Widow Woman by Patricia McLinn Page A

returned to Armstrong's office. “Before the heavy snows."
    "I'll handle the transaction as expeditiously as possible, of course, but I can't guarantee—"
    "Before the heavy snows,” he repeated implacably as he headed to the door. There he paused long enough to look back at Armstrong. “I don't like people talking about my business. Not to anyone. You understand?"
    "Of course. It's my policy—"
    Nick closed the door on the other man's protestations. He'd already seen what he wanted in the pale blue eyes—Armstrong might want to curry favor with Thomas Dunn, but not as much as he wanted to protect his own hide. And he was now convinced that crossing Nick Dusaq would put his hide in jeopardy.

Chapter Five
    Every last soul on the Circle T had worked all season to get to fall roundup. Now it was here.
    It was a farewell for most hands before they settled into a well-earned but decidedly dull winter's hibernation.
    It was the culmination of strain and struggle to baby a herd spread over territory big enough to swallow a county back East, and to baby it so well they lost none of the thousand-pound persnickety bundles of beef on the hoof.
    It was the time they would judge how well they had succeeded. It was the time they would put the weight of their labors on one side of the scale and discover how much gold would balance it.
    It was Judgment Day spread over a fortnight.
    For a week, they'd been cutting out market beef from cows and their calves, yearlings or animals too old to bring top dollar, and gathering a sizable and impressive herd to trail to the railhead over the border in Nebraska.
    "You figure another day, Shag?” Nick asked as they sat their horses, side by side, watching the quiet herd.
    A line of clouds near the horizon wore night's colors, but around them the sinking sun proclaimed its strength by shooting rays of brilliance even as it retreated.
    Smells from Fred's fire rose tantalizingly, but neither moved from this vantage point, both weary, dusty and content from a long day's work. Nick had another cause to delay going to camp—Mrs. Terhune.
    It seemed he couldn't come near the woman without the rein on his tongue fraying like a rope in a fire. He'd done his best to stay away. That hadn't been easy with her working roundup alongside the hands, but encounters during their predawn-to-dusk workdays didn't ruffle him overmuch.
    At night, though, when she slipped away from the crowd around the fire, he fought to curb his eyes from noting her path, and his feet from following. So far, he'd succeeded. Still, sleep didn't come easy, despite the long days.
    "Two days,” Shag said. “We could push it, but that'd tire the men and the horses more. Weather looks to hold. We'll finish here tomorrow, sweep that last area morning after next, then start the trail the day after that."
    Nick grunted. The foreman was right about the weariness of the men and horses. He hoped Shag had the right of it with the weather, too.
    Certainly today had been exceptionally fine, with the sky bright and blue, and the air with a crisp bite.
    Shag tipped his head and considered the sky.
    "The sun don't reach down to these old bones the way it used to.” He shook his head in bemusement. “Maybe Ruth's got the right of it. When I start to feeling the cold when the sun's shining and the first snow ain't come, maybe I am getting to be an old man."
    Nick knew better than to disagree with Ruth Shagwell in her husband's hearing—or in this case to agree with her, either. He held silent.
    "Ruth's niece in Chelico wants us to come live with her and her brood.” Shag grimaced. “Well, a man can get used to anything, I suppose. But I'm not leaving the Circle T the way things stand now. Rachel Terhune's a strong woman, but she needs someone to rely on. Someone who's not after her land, not after getting her to marry up. Someone willing to work hard and do what's right."
    Nick felt his face go rigid. Brujo shifted restively, the saddle creaking