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Authors: Kelly Eileen Hake
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all but buried her head in the bag, breathing deep before declaring, “
Coffee
says home!”
The promise of hot coffee had Tucker swinging by the mess hall. He planned to fall into his bunk—most likely with his boots still on—and sleep himself into a better mood, but the lure of coffee kept him sociable. By sociable, he meant not shouting at every man who got between him and the pot.
Thankfully, no one proved fool enough to try and engage him in cards or conversation. Either the rest of the men worked themselves into the ground same as Tucker, or they scratched together enough sense not to let him know otherwise. In any case, no one blocked his path to the stove where Cookie always kept a vat of coffee hot and strong enough to steam the hide off a hog.
Tucker grabbed a mug from the nearby pile, reached for the handle, and all but upended the pot before acknowledging the unpleasant and unprecedented truth. It was empty.
“Which man,” he roared, plunking the useless pot back atop the burner and whipping around to face his workers, “which abysmally inconsiderate
fool
, poured the last cup and put the pot back?”
Astonished silence met his demand, cowhands casting furtive glances from their own steaming mugs to the empty one Tucker waved in accusation. No one fessed up, and no one pointed fingers. This last was to be expected; his men knew better than to butt in or carry on. That didn’t bother Tucker. He didn’t have the patience to waste catching the culprit and coming up with a memorable, amusing punishment. Venting his spleen made him a little less grumpy, warned everyone to keep their distance, and most importantly warned them not to let the pot go dry again.
Though if he’d had to guess—and he didn’t have to do a single blessed thing but accept the full mug Cookie rushed out to him—Tucker figured one of the grub-line riders as the guilty man. He recalled that the previous influx headed out this morning, so Bar None only played host to one transient tonight. But the youngster who’d ridden up in the rainstorm couldn’t be blamed for the empty coffeepot. Tucker recognized each and every cowboy who’d avoided eye contact, so he’d probably find the newcomer in the bunkhouse, snoring off a long, cold day in the saddle.
Tucker could respect that, considering he planned to do the same. He drained the rest of his coffee in a scalding glug, plunked down the mug with the rest of the dirty dishware, and left the mess hall without another word. A well-timed break in the rain saw him to the bunkhouse without a further dousing. Between that small mercy and a stomach of hot coffee, things looked up. After a solid night’s sleep, Tucker figured he’d feel almost human again come morning.
But when he sank down onto his bunk, biting back a groan of relief, he noticed something. Actually, he noticed there wasn’t anything or anyone to notice—he had the bunkhouse all to himself. Typically this would be a welcome rarity. Tonight it ranked as an unpleasant surprise because Tucker knew, without a shadow of a doubt, the stranger remained at the Bar None.
When he’d turned in Happy Jack at the stables, Tucker took a moment and looked in on the grubber’s mount. He’d harbored some concern since she’d been ridden hard in poor weather. If she’d looked underfed, sickly, or otherwise abused, Tucker would’ve found a way to buy her. He’d done it before with a few mounts who deserved better treatment from a no-good grubber and had no qualms about sending a man away on foot with a few dollars in his pocket and a bug in his ear. But that hadn’t been the case. The sturdy little pony looked well fed and beautifully maintained.
With the horse accounted for, Tucker needed to track down her rider. If any of the Bar None mounts were still out this late and in this weather, the stable master would’ve warned him. He hadn’t said a word, so that meant the mysterious “J” hadn’t gotten caught out on the
Coffee
says home!”
The promise of hot coffee had Tucker swinging by the mess hall. He planned to fall into his bunk—most likely with his boots still on—and sleep himself into a better mood, but the lure of coffee kept him sociable. By sociable, he meant not shouting at every man who got between him and the pot.
Thankfully, no one proved fool enough to try and engage him in cards or conversation. Either the rest of the men worked themselves into the ground same as Tucker, or they scratched together enough sense not to let him know otherwise. In any case, no one blocked his path to the stove where Cookie always kept a vat of coffee hot and strong enough to steam the hide off a hog.
Tucker grabbed a mug from the nearby pile, reached for the handle, and all but upended the pot before acknowledging the unpleasant and unprecedented truth. It was empty.
“Which man,” he roared, plunking the useless pot back atop the burner and whipping around to face his workers, “which abysmally inconsiderate
fool
, poured the last cup and put the pot back?”
Astonished silence met his demand, cowhands casting furtive glances from their own steaming mugs to the empty one Tucker waved in accusation. No one fessed up, and no one pointed fingers. This last was to be expected; his men knew better than to butt in or carry on. That didn’t bother Tucker. He didn’t have the patience to waste catching the culprit and coming up with a memorable, amusing punishment. Venting his spleen made him a little less grumpy, warned everyone to keep their distance, and most importantly warned them not to let the pot go dry again.
Though if he’d had to guess—and he didn’t have to do a single blessed thing but accept the full mug Cookie rushed out to him—Tucker figured one of the grub-line riders as the guilty man. He recalled that the previous influx headed out this morning, so Bar None only played host to one transient tonight. But the youngster who’d ridden up in the rainstorm couldn’t be blamed for the empty coffeepot. Tucker recognized each and every cowboy who’d avoided eye contact, so he’d probably find the newcomer in the bunkhouse, snoring off a long, cold day in the saddle.
Tucker could respect that, considering he planned to do the same. He drained the rest of his coffee in a scalding glug, plunked down the mug with the rest of the dirty dishware, and left the mess hall without another word. A well-timed break in the rain saw him to the bunkhouse without a further dousing. Between that small mercy and a stomach of hot coffee, things looked up. After a solid night’s sleep, Tucker figured he’d feel almost human again come morning.
But when he sank down onto his bunk, biting back a groan of relief, he noticed something. Actually, he noticed there wasn’t anything or anyone to notice—he had the bunkhouse all to himself. Typically this would be a welcome rarity. Tonight it ranked as an unpleasant surprise because Tucker knew, without a shadow of a doubt, the stranger remained at the Bar None.
When he’d turned in Happy Jack at the stables, Tucker took a moment and looked in on the grubber’s mount. He’d harbored some concern since she’d been ridden hard in poor weather. If she’d looked underfed, sickly, or otherwise abused, Tucker would’ve found a way to buy her. He’d done it before with a few mounts who deserved better treatment from a no-good grubber and had no qualms about sending a man away on foot with a few dollars in his pocket and a bug in his ear. But that hadn’t been the case. The sturdy little pony looked well fed and beautifully maintained.
With the horse accounted for, Tucker needed to track down her rider. If any of the Bar None mounts were still out this late and in this weather, the stable master would’ve warned him. He hadn’t said a word, so that meant the mysterious “J” hadn’t gotten caught out on the
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