Rocky Mountain Maverick. Gayle Wilson

realized, he hadn’t seen a single sheep.

      Quarrels roared around the last curve with a shower of gravel, pulling the truck into the yard outside the main cabin. A man stood in its open doorway. His eyes, narrowed against the smoke wafting upward from the cigarette he held cupped in his hand, followed the two of them as they got out of the pickup and walked across the expanse of worn, patchy grass.

      “Sal Johnson,” Quarrels said, indicating the man in the door with a forward motion of his head. “This here’s McAdams. What’d you say your first name was?”

      “Mac’ll do,” Michael said, nodding to the cowboy with the cigarette.

      Small and wiry, Johnson looked like dozens of other hands he’d known growing up. Skin burned to a wrinkled mahogany by a combination of wind and sun. Eyes perpetually squinted against its glare, even when it wasn’t in the sky. Body stripped of every ounce of fat by the work he did.

      “Pleased to meet’cha.” Johnson threw the stub of his cigarette into the yard and stepped back, making room for them to come by him.

      The central room of the cabin was the office, dominated by a battered old desk piled high with circulars and paperwork. Quarrels led the way through it, entering the hallway to the living quarters. There were three bedrooms off the hall, two on one side and one on the other, Quarrels pointed out as they passed the closed doorways.

      The dining room at the end of the passage held one long table. The bar behind it was topped by a service window to the kitchen.

      There a heavyset man, cigarette dangling from his lips, stirred something in a metal pot. He made no acknowledgment of their presence, despite the sound their boots made on the wooden floor.

      “Still early,” Quarrels said, heading for the seat at the end of the table.

      Rank hath its privilege, Michael thought, amused by that assumption of power. He hesitated a moment, wondering if the other places were also spoken for.

      “You can sit anywhere,” the foreman advised, ending that speculation.

      Michael deliberately chose a seat in the middle of the far side of the table, knowing, even as he did so, that most people would probably have sat down on the nearer side. He wanted to watch the rest of the hands assemble, however. To have a chance to observe them before they were aware they’d been joined by a newcomer.

      Johnson, the one who’d been standing in the doorway when they arrived, entered the dining hall almost as soon as Michael sat down, followed closely by an older cowboy. That man extended his hand across the table before he took his seat.

      “Ralph Mapes.”

      “McAdams,” Michael said. “Call me Mac.”

      A metal bell tolled somewhere outside, interrupting the brief conversation.

      “Warning bell,” Quarrels said. “Means you got three minutes before cook serves it up.”

      Michael nodded. Johnson took a saltine out of the narrow basket in the middle of the table, chewing it with serious concentration. Nobody else said anything. After a minute or so a group of four entered almost at the same time, settling rapidly into the remaining places at the table.

      None of them introduced themselves as Mapes had done. And none of them paid him any overt attention. There were a couple of sidelong glances, eyes skating quickly away if they made contact with his.

      The last person to enter was a lanky kid who looked as if he couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. By the time he got to the table, the only available chair was next to Michael. The boy slipped into it almost furtively, as if he expected someone to object.

      His arrival seemed to be the signal. The cook, cigarette still between his lips, appeared, holding the metal pan by its handle. He set it down on the edge of the table and began ladling chili con carne from it into the bowls stacked in front of Quarrels.

      As each was filled, it was passed along the table. A couple of the hands had picked up their spoons, holding them while they awaited their portion. Everyone began eating as soon as he was served.

      Passing each serving to the kid beside him gave Michael an opportunity to observe him. His hands, visible as they took the bowls, bore silent witness to the work he did.

      The knuckles were scuffed and reddened. Grime was embedded in the creases and around the rims of ragged nails. The plaid shirt he wore looked too large, with the ends of the cuffs resting low on the back of his hands.

      The boy kept his eyes downcast, focused on the contents of the dishes he accepted. He never once looked up at the stranger beside him. Although the bowls were brimming with hot chili, there was something about his studied disinterest that seemed peculiar. Especially in a kid.

      Almost all that was visible of him was a droop of long, mouse-colored hair, which hung down over his eyes and ears, and the rounded curve of a cheek. As Michael watched, a slow flood of color moved under the tanned skin, revealing that the boy knew he was being observed.

      Based on what he saw, Michael revised his original estimate of the kid’s age downward a couple of years. Runaway? he wondered.

      This would certainly be the ideal hiding place for someone who was determined not to be found. And it was always possible it wasn’t the kid’s parents that he was hiding from. Men dodging warrants frequently joined that itinerate brotherhood who followed seasonal work across the West.

      Quarrels hadn’t inquired too closely into his credentials this afternoon. Based on Michael’s previous experience with ranch hands, there were probably at least a couple seated at this table who couldn’t afford any scrutiny from law enforcement. Running fingerprints from this bunch might prove to be an interesting exercise.

      Despite his conviction that Colleen had sent him out here as some kind of occupational therapy, he realized that he was beginning to take this assignment seriously. Hardly surprising, since “seriously” had always been the only way he knew how to operate.

      He turned to pass the last bowl to the boy. Only when he had did he realize the kid was already bent low over his serving of chili, spooning it into his mouth with a rapidity that spoke of real hunger.

      As Michael held out the bowl, the kid turned to look at it before he finally raised his eyes to Michael’s face. The deep, clear blue of a summer sky, they locked on his for maybe two seconds before they were returned to the serious business of eating.

      The force of their impact, however, had been like an electric shock. Michael continued to hold out the bowl long after that contact was broken, trying to understand what had just happened.

      When he placed the chili on the table in front of him, he was grateful for the excuse it gave to lower his head. As he did, he tried to reconstruct what he had seen in the kid’s eyes.

      Maybe it had been the directness of that stare, or the surprise of the color against the wind-burned skin. He felt as if some unspoken connection had been made. Or at least attempted.

      “McAdams here’s the new man,” Quarrels said, speaking around a mouthful. “Starts tomorrow. Beaumont, you show him what to do.”

      Only Mapes looked up. The others continued to shovel chili into their mouths. Michael wondered which of them was Beaumont, and how much help he could expect with the blood samples they were going to be taking.

      Across the table, Sal Johnson pushed back his chair. He picked up his empty bowl and utensils and carried them toward the kitchen. He didn’t return with seconds as Michael had anticipated. Instead, after he’d deposited his dishes, he crossed the dining hall to disappear down the hall.

      The ritual was repeated, as one by one the men returned their dishes to the kitchen and left. The kid was maybe the third or fourth to depart. Eventually only Charlie Quarrels and Ralph Mapes remained.

      “I do something wrong?” Michael asked.

      Mapes looked up to grin at him even as he scraped the last bite of chili out of his bowl.