Chapter 5: Sunday Dinner

The Culbertson ranch house sat at the end of a six-mile road, under a ridge of dark pines.

It was a long log house with a green tin roof and a porch the width of a small church.

Past it were barns, corrals, a bunkhouse and more fence than I could count.

"Eleven thousand acres," Boone said as he parked.

"Eleven thousand," I said. "I own a toaster."

"It's a good toaster?"

"It's a very good toaster."

He smiled, and my fear eased for a moment.

Maxine Culbertson's dining table sat twelve.

There were nine of us.

An old man in a battered brown hat took the chair beside me, nodded once, and said nothing.

"Orrin Sykes," Boone said. "Runs the place when I let him."

"When he lets me," Orrin corrected, and passed me the potatoes.

Dalton sat across from me with his fiancee beside him.

She did not look at me.

She looked at her plate.

Maxine sat at the head of the table and let the silence stretch until it creaked.

"Cassie Finch," she said. "Where are your people?"

"Spokane. My mother passed three years ago."

"And your father?"

"I never met him."

"What do you do?"

"I wait tables at Peg's."

"What do you want from my son?"

The fork stopped in Orrin's hand.

"Nothing," I said.

Maxine raised one iron eyebrow.

"Nothing is a very large word."

"Then I'll be smaller," I said.

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