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ranch, fair and square.”
    She flinched at that and tightened her lips, reminding him that even this woman with no expectations had a tender heart.
    “I have them at the Bar Dot, and I’ll give them to you,” he said.
    “I thank you for that.” And then she completely betrayed herself by lowering her eyes and dabbing at them in the most casual way, perhaps thinking he might believe she was just flicking off dust. “Is there one of a beautiful woman?”
    “Yes’m. You’ll have it.”
    She gave herself a little shake, as if daring him to comment on the tears that made her brown eyes look liquid. “I would like to see Bismarck, if you please.”
    They walked from the house toward the barn. He couldn’t help himself as he ran his hand along the rope stretched between the two buildings, testing it for tautness, wondering if Manuel was going to be equal to the winter he knew was coming.
    He had to admire the barn. He had stuffed it with hay, cut from his fields when all his work was done on the Bar Dot. Mr. Buxton had unnecessarily warned him that he was foreman of the Bar Dot first, and rancher second. Jack knew that. Every penny of his salary went for hay he contracted from the few farmers in the area. No one had a good harvest that year, which meant that stunted corn, blasted by the wind, came his way too. What he couldn’t cram in the barn, he and Manuel had piled into stacks and covered with canvas, anchoring them down against Wyoming wind. Would it be enough?
    He gestured toward his summer-long efforts. “I am a source of real amusement to every stockman I know,” he told Miss Carteret. “ ‘Hey, reb, why don’t you let that overgrown pile of beef and tallow graze with all the rest?’ they joke. I keep my head down and my mouth shut. It has been my pattern.”
    Miss Carteret nodded. “Mine too.” She put her hand on his arm, which startled him, although he liked it for the split second she did it. “After a while, people forget to tease, and you just blend in.”
    He nodded, impressed with Miss Carteret, and walked her to a fenced pasture, where Bismarck cropped whatever ground cover he could find. His massive head went up and he began a slow, nearly regal progress to the fence. He didn’t look around, but his harem moved along in his wake, as he must have known they would.
    “Goodness, does he know you?” Miss Carteret asked.
    “We shared a cattle car on the train from Cheyenne. I expect he does.”
    Miss Carteret had draped her arms over the top fence rail. He enjoyed her smile, relieved that she didn’t seem to be dwelling on the ranch that should have been her father’s.
    “Mr. Sinclair, if I get homesick for England, which I doubt I will, I will visit this pasture,” she told him. “I’ve seen many cows like this one. Is he dangerous?”
    “Most probably. I kept him tethered to an iron chain in the railcar, and I don’t take chances now.” He patted the wooden fence. “I made it stronger than most.”
    But there Bismarck stood, curious, with a gleam of intelligent capability in his eyes. Jack touched his big head. “His lady friends will each have a calf, come early March. Slow and sure, I’ll get a herd of . . . Hairifords.” He laughed, a self-conscious sound. “If it won’t ruffle your sensibilities, I’ll keep calling them Herferds. No sense in giving the boys even more to laugh about.”
    Miss Carteret walked behind his house while he gave a few orders to Manuel, plus the promised peppermints. He questioned Manuel about the general condition of the privy, but the old man only shrugged. “It’s just a privy,” he said.
    Jack knew Miss Carteret was too much of a lady to comment on the primitive facilities, but she surprised him. As he helped her up to the wagon seat again, she said to some imaginary person standing just beyond his left ear. “Only my father would have put a chairback in a necessary. He does like his little comforts.”
    Jack laughed out loud. His good