The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(50)

And there in the narrow drive was a familiar yellow pickup.

Behind the cabin, two figures were sawing and hammering on a corral that was nearly finished. By then, I wasn’t surprised to see that one of them was Simon. The other was much slighter, wearing a tan cowboy hat.

Simon straightened as we approached. He spoke to the person with him, who looked briefly in our direction. Then he headed toward us across the meadow, Pal hard at his heels.

Simon’s hair shone nearly blond in the bright sun. He was bare chested, his work shirt knotted around his waist. As he walked, he loosened it, swung it around his shoulders and pulled it back on, but left it open in the heat.

“Come on up to the house!” he called. “I’ll get us some cool water.”

“Corral’s comin’ along,” Olin said as we dismounted.

“Couple more days, I figure.” Simon wiped his sunburned neck with a bandanna. “Sorry I’m not too presentable.”

“You’re a workin’ man,” said Olin. “Don’t apologize for lookin’ the part. We was out for a ride and figured to drop in.”

“Glad you did.”

Olin led his horse to a patch of shade on the far side of the house, then headed for the porch. I started to do the same with mine, when Simon fell in beside me.

“Here,” he said. “Let me.”

He took the reins from my hand and led Nastas to the same patch of shade. When he returned, he examined me curiously. “Your hair’s different, Joanna. Very becoming.”

I’d left it hanging loose this morning, held back with a band of ribbon. I could only imagine what a rat’s nest the ride had made of it.

“It could use a good combing,” I said.

“Looks better this way.”

“You’re an easy man to please, then. All a woman has to do is throw away her hairbrush.”

He laughed. Then he called out to Olin, still waiting for us on the porch: “Go on in, have a seat.”

The idea didn’t appeal to me. None of this did. I knew Olin meant well—pushing me out of my comfort zone, challenging me to be brave. But this was too far, too fast. This felt like an ambush.

“Olin, we can’t stay long,” I said.

“At least rest awhile on the porch,” said Simon. “I’ll get some water. The horses could use some, too. Davey can see to that.”

So that was Davey working on the corral—the boy whose very name at the barbecue a few weeks ago had stalled the conversation. From a distance he looked wiry and slim.

Simon called out for the boy to take the horses around back to the trough; then he brought a water pitcher and glasses to the porch table. Olin sank back in his chair. “All I need now’s a smoke,” he said.

“Can’t help you there, my friend,” said Simon. “Promised Jessie.”

“She’s right,” I said. “She’s worried about your health.”

Simon and Olin traded smiles, and I realized my foolishness—in Morro, did Olin really need to worry about the afflictions of tobacco smoke?

“What gets her is the smell,” Olin explained. “Says I should stick with a pipe. But she really took against cigarettes the night I burnt down the ol’ outhouse.”

“You didn’t.”

“It was years ago—burnt clear to the ground. Folks saw it from miles off and come to watch. Then they took to speculatin’ as to what caused it, and I said it all started with Jessie’s bean chili. She ain’t quite forgive me for that.”

I chuckled despite myself. “I can’t blame her. You insulted her cooking.”

“There’s chili cooks would consider it a compliment.”

“We use her recipe at the café,” Simon said. “Now you know why it’s called the ‘house’ chili.”

“No! Poor Jessie.”

“Naw, she thinks it’s a humdinger,” Olin said. “Just too proud to admit it.”

Simon drained his water glass. “Would you like to see the new horse? He’s out back.”

The meadow behind his cabin was covered with thick blue grama grass and wildflowers past our knees. It was an easy slope to the tree line, where the Mountain started to climb again. There was a raised vegetable garden and a small grove of apple trees, stacked rows of honeybee hives and a tall smokehouse on a stone foundation.

Davey stood at an outbuilding with our two horses, a water bucket at his feet.