Widow Woman Read Online Free Page A

clean, but the office curtains were faded and the chair worn. The bunkhouse's stove might or might not offset breezes from a pair of loose-fitted windows, trio of doors and uncountable cracks.
    On the other hand, a pair of good-sized corrals and the fences around a barnyard where chickens pecked and a couple pigs rooted showed recent attention.
    Priorities on the Circle T were clear, even though Doyle Shagwell said they were so shorthanded they'd trailed cattle home from spring roundup in two trips. It took fewer men to hold a herd than to trail it, so they'd divided the herd, left a few hands to hold the second half and brought the first to Circle T range. Then they turned around to do it again—while other outfits had returned to their home ranches.
    The Circle T surely did need him. Him and a dozen more.
    He cursed under his breath.
    Hell, he should have kept riding. He didn't need the job, not really. Riding away might add to his mountain of sins, but what did it matter? No grains of good deeds could outweigh a mountain.
    "Nick, come get your string,” Shag shouted from the corral.
    He stepped off the porch, heading that way, still chewing on whether to saddle Brujo and head out
    "Just getting Davis and Henry here to saddle up, so I can show ‘em round a bit,” the gray-haired foreman said as Nick neared the fence. “That lot over there's yours."
    Nick followed Shag's nod toward five horses watching warily from a far corner of the corral. The horses had witnessed their fellows being roped—a sure sign of work to come—and they were on the lookout to avoid the same fate. One, a wiry gray, promised to be good for spelling Brujo. A buckskin Nick rated as better than most. The other three he'd examine more closely later. No outright crow bait, but nothing to match the stock in the barn.
    "Why don't you saddle up old Miner, Davis,” Shag suggested to the fair-haired youngster also hired on.
    Nick considered the horses allotted to the other new hands. When a foreman divvied up mounts there was no appeal. Getting a string of broomtails told a hand he wasn't much valued by the outfit. Also that his job would be a damned sight harder. From what Nick saw Shag made even selections, with Davis and Henry each getting one real likely-looking mount.
    The one called Miner, though, caught Nick's eye. As did the reaction of the two hands introduced as Joe-Max and Tommy, who'd assisted in the roping and now lingered on the outside of the corral fence as if expecting a show.
    A greenhorn show.
    Nick swung his regard to the big, deep-chested sorrel horse named Miner.
    He was fat and rested, with that edgy energy of a horse not ridden lately. Nick moved in, running a hand down his flank as if to gauge the animal. What he really wanted was to get near enough for a low-voiced question to gauge the human.
    "Done much riding, Andresson?"
    The youngster continued strapping the saddle on the apparently docile horse. “I've ridden."
    "Farm horses?"
    "So what. That don't—"
    Nick cut across the defensive answer. “Ever ridden a bucking horse?"
    That stilled the long-fingered hands and brought Andresson's head around. Blue eyes regarded him with surprise, abruptly replaced by understanding. And worry mixed with determination.
    Nick sighed.
    "Keep your feet firm in the stirrups, try to sit straight as you can and use your arm to balance. If you hold on to the horn, they'll rib you for pulling leather, but if it's a choice of grabbing hold or getting thrown, hold on like hell."
    Davis Andresson stared at him a second longer. “Okay,” he said gruffly. “Thanks."
    He fastened the final buckle before letting down the stirrups to accommodate his long, gangly legs. He took hold of the saddle horn, preparing to mount.
    Nick went to Miner's head, fiddling with the headstall to mask another low-voiced murmur. “If you get thrown, don't fight it. Roll. Get to your feet soon as you hit Understand?"
    "Yes, sir."
    The youngster swung a long leg over