Sorrel Moon by Cotton Smith

Author:Cotton Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gale, Cengage Learning
Published: 2014-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 21

At the Rocking R ranch, Reverend Dinclaur rose from his bed. He couldn’t sleep, even though it was the middle of the night. He paced the main room, keeping stride with the heavy snoring of his stepfather in the next room and a dozen gunmen stretched out through the house. Jinnette was sleeping alone in the remaining bedroom.

The rest of Tiorgs’s outlaws filled the bunkhouse. None were watching the meager Rocking R herd. Tiorgs didn’t care; the men were hired to help get rid of Bar K riders at the right time. Dinclaur liked the idea of a major ambush, destroying them in one deadly trap.

His left ear itched and that meant someone was talking about him. Maybe it was the lonely widow in town; she wanted male company badly. Or maybe it was Cole Kerry. No, that didn’t make sense, he told himself.

He stopped and looked at the gray fireplace and scolded himself for worrying too much. The resumption of the sexual relationship with Jinette Six had been satisfying, even though they had been quiet with Tiorgs and the other outlaws sleeping.

Drawn to the large stone fireplace, he stood next to it, studying the gray ashes. His mother could read divination in ashes, but he never could. His superstitious ways had come from her. He had no idea who his father was, other than he had been a drunken railroad executive. His mother had never mentioned him. She died years ago, leaving him, his brother and sister considerable wealth they hadn’t expected.

Taking an iron poker from its stand, he jabbed at the still ashes with greater energy than he felt. Tiny flames responded eagerly and soon he had a good fire going again, with the addition of two logs. Warmth began working its way through the room. He watched the flames. If the fire blazed, it meant a stranger was coming. That could mean Cole Kerry. Only he wasn’t a stranger. No, wait. The supersitition was true only if the blaze brightened when a crock was hung. He looked again. If the fire burned only on one side, a stranger was coming. The fire’s blaze was even. Still, he watched it. His mother had told him that each orange flame was a different spirit. Each was important and could tell him much. He believed, but never could read, what they were saying. That was his mother’s gift.

He turned away from the fireplace and looked about the room. The fire’s glow had made shadows retreat to the corners. Nothing had been changed inside the comfortable ranch house since Tiorgs took ownership. Only the family photographs were gone, taken when the Russians left. A large desk, controlling the west wall, was crowded with newspapers. One of Heredith Tiorgs’s passions was reading. As long as it didn’t interfere with the Scotsman’s work, Dinclaur didn’t mind.

An old rose-colored sofa and a table for eating governed the rest of the room. Last night’s supper dishes were strewn across its uneven surface. The only non-gunman on the ranch was the cook.

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