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right to forget when it costs your employer money.” Nick turned on his heel and returned to the herd.
    "Kind of rough on the kid, weren't you?” Joe-Max asked hours later when he relieved Nick on night watch.
    "No.” He'd seen what hooves did to a body—that was his idea of rough.
    Joe-Max stroked the lush mustache that was his greatest pride. He'd been with the Circle T since they'd moved up from Platte River country. If he and Nick got to opposite sides of too many issues Nick didn't suppose he'd be picked to stay over Joe-Max.
    Finally, the other hand shrugged, and moved off. No one said anything more. But Nick noticed next time a herd ran, Davis did his part right.
    Yeah, riding herd on a green youngster as well as cattle could keep a man busy. Even around the home ranch Nick kept busy. Too busy to catch more than glimpses of the Circle T's owner, to pass more than pass a word of greeting, to come closer than the far end of the long table at meals.
    If the image of Rachel Terhune rode along with him over the endless, rolling ground, if it settled in beside him in the bunkhouse, it was nobody's business but his own. And nobody's fault but his own ... and perhaps that rattle-mouthed bartender who'd sent him to the Circle T.
    * * * *
    After breakfast Nick stowed two cans of tomatoes, some beans and coffee in his bags, and tied his slicker and bedroll behind Brujo's saddle in preparation to follow Shag's orders to look over the branding pens they'd start using next week, and to repair what needed it.
    Most outfits waited for fall to catch calves missed in the general spring roundup. But if you had doubts of the other outfits branding with you in spring, summer branding could trim losses. He wondered if the Circle T's summer branding had anything to do with the unexpectedly high losses from last winter Shag had mentioned.
    "Nick!"
    He turned at the foreman's shout to see Shag and Rachel crossing the yard. He went ahead and mounted.
    Otherwise he might have been tempted to spend the time waiting for them by watching the Widow Terhune. She had a way of walking. No prissy little steps like some women. Purposeful, but graceful. It set the split skirts she wore swaying. And that hint of movement had him thinking on what might be hidden with an uncomfortable amount of interest He twisted around as if a bedroll tie needed attending.
    "Nick, we want a word with you,” Shag started.
    Nick's eyes slid to Rachel. She seldom looked as if she wanted a word with him. Mostly she looked as if she wished he'd disappear. Right now was no exception.
    "We've been talking it over,” the foreman went on, “and with branding coming up and all, I'll need somebody else out there giving orders, official like, so everybody knows what's what. We'd like that to be you."
    "How about the others?” A newcomer set up as boss might rouse ill feeling. He didn't mind for himself, but the Circle T needed all its hands pulling together.
    "Shouldn't be a problem. They've taken to you. And when Bert Overton—that's the hand who had the job before—went over to Thomas Dunn, nobody asked about stepping up. I think they'll know you're the one who can handle it. We know that's the way of it."
    Nick figured Shag's statements went for only half of that “we” he kept throwing around. As if feeling his look, Rachel raised her head and met his eyes. Hers held a belligerent glitter.
    "There'd be no more pay with this,” she declared.
    "Chell...” Shag's protest died quickly. Nick figured the old man knew he'd dragged her about as far she'd go.
    Nick crossed his arms and leaned forward over the saddle horn, enjoying himself.
    "No, ma'am, didn't expect there would be."
    "All right then. Shag will tell the others and it'll take effect with calf branding."
    "Yes'm,” he said, with no attempt at meekness or gratitude, and the grin still in place as he turned Brujo and headed out.
    Shag's exasperated grunt trailed after him. “Chell, what's got into you?"
    * * *