“She shook out her saddle blanket and draped it over the cantle to air. Next, she wiped her bit and bridle and put them away, then she hesitated in the doorway. Overhead, wild pigeons cooed as they strolled the big wooden beams. Sweetheart, Gram’s aged pinto, made careful chewing noises, using worn, old teeth to grind her grain. Dad sat on a hay bale in the middle of the barn, waiting. Dad was rarely still. There was always work to do, he said, but Sam remembered how Dallas, their foreman, had d...escribed Dad when he was polishing leather to a high sheen. Peaceful as a church, Dal had said. That was how her father looked right now. Dad hadn’t turned on the overhead light in the barn. He just sat there, face shaded by his gray Stetson, hands linked and hanging between his knees, as he watched Sweetheart enjoy her feed. He looked so contented, Sam regretted what she had to do. Maybe she wouldn’t tell him. At least not everything. She’d show him the note, but not mention the gunman. That thought made her stomach tighten.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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