The reins sat easy in Hoss’ hands. Beau and Peep knew the route as fair well as he, with temperaments as easy to boot, which was a kindness. The usual late summer rains in this part of Shadow was as scarce as an Alliance lawman; tempers was fraying for man and beast alike.

Hoss wiped the dust and sweat from his forehead, then snuck a look over at Malcolm. Usual, the boy was as wriggly as a puppy; full of a hundred and one questions. Nature of an eight year old. But today? Sitting still as could be, brow scrunched up like he was thinking something fierce. For once, Hoss could hear the soft jangle of the tack, the creak of the wagon. Smart thing’d be to leave well ‘nough alone, but that just wasn’t the way of anyone on the Reynolds’ ranch, hands included.

"Cat got your tongue, boy?"

Malcolm started, blinking and rubbing the heel of his hand across his forehead. "Nah, Hoss. Just thinking."

The boy sure took after his pa. "'Bout what?"

"How come we’re bringing hay to the Quilleran place?" asked Malcolm, serious as could be.

"They ain’t got any. Their barns burned down," Hoss explained, leaving out the part that it wasn’t no act of God, but likely the Weston boys. Damn shame 'bout their ma. Nothing but wilding since her death.

Malcolm’s mouth opened and closed once, twice, thrice, with nothing coming out.

"Gonna catch flies that way."

Coloring up, Malcolm blurted out, "But we ain’t got near enough for our cattle."

"Where’d you hear that?" Hoss asked, keeping his voice neutral.

"Heard Pete tell Jimmy. He said the summer’s been too dry. Crop’s all sickly."

"That so?" Hoss’d need to remind Pete that little pitchers have big ears.

"Yeah. It’s so." Malcolm’s arms crossed over his chest. "So why we bringing hay if we ain’t got enough for ourselves?"

Looking out to the horizon, where the haze shimmered bright, Hoss answered without hesitation. "Cuz it’s her way."

The boy’s face was a wash of confusion. Didn’t even need to ask why.

Hoss spoke slow, choosing his words careful-lik