distant Colorado River. By daybreak the worst of the flooding had ebbed, and all that remained was the waiting.
âLife teaches a man patience,â old Calvin Blake had taught Caulie in what now seemed to have been another lifetime. âWaters rise and fall. Seasons come and go. The land survives. The trick is to outlast storm and drought, learn to take each in your stride.â
Caulie had done his best, but Henry Simpson had ensured it wasnât enough.
Now it was Simpsonâs turn to pay. Silerâs Hollow had gone from a lake to a swamp, and the frothing water unleashed by the dam had spilled over ten acres of prime grazing land. Cattle, suddenly surprised by the flood, had scrambled to high ground, trampling anything in their path. Those that had been a trifle slow had drowned by the dozens, and dead steers and cows dotted the range.
Downstream at the Bar Double B, cattle that only a day before had fought over the sandy banks of the Colorado now drank from the sweet surface of Carpenter Creek. Some trees had been uprooted by the floodwaters, and one field was awash, but the precious peach orchard had weathered the raging waters rather well, and the house, being atop a hill, was scarcely bothered.
Hannah knew even before Zach arrived that the dam had been blown. Why wouldnât she? Wasnât it for that very reason that sheâd written the letter, called Caulfield Blake back? And now, as she stood on the crest of the hill with Marshall Merrittâher husbandâshe was less sure of her actions.
âI welcome the water,â Marsh told her, âbut little good will come of this. The place to fight was in a courtroom.â
âSome things canât be settled that way,â Hannah objected. âDix tried that a month ago. Six months or six years, the case never wouldâve come to trial so long as Henry Simpson wished it otherwise.â
âI saw Zachary ride in last night. His face was painted dark, and he wore a black poncho . . . the kind Caulfield used to wear when he was sheriff.â
âYouâre wrong,â she declared. âZach went into town for me. He gave me the sugar. He would never have . .
âHannah, Iâve done my best to be a father to those boys, but Zachâs never taken me to heart like Carter. Everybody says it. Zachâs a Blake. It canât be changed by his taking my name.â
âThereâs no disgrace in being a Blake, Marsh. Blakes built this place, built this county. For all his faults, Caulie never gave me cause to think poorly of his name or his family.â
âI wish youâd never written that letter.â
âWeâdâve starved, Marsh. Youâre a good man, and youâve been as fine a father and husband as there is in Texas. But you and Dix and Marty and the others . . . you could never square off with Simpson.â
âI never backed away from a fight, Hannah,â Marsh said, his face growing bright scarlet. âYou seem to think Iâm not up to it.â
âNot to beatinâ Simpson, Marsh. To beat that old snake you need somebody whoâs not tied to the rules. Caulie will do whatâs necessary, no matter who comes to harm.â
âI thought thatâs why you asked him to leave.â
âIt is. Back then I needed a husband, a man whoâd stand by me, be there for the little ones. But just now we need Caulfield Blake, and Iâm glad heâs here.â
âSoâm I,â Zach said, joining them. âYou shouldâve seen him, Ma. He was everything Dix ever said. I rode with âem.â
âYou what!â she cried.
âHad to. They needed somebody to hold the horses. Ma, he rides like a general, all stiff and straight in the saddle. Heâs got a way . . . like nothinâ can hurt him. He misses us, too. I could tell.â
âHe couldâve gotten you killed, Zach!â Hannah complained. âI canât imagine