The brothers got along fine; they just preferred to live separately. The arrangement suited them. There’d been a third brother, Casey, but he’d died at the age of twelve of a ruptured appendix. Doc Lake had seen to him when Jake Winslow had rushed him to town, after pooh-poohing the severity of the boy’s “bellyache,” but it was too late. Casey had died four days later of the massive infection that had set in, and the loss of her middle son had hastened Macy Winslow’s decline. She’d suffered for many years from a sort of mysterious palsy that incapacitated her. No one knew exactly what it was, but one day, about two months after Casey’s death, Macy had gone down for a nap in the afternoon of a bright spring day and had never woken up.

The neighbors had talked. It was a small community, Glory and the surrounding farm and ranch district. People had wondered at the sudden death of a woman in midlife who only trembled a bit, enough that she couldn’t hold a teacup steady. There were whispers of suicide—not just because of Macy’s losing a son like that but having to live with a man like Jake Winslow. A hard man. Some said a violent an.

But the doctor’s certificate had read “unknown natural causes” and that was good enough, as far as the remaining Winslows were concerned. She’d been buried in the churchyard up on the prairie, a church that only she of all the Winslows had ever attended. There was singing at the grave site and purple martins looped overhead as Macy McAffrey Winslow was lowered into the rich brown prairie soil. It was the only time, outside of his wedding, that Jake Winslow had ever been seen at church. Six months later, he’d sold his interest in the ranch to his brother-in-law, Brandis McAffrey, Macy’s half brother, and had disappeared. No one knew if he was dead or alive.

Since then Noah and Jesse and their Uncle Brandis-until his death-had been running the Lazy SB. Neither Noah nor Jesse ever talked about the disappearance of their father. Not many people in the area believed he was missed, even by his two boys.

Neither had married. Nor had Uncle Brandis ever married. Noah was close to his mid-thirties and Jesse was twenty-seven. If Casey had lived, he’d be thirty-one.

SPRING HAD COMB early to the northern range this year. By late March, the snow had cleared or blown away and most of the newborn calves had a pleasant and peaceful introduction to the world on the Lazy SB. No blizzards. No sudden March northwesters bringing freezing rain. No deep winter snow on the ground to weary the lumbering mothers. Noah and Jesse had ridden the range all month, watching for cows with problems. There’d been a few, but this year they’d lost fewer calves than ever before. Noah was pleased. A dead calf was money lost on a working ranch. Not just the loss of what the calf would have brought, as a feeder or a finished steer, but money lost in feeding the mother for a year without a calf to show for it. Ranch economics were tough and tight.

By the third week in March, Noah figured most of the calving was done. The few cows that hadn’t given birth yet were down in the lower field, close to the ranch so that either he or Jesse or Carl Divine, their foreman, could go out and check on them occasionally.

Other ranching and farming tasks were approaching. Seed to get in from Regina for the hay crops he was experimenting with this year. Bulls to examine for health problems and get into condition before turning them out with the cows in July. Roundup to organize, maybe mid-May this year, depending on the weather. Branding to follow, along with inoculating, castrating, dehorning, worming and all the other hundred and one jobs a rancher had to keep up with to look after his cattle properly.

The weather so far was just about perfect. You couldn’t ask for a finer spring day. As Noah left Carl in the barn checking veterinary supplies and walked up to the house to get some lunch, he noticed his brother turning into the yard. Jesse didn’t stop at his own bungalow, but continued on up Noah’s driveway.

Noah waved briefly, then walked into the house to start the coffee machine, which he usually got ready before he left the house in the morning. He opened the refrigerator. Bologna or ham or leftover roast beef? He pulled out the sliced ham and began to gather the makings of the rest of his sandwich. Maybe make extra, in case Jesse hadn’t eaten.

Lettuce, pickles, mustard, mayonnaise, cheese slices, a few chunks of raw onion, a tomato slice or two, more pickles—the entire creation topped with a couple of peperoncini peppers and a dab of horseradish. Now that was a sandwich, Noah thought with satisfaction.

Jesse came in without knocking and sat heavily at the kitchen table.

Noah glanced at his brother. “You eat?”

“Not yet.”

“Sandwich? Carl’s down at the barn.”

“Sure.” Jesse sighed and Noah spared him another glance before topping the three sandwiches he’d made with a thick slice of Glory Bakery bread. He leaned down on each sandwich gently, just enough to make it all stick together and not topple off before he could wrap one up for Carl and take the other two to the table for him and Jesse. He’d planned to eat down at the barn with his foreman, but now that Jesse was here, he might as well stay up at the house and eat with him.

He set the plate on the table, pushing aside the week’s accumulation of magazines and newspapers. His brother hadn’t even taken off his hat, which was unusual. He hadn’t said another word, either. Noah walked back to the refrigerator and pulled out a couple of cans of beer. He popped the tab on his as he returned to the table.

“Beer?”

“I could use one,” Jesse said, reaching for his can and popping the tab, too. “Thanks.” He took a long draft and wiped his mustache with the back of his hand. Noah noticed a letter sticking out of the pocket of his brother’s shirt. The letter had been opened.

The two men ate their sandwiches in silence for five minutes. Then Noah decided to cut to the chase. “I thought you weren’t coming home from town until later this afternoon. That barbed wire the coop ordered come in early?”

He knew Jesse didn’t have the barbed wire, the pickup hadn’t ridden as though it had a load in the back. Still, no way was he coming straight out and asking—that wasn’t how the men in his world did things. Not men who loved cowboying and the independent life above all, men like him and Jesse. A man was generally his own boss, whether he worked for wages or not. A man worth his grub and his paycheck knew what needed doing without being told.

“Nope.” Jesse drained his beer. “Didn’t get it yet. I, ah, I had some news in town.”

Noah regarded him for a second or two. “News?” He bit into his sandwich.

“Got a letter today.” Jesse patted his chest pocket and frowned.

“Girlfriend?”

“This is no joke, Noah.” Jesse swore softly under his breath. “No joke at all.”

“Well, you’d better tell me then. Save me guessing. I got work to do this afternoon.”

His brother heaved another sigh and stood up to retrieve the pickle jar from the fridge. “You recall that exhibition I went to last fall in Minnesota? Me ‘n’ Barney?” he asked as he stabbed into the jar with a fork.

“Sure do. Got two blue ribbons for those young bulls sired by Mack. Grand champ and reserve.” Mack was the pet name Noah had for Macintosh Millicent Merrigoldas Blazes, the top bull on the ranch, the five-year-old Noah would have mortgaged his soul to acquire. He hadn’t had to, luckily, and Mack had turned out even better than he’d dreamed. Blood will out, old Brandis used to say. Blood and breeding.

“Well, I met a woman down there.” Jesse screwed the lid back on the pickle jar and pushed it to the center of the table.

Noah stared at his brother. He looked unhappy. This wasn’t like Jesse. Was he in love? Women were nothing new to him; he had women falling all over him wherever he went.