The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1) Brad Dennison (top 10 books to read .txt) 📖

to the ranch. Tell him who you are. Go meet your father.”

“You think I should?”

Hunter nodded. “Absolutely.”

Dusty shrugged. “Well, I guess my horse is already saddled..,”

“Would you like me to saddle up and ride out with you?”

Dusty took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as he tossed Hunter’s offer about in his head. “No. I think this is something I’ve got to do for my own self. But thanks. Thanks for everything.”

Dusty extended his hand. Hunter took it in a firm grasp and said, “Good luck,”

Dusty nodded, and headed for the door. He stepped out into the growing night. He felt a little uneasy with apprehension, but no longer afraid.

He swung into the saddle, and turned his horse toward the trail that led to the McCabe ranch.

PART FIVETHE SIEGE EIGHTEEN

Dusty reined up in front of the porch.

Well, this is it, he thought, finding the odd combination of anticipation, hesitance, and just a touch of fear that had filled him outside his mother’s room back in Baker’s Crossing filling him once again.

It was now fully dark. The parlor windows were alive with the low, undulating glow of a fire in the hearth. And he knew they knew he was out here, or at least that a rider was. A man like Johnny McCabe could hardly be unaware. He had taken the small horse trail behind Hunter’s that came out at the woods a quarter mile or so from the house. Even so, the sound of an iron shod hoof on the sod makes a little sound, and Dusty had no doubt his father knew a rider had approached the house. Dusty would have known.

He sat in the saddle, looking at the house. The light of the quarter moon gave the log-built walls a kind of dark grayish color. He thought about calling out, “Hello, the house!” Then, thought better of it. Even though it was considered the accepted way to approach a stranger’s house, he had met Miss Brackston, a civilized woman, and doubted she would consider such a greeting appropriate.

He decided the civilized thing to do would be to knock on the door.

He swung out of the saddle, gave the rein a couple turns about the hitching rail, then climbed the steps to the porch.

He felt suddenly so inadequately prepared. Here he was, still in his buckskin shirt, his Peacemaker riding low at his right side. Three days worth of whiskers were on his jaw. He should have been freshly bathed and shaved, and in a clean, broad cloth shirt. He looked like a scout, fresh from the mountains.

And he really had no idea what to say. Hello, I’m you’re son? Or, hello, Mister McCabe. I bet you can’t guess who I am. Or, I understand we have a mutual acquaintance, a certain Rose Callahan, from Nevada.

No, he decided he would just have to play-it-by-ear.

Oh, God. This is it. This was the home of the family he belonged to, yet didn’t. This was the place he wanted to call home. What if they didn’t believe him? What if they did, but didn’t want him here? What if..?

He forced away the questions, clearing his mind before he talked himself into turning around, hopping on his horse and getting the hell out of here.

He raised a fist and knocked.

The door opened. It was the boy. His brother, Josh. Josh wasn’t not wearing a hat, and his long yellow hair seemed to shine almost white in the firelight. He was still wearing his gunbelt.

“Good evening’,” Dusty said.

“Oh,” Josh said with surprise. “The guy who works for Hunter. Dusty, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, don’t just stand out there in the night. Come on in.”

Dusty stepped in, feeling suddenly very awkward, conscious of a sudden clumsiness in his feet as the heels of his boots clumped along on the floor. He pulled the hat from his head.

“Pa,” Josh said, looking over to the hearth.

A man stood up and walked over. It was he. Johnny McCabe. Maybe two inches taller than Josh, his shoulders a bit wider. As he stepped forward, even though the lighting was dim, furnished only by the fire, Dusty could see the square jaw. And the way he moved, the set of his shoulders. It was how he himself might look at forty.

“Pa, this is Dusty. He helped Hunter out here that night, before I got back from the line shack.”

“Dusty. Good to meet you.” McCabe said, extending his hand. Firm grip. “Thanks for all you did.

“So, what brings you out?” Josh said.

“Uh..,” Dusty wasn’t sure where to begin. “I know it’s late. I’m sorry about ridin’ out here at this hour.”

Then, Miss Brackston rose from a rocker by the hearth. The spectacles resting on her nose caught a shard of firelight like prisms. “Josh, for God’s sake, light a lamp, will you? We cannot entertain company in a darkened room like this.”

“Yes’m.” Josh returned to the hearth where two lamps stood on the mantel. He lifted the globe of each lamp and touched the match to the wick. Soon they were each glowing a pale yellow, sending shadows retreating to the far corners of the room.

Again, for the lack of nothing else to say in his sudden discomfort and awkwardness, but feeling compelled to say something, anything, Dusty said, “Sorry to be ridin’ out at this hour.”

“Think nothing of it,” she said. “In fact, I was expecting you within the next few days.”

Johnny McCabe looked at her questioningly, but she ignored him, refusing to meet his gaze. “Please, come and sit down.”

Josh was standing by the hearth, his arms folded, watching as Dusty walked across the floor to the sofa. The dark-haired girl who was his sister, Bree, was sitting at the far end of the sofa.

“Good evening, Miss Bree,” he said.

“Hi, Dusty.”

Miss Brackston returned to her rocking chair. McCabe returned to the chair he had risen from, but he was now looking with curiosity from the woman to Dusty.

Aunt Ginny said, “Would you like some coffee? I’m sure some of