Hard Ride to Wichita by Ralph Compton, Marcus Galloway Page A

kin, a hot meal, and a warm bed for the night. It was the last taste of a real home he would feel for quite some time.

Chapter 7
    When morning came, Red woke with a start. The house was quiet and the sun’s rays were only starting to warm the old curtains hanging in the window beside him. He sat bolt upright, pulled those curtains back, and found only one horse tethered to the post outside. Before he could mutter the curse that sprang to his mind, he recalled Luke’s horse had been tied to the post on the other side of the house because the troughs on either side needed to be filled and there was just enough water in each of them to keep one horse happy. Red looked toward the door to his cramped room and found Luke curled in a ball on the floor between two blankets and a little square pillow.
    When they were smaller, the two of them had fit much better inside that room. Now they seemed less like two peas in a pod and more like a pair of boulders stuffed into a marble bag. Red swung his feet over the side of his bed, which wasn’t much more than a sturdy cot, and rubbed both hands over the top of his head. By the time he’d pulled his fingers from the tangle of red hair, Luke had thrown off the blanket covering him.
    â€œYou ready to go?” Luke asked.
    â€œCan’t we at least have breakfast first?”
    â€œI said first light. It’s already past that. I thought this town would be miles behind me by now.”
    â€œAnd I thought I would have gotten Becky Walsh alone in the loft of her barn by now, but we don’t always get what we want. I smell griddle cakes. If you can walk past those without stopping for a bite, then you don’t have a soul.”
    Scratching his haunches as he shuffled from his room, Red pulled open his door and stepped into the short hallway leading to the front of the house. The floorboards were cool beneath his feet, and it wasn’t until he was a few steps away from the kitchen that he heard the sizzle of a frying pan.
    Red’s father always looked as if he’d just tumbled out of bed. He looked over at his son and said, “About time you decided to wake up. Where’s Luke?”
    â€œRight here,” Luke said as he entered the kitchen.
    â€œGlad to have you, boy. Fix yourself a plate. You know where to find what you need.”
    After having spent almost as many nights in that house as he did his own, Luke did know where everything was. He found a plate and fork and then helped himself to some hotcakes and butter. By the time Red was digging in to his own stack, his mother had arrived to fix them all coffee. From then on, Red’s parents engaged in a whole lot of small talk with Luke that flowed like so much rainwater through a gutter.
    Yes, he felt better than he had the day before.
    Yes, he missed his ma and Kyle.
    Yes, he knew things would be better.
    No, he didn’t think he was alone.
    Actually Red thought that last answer was earnest enough. When Luke gave it, he’d looked over to him for silent confirmation that he truly wouldn’t be alone as the day wore on. Red nodded and piled some more griddle cakes onto his plate. Even his mother’s coffee, which usually smelled like hot glue and had the consistency of mud, was something to be savored that morning.
    â€œWell, now,” Red’s father said as he slapped the table and stood up. “There’s work to be done. You’ll come along to lend a hand as soon as this mess is cleaned up, you hear?”
    â€œYes, sir,” Red replied.
    â€œAnd you,” Mr. Connover said while turning toward Luke, “rest up and feel free to come and go as you please. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, but you’ll do your part just like everyone else. Ain’t no grief in the world couldn’t be cured by rollin’ up your sleeves and keeping yourself too occupied to fret about it.”
    Luke nodded. “Thanks for your hospitality,