packed to run away, she just couldn’t stand to leave the silly things behind. She had to leave so many other mementoes. Though, when she thought about it, Mark was the best memento of her husband that she could possibly have.
Pulling herself back to the here and now, she returned O’Reilly’s look, seeing him for the first time dressed in boots, jeans, and a blue work shirt covering a white t-shirt. He’d found a bunch of worn clothes in storage in the empty bunk room last night and helped himself. He told Maggie that frequently cowboys would leave things like this at the camp so that if someone got stuck here in a storm they would have dry clothes to wear. The pantry was also left provisioned with a week’s or month’s worth of dry goods for the same reason.
Yawning and rubbing her hands over her sleep tousled hair to cover her discomfort at O’Reilly’s scrutiny, Maggie asked, “What time is it?”
O’Reilly looked back down at the bucket in his hands. “5:30 or thereabouts, as if it makes a difference,” he replied. “The cow’s milked, calf’s fed. Mark here is getting breakfast ready so you’ve got around fifteen minutes to get dressed before food’s on the table.”
Maggie bristled at his offhand approach, but she caught his meaning. He didn’t intend to give orders as though she worked for him, but he made it clear that a cowboy’s life started early in the day. It probably irked him that he had to restrain his comments since he was obviously a man accustomed to giving orders.
She nodded her understanding and stepped back into her room, closing the door behind her. Searching for jeans and a shirt, Maggie thought ruefully that she and Mark had been under the belief that they’d been working hard, but apparently they’d been slacking off by rancher’s standards, rising late, dawdling through the chores without a set schedule. Apparently they were about to be indoctrinated into the agricultural lifestyle good and proper, and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it.
Less than ten minutes later Maggie reemerged from her room, clothed and brushed, to find Mark at the stove while O’Reilly instructed him with moderate success how to flip the pancakes without throwing them on the floor or into the fire.
Mark looked back at his mother as she passed through the room on the way to the outer door, heading for the outhouse. The ten-year-old grinned and waved his spatula at her.
“Breakfast in five minutes. If you’re late I’ll feed it to the dogs,” he called. The two dogs sitting at a respectful distance with tongues lolling and eyes avid indicated that the threat might be more than idle.
“No worries, kiddo, unless I fall in, in which case I don’t care about the pancakes, just bring a rope,” Maggie joked back as she opened the front door and stepped out into the fresh morning air.
Later, after enjoying a breakfast of pancakes with fresh butter and drizzled in honey that O’Reilly fished out of one of his packs, Maggie and O’Reilly headed outside to begin the day’s labor, while Mark settled in to work on his school assignments. When O’Reilly heard about the morning’s plans for Mark, he looked curiously at Maggie, but chose not to make any comments regarding the issue. Maggie caught the look, but refused to justify herself at that time.
On the way to the barn O’Reilly insisted that one of the first things that needed to be taken care of was to trim the feet of Maggie’s four horses.“I’m stuck in a bit of a dilemma here,” O’Reilly confided. “These horses have never had to make it out in the rocks, so their feet are soft. They depend on their shoes. The problem is that we don’t have a supply of shoes any longer, so these horses are going to have to get used to going barefoot.”
“What’s wrong with that?” questioned Maggie.
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that,” O’Reilly said, matter of factly, “It’s just that they’re going to be
Pulling herself back to the here and now, she returned O’Reilly’s look, seeing him for the first time dressed in boots, jeans, and a blue work shirt covering a white t-shirt. He’d found a bunch of worn clothes in storage in the empty bunk room last night and helped himself. He told Maggie that frequently cowboys would leave things like this at the camp so that if someone got stuck here in a storm they would have dry clothes to wear. The pantry was also left provisioned with a week’s or month’s worth of dry goods for the same reason.
Yawning and rubbing her hands over her sleep tousled hair to cover her discomfort at O’Reilly’s scrutiny, Maggie asked, “What time is it?”
O’Reilly looked back down at the bucket in his hands. “5:30 or thereabouts, as if it makes a difference,” he replied. “The cow’s milked, calf’s fed. Mark here is getting breakfast ready so you’ve got around fifteen minutes to get dressed before food’s on the table.”
Maggie bristled at his offhand approach, but she caught his meaning. He didn’t intend to give orders as though she worked for him, but he made it clear that a cowboy’s life started early in the day. It probably irked him that he had to restrain his comments since he was obviously a man accustomed to giving orders.
She nodded her understanding and stepped back into her room, closing the door behind her. Searching for jeans and a shirt, Maggie thought ruefully that she and Mark had been under the belief that they’d been working hard, but apparently they’d been slacking off by rancher’s standards, rising late, dawdling through the chores without a set schedule. Apparently they were about to be indoctrinated into the agricultural lifestyle good and proper, and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it.
Less than ten minutes later Maggie reemerged from her room, clothed and brushed, to find Mark at the stove while O’Reilly instructed him with moderate success how to flip the pancakes without throwing them on the floor or into the fire.
Mark looked back at his mother as she passed through the room on the way to the outer door, heading for the outhouse. The ten-year-old grinned and waved his spatula at her.
“Breakfast in five minutes. If you’re late I’ll feed it to the dogs,” he called. The two dogs sitting at a respectful distance with tongues lolling and eyes avid indicated that the threat might be more than idle.
“No worries, kiddo, unless I fall in, in which case I don’t care about the pancakes, just bring a rope,” Maggie joked back as she opened the front door and stepped out into the fresh morning air.
Later, after enjoying a breakfast of pancakes with fresh butter and drizzled in honey that O’Reilly fished out of one of his packs, Maggie and O’Reilly headed outside to begin the day’s labor, while Mark settled in to work on his school assignments. When O’Reilly heard about the morning’s plans for Mark, he looked curiously at Maggie, but chose not to make any comments regarding the issue. Maggie caught the look, but refused to justify herself at that time.
On the way to the barn O’Reilly insisted that one of the first things that needed to be taken care of was to trim the feet of Maggie’s four horses.“I’m stuck in a bit of a dilemma here,” O’Reilly confided. “These horses have never had to make it out in the rocks, so their feet are soft. They depend on their shoes. The problem is that we don’t have a supply of shoes any longer, so these horses are going to have to get used to going barefoot.”
“What’s wrong with that?” questioned Maggie.
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that,” O’Reilly said, matter of factly, “It’s just that they’re going to be
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