The Fire in Ember - DiAnn Mills [1]
“Who’s gonna tell him, Ted?” Leon jutted out his chin. A breeze swept through the cottonwood’s treetops and picked up his tattered, flat-brimmed hat. Amidst the snickers, he chased after it, cussing like her brothers. He snatched up his hat and plopped it down over his head. “We’re doin’ him a favor and savin’ the marshal some time.”
“I’m not a part of this.” The old man offered a hand up to Bert, and she stood. “Sorry, boy. I tried.” He swung himself up onto his saddle. “You men ever been boys? Ever got yourself caught up in something you didn’t have any business doin'? This is murder, and you know it.” He headed south.
Her last hope rode away in the form of an old man named Ted. Leaving dirt clods behind him. She watched until the sound of his horse’s gallop faded away along with any hope. Regret for trying to save Simon from a hanging tightened like the noose around her neck.
Leon cursed again, then made his way to his horse. He pulled a bottle from his saddlebag, untwisted the lid, and took a swallow. “We’ll use the boss’s horse to hang him.”
Bert stole a look at the clear blue sky and the green-and-white-tipped Rockies in the distance. Her last look at anything on this earth. She inhaled the sweet scent of summer and cast her gaze toward the pink and yellow wildflowers scattered around them. As a child, she’d taken such wildflowers and woven them into crowns.
A hanging is no place for a woman.
Her brother’s words raced across her mind. Would it make any difference to these ranch hands if they knew she was a female?
John Timmons didn’t usually ride across his ranch without one of his brothers. But this morning was an exception. He’d saddled his chestnut stallion and left his ranch with too much on his mind to waste time talking. And with his horse’s wild temperament, riding alone made sense.
He breathed in appreciation for the green, rolling land surrounding him. Cattle and horses grazed in abundance. To the west, the Rocky Mountains stood guard over the valley. Definitely a blessing in any man’s vocabulary.
Four years ago, his widowed mother deeded the ranch to him and insisted their brand be changed to reflect John as the owner. Until then, the ranch was simply the ranch. He chose the name of 5T to reflect all of the Timmons brothers. The brand looked good on the livestock, and John continued to add calluses to his work-worn hands, just as he’d done since he was a fourteen-year-old.
Weeks later, the responsibility placed on his shoulders to look after his younger brothers on into manhood hit him like a bolt of lightning—there were four other Timmons boys who’d one day need a way to make a living. John woke up to the reality of what ranch ownership and a family meant and vowed to grow the 5T not only in cattle and horses, but in acreage. Since then, his Uncle Parker had sold him a bordering ranch, adding a total of a thousand acres to the 5T.
Most folks called him successful. Some called him a working fool. His brothers called him a slave driver when they thought he was out of earshot. Truth known, he claimed the title of a working fool. Ranching was all he knew, and all that mattered to keep food on the table and the cold off their backs.
He shook off the thoughts vying for the topic worrying him like a boil on his rear. He needed to add more land to the ranch.
In two weeks, Evan would be eighteen.
Aaron just had his sixteenth birthday.
Mark fell in right behind him at fourteen.
Davis, Mama’s baby, turned nine in April.
Of course, that didn’t mean all the boys planned on taking up ranching themselves. All the harping and preaching and lecturing about his brothers claiming an education seemed to be working. Or it might be that studyin’ sounded easier than mending fences or running down stray cows.
Except Mark. The boy loved the land like he did.
Evan liked doctoring animals — wanted to take care of them for the rest of his life. Aaron claimed he’d live in the city, and Davis never wanted to