Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] by Midnight Blue

the window of one of the upstairs rooms and looked down at the three men sitting on the porch of the cookshack. They had been sitting there for hours while she had been carrying trash down the stairs and piling it on the back porch. The two upstairs rooms had been filthy. Mouse droppings were everywhere. Mara vowed to buy a cat if she couldn’t get one any other way. Finally the rooms were clean, the mop and pail were carried down to the back porch, and the windows were open to let a cool breeze pass through. She had done all she could do without help. She needed someone to carry the old musty mattress out into the yard to air, and needed help to carry her things up the stairs.
    The bureau in the room was usable, as was the washstand. The bed and mattress in the room downstairs would have to be brought up as well as her trunk. Before winter she would purchase a rug for the floor. Up here she would at least have a measure of privacy.
    Before Mara had quite realized that she had made a decision, she was down the stairs, out of the house, and heading for the bunkhouse. The breeze felt good on her hot face; the pistol in her pocket slapped reassuringly against her leg as she walked.
    The men on the porch stopped talking and watched her approach. She recognized the man who had helped Sam Sparks carry Pack into the house. An old man without teeth sat on a bench, one leg crossed over the other, and a young man, hard looking with bold black eyes, sat on the edge of the porch. He wore down-at-the-heels boots and cruel-looking spurs.
    “Do you men work here?” Mara asked curtly, addressing all three.
    They looked at her silently, sullenly. Then the young bold-eyed man grinned at her, folded the knife he had been using to pare his nails, and put it in his pocket. He moved his eyes slowly over her body, then brought them back to linger on her breast.
    “What ya wantin’, sweetheart?”
    Mara gave him a scornful glance that had sent schoolgirls scurrying to their rooms in tears. He didn’t seem to notice her displeasure. His grin broadened, showing a missing tooth. He looked at her with his head cocked to one side.
    “Do you understand English? I asked if you
worked
here.”
    “Work here?” he echoed. His eyes moved over her again before they came back to her face. “Sweetheart, I ain’t likely to ever be that hard up!”
    “Then what are you doing here?”
    “Why, I’m just passin’ the time.” His eyes darted to the other two men.
    “Then I suggest you pass the time someplace else.”
    “They work here.” Cullen spoke belligerently as he came out the door. “What are you doing out here?” he demanded.
    “If they work here, why aren’t they working? It seems to me there’s plenty to be done.” Mara had to tilt her head to glare at Cullen who stood on the porch.
    “Get on back to the house. What goes on down here is no concern of yours.”
    “Everything on this place concerns me. I want to know why these men have loafed out here all afternoon. Look at that corral. Look at that shed. A good wind would blow them away. They need repair as well as—” She caught herself just before she mentioned the outhouse that leaned perilously to one side. “Just about everything around here needs repair.”
    “I’m tellin’ ya to mind your own business ’n get back to the house. I thought takin’ care of that son of a bitchin’ Gallagher would keep you busy.”
    “Don’t you dare cast a reflection on Cousin Brita’s character!”
    “Don’t be tellin’ me what to do or
say!
I’m running things here, and if you don’t like it, you can hightail it back to your fancy school!”
    “You worthless, mouthy, slimy little piece of horse dung!” Mara sputtered. “You’ll not be running things here for long. I can assure you of that.”
    “Whoopee! She’s got some mouth on her, Cullen.” The bold-eyed man slapped his thigh and shouted with laughter. Mara ignored him and spoke to Cullen again.
    “When your father