the sparks. A chill wind whistled through the gaps between loose boards.
He supposed they had been lucky that Judge Cameron had left them this . An old bunkhouse on the nearest section of what once had been their ranch. The rest had been sold for back-taxes two years after the attack. So close to Copper Ridge, the land’s value had risen. Horace shouldn’t have been shocked when Judge Cameron bought it, shouldn’t have been outraged when Cameron tore down the comfortable house where he and Laurel had been raised and replaced it with a newer, grander residence. The only vestige the judge kept of the old place was the ranch house’s name, The Pines.
Yet Horace couldn’t help but think about how neatly it had worked out for the bastard . How after Hamby’s raiders had come and beaten his father, then driven off the herd, Judge Cameron had been so harsh about the tax bill. How suddenly, the bank ─ even family friends ─ wouldn’t loan Papa so much as a Yankee dime. How amazingly, when the ranch at last came up for auction, the judge had been the only bidder.
Not surprisingly, he had bought it for a song.
All this had occurred while Horace had been away, working on his education. He’d had to return home, his degree unfinished, but not his long-held dream.
Oh, no . Never his dream. If he couldn’t find work with one of the big newspapers in the States, as he had planned, then he would start one of his own. And with it, Horace would ruin Judge Ward Cameron, for all the neat coincidences that had worked like deadly poison against Papa’s will to live.
* * *
Ward Cameron nearly choked on the cuernito his housekeeper had baked when the realization struck him. Anna Bennett . There was a damned good reason that name stuck in his craw. Already, it had prompted him to take out Singletary’s letter more times than he cared to admit, even to himself.
He brushed off his hands, showering the gleaming walnut desktop with crumbs of sugary cinnamon . Not noticing the mess, he scooted back his chair and reached pulled out a journal, one hidden in his desk’s bottom drawer. Unlike the dime novels that currently popularized an outlandish version of the west, his writings told the true tales, stories he could not afford to share. Yet he documented them religiously, for the pure joy of seeing his true exploits on paper, the feeling of power that it gave him to read of how he’d gone from nothing to a position where he decided whether men should live and die.
Guessing at the year it happened, Cameron flipped through his journal to the section written in 1878 . He chuckled in appreciation of his cunning as he revisited the story of how he’d fined a drunken rancher into ruin as a result of a spree in Three Cow Crossing. When the man grew sufficiently desperate to sell his ranch, Cameron had stepped in as the “sympathetic” buyer – and then resold the property at a terrific profit. In another case, he’d shown mercy to a copper miner’s son accused of stealing horses. In exchange, the grateful father had cut him in as a part-owner of that mine. And then there’d been that larcenous blond singer who’d been brought to him for justice. What was it she’d gone by? There it was. It had been Annie Faith, but later he’d learned her real name was Anna Bennett.
He smiled, recalling how the sheriff caught her mere steps out of Mud Wasp . Riding a stolen horse,
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