town.”
Byron stalked out, his fists clenched.
“My poor brother,” Noona said softly. She stopped and touched Asa’s hand. “I’m sorry he’s treating you this way.”
“It’s him doing it, not you.”
“He does care for you, you know.”
“I wonder.”
“He’s always been the smartest of us.”
“Too smart,” Asa said.
“Do you remember when he first heard there was a poet who had his name, how excited he was when you bought him his first book on Lord Byron?”
“I thought I was doing him a favor,” Asa said.
“You did. He loved that book more than anything and went out and got everything he could find on Lord Byron.”
“Look at where it’s brought us.”
“You should be proud. How many fathers can say they have a son with the heart of a poet?”
Asa adored her for trying to smooth things over, but there was too much at stake. “He’s gone soft. Too soft. If I could I’d put him on the next stage east, like he wants. As it is, I don’t know as I want him backing me when the Circle K rides in.”
“He’ll do what needs doing. You can count on him for that.”
“I hope you’re right,” Asa said. “If you’re not, all of us could be goners.”
Part Three
20
W eldon Knox liked his brandy. He always had one exactly at noon and once an hour thereafter until he retired. His wife didn’t like it, but she knew better than to complain. The only time she had, he’d slapped her from the parlor to the kitchen and back again, with her caterwauling for him to stop. He liked the feeling it gave him, liked the power he had over her, liked the fear he inspired.
Weldon hadn’t inspired much fear in anyone when he was growing up. Fate had dealt him a cruel blow in that he was so short. It’s hard to inspire fear when you’re no taller than a heifer. You have to be muscular, or tough, and Weldon was neither.
But he did like inspiring fear.
Which was partly why when he took a wife, he made sure she was shorter than he was. Esther fit the bill, and was frail, to boot, so he could smack her around to his heart’s content and she couldn’t do a thing.
Esther didn’t like it when he brought in Bull Cumberland, either, but she kept her mouth shut except to mention that she couldn’t understand why he’d hired “a man like that.”
Weldon chuckled at the memory. The silly woman didn’t see that Bull and him were the same. They both liked doing as they damn well pleased. They both liked making money any way they could. And they both liked hurting people.
But then, how was Esther to know? When they met, he’d fed her a cock-and-bull story about being from back east and raised religious and impressed her as being a gentleman in all his ways.
She’d be shocked, Weldon reckoned, if she learned he was Texas born and bred. That he’d lived on a small ranch over San Antonio way until his father died and left him the place. For most that would suffice, but Weldon always hankered after a bigger spread, a ranch with thousands upon thousands of acres, his very own empire that he could rule with an iron fist. One day he’d heard that the Circle K was up for sale and sold the ranch his pa had sweated and near broken his back to build up for the down payment.
Esther never suspected the rest of it, either. That he’d been running rustled stock on the sly for years. That he let wanted men hide out at his place—for a price. That for all his seeming respectability, he was as much a cutthroat as the worst of them.
And a far better actor.
It had amused him, riding into town and duping the famous Asa Delaware. It rankled a bit, though, treating the breed as if he mattered. He despised mixed-bloods almost as much as he despised redskins.
Still, things had gone “swimmingly,” as a Brit he knew might say. He sipped his brandy, gazed out the big parlor window over his domain, and was content.
Then someone pounded on the front door, and Weldon yelled for Esther to answer it. Presently boots
Byron stalked out, his fists clenched.
“My poor brother,” Noona said softly. She stopped and touched Asa’s hand. “I’m sorry he’s treating you this way.”
“It’s him doing it, not you.”
“He does care for you, you know.”
“I wonder.”
“He’s always been the smartest of us.”
“Too smart,” Asa said.
“Do you remember when he first heard there was a poet who had his name, how excited he was when you bought him his first book on Lord Byron?”
“I thought I was doing him a favor,” Asa said.
“You did. He loved that book more than anything and went out and got everything he could find on Lord Byron.”
“Look at where it’s brought us.”
“You should be proud. How many fathers can say they have a son with the heart of a poet?”
Asa adored her for trying to smooth things over, but there was too much at stake. “He’s gone soft. Too soft. If I could I’d put him on the next stage east, like he wants. As it is, I don’t know as I want him backing me when the Circle K rides in.”
“He’ll do what needs doing. You can count on him for that.”
“I hope you’re right,” Asa said. “If you’re not, all of us could be goners.”
Part Three
20
W eldon Knox liked his brandy. He always had one exactly at noon and once an hour thereafter until he retired. His wife didn’t like it, but she knew better than to complain. The only time she had, he’d slapped her from the parlor to the kitchen and back again, with her caterwauling for him to stop. He liked the feeling it gave him, liked the power he had over her, liked the fear he inspired.
Weldon hadn’t inspired much fear in anyone when he was growing up. Fate had dealt him a cruel blow in that he was so short. It’s hard to inspire fear when you’re no taller than a heifer. You have to be muscular, or tough, and Weldon was neither.
But he did like inspiring fear.
Which was partly why when he took a wife, he made sure she was shorter than he was. Esther fit the bill, and was frail, to boot, so he could smack her around to his heart’s content and she couldn’t do a thing.
Esther didn’t like it when he brought in Bull Cumberland, either, but she kept her mouth shut except to mention that she couldn’t understand why he’d hired “a man like that.”
Weldon chuckled at the memory. The silly woman didn’t see that Bull and him were the same. They both liked doing as they damn well pleased. They both liked making money any way they could. And they both liked hurting people.
But then, how was Esther to know? When they met, he’d fed her a cock-and-bull story about being from back east and raised religious and impressed her as being a gentleman in all his ways.
She’d be shocked, Weldon reckoned, if she learned he was Texas born and bred. That he’d lived on a small ranch over San Antonio way until his father died and left him the place. For most that would suffice, but Weldon always hankered after a bigger spread, a ranch with thousands upon thousands of acres, his very own empire that he could rule with an iron fist. One day he’d heard that the Circle K was up for sale and sold the ranch his pa had sweated and near broken his back to build up for the down payment.
Esther never suspected the rest of it, either. That he’d been running rustled stock on the sly for years. That he let wanted men hide out at his place—for a price. That for all his seeming respectability, he was as much a cutthroat as the worst of them.
And a far better actor.
It had amused him, riding into town and duping the famous Asa Delaware. It rankled a bit, though, treating the breed as if he mattered. He despised mixed-bloods almost as much as he despised redskins.
Still, things had gone “swimmingly,” as a Brit he knew might say. He sipped his brandy, gazed out the big parlor window over his domain, and was content.
Then someone pounded on the front door, and Weldon yelled for Esther to answer it. Presently boots
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