"Whatever. That big place and nothing to work it but women; I pity you. I'd offer you lunch, but I'm too busy to make it, and Virgil's hopeless. My girl is out at her parents' place this weekend."
"Thanks anyway, Michael, but it's going to be a long way back. The horses are tired, so they'll have to walk most of the way."
"Thank you, Major Flanagan," Valentine said, offering his hand. Flanagan ignored it.
"Thank my brother-in-law and his wife, not me. Guess they want a bunch of little half-breeds as grandchildren. Up to me, I'd take you to the Order building and let you wait for the next thirsty blacktooth, seeing as you don't have a work card and you're in Triumvirate lands."
Carlson made a flick of a motion with his chin. Valentine moved past the sleeping dogs and out the door, followed by his benefactor. Flanagan tossed away his cheroot and returned to the papers strewn across his desk.
Outside, the horses were very thirsty. Ames was poking in the picnic basket.
"Virgil, please take that in, will you? We'll water the horses ourselves. The pies are for Michael, and Gwen put in a jar of preserves for you. She remembers your sweet tooth."
The smile-sneer appeared again. "That was kind of her. You know where the trough is. I'll bring the basket back out to you."
As Carlson and Valentine brought the horses over to the trough, Alan spoke softly to Valentine. "See what I mean by Major Asshole?"
Valentine clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Seems like he's trying hard for a promotion to colonel."
That evening, after the long ride back, the Carlsons celebrated the "legitimate" arrival of their guests. Even the Breit-lings attended, filling the dinner table past its capacity. As they made small talk, Valentine drew on his memories as a forester in the Boundary Waters to flesh out his David Saint Croix persona.
Valentine ate at Mrs. Carlson's end of the table, across from Molly, grateful for the room the corner chair gave his left elbow. Frat sat on his right, eating with the single-minded voracity of a teenager. The Breitlings were next to Mr. Carlson at the other end of the table, with the younger Carlson girl, Mary. Gonzalez stayed in his bunk in the basement, still too weak to socialize. Mrs. Carlson explained his absence to the Breitlings as being due to illness and a fall from his horse during the journey south.
During the dinner, Carlson told stories about his summer labor, mixed with fictitious ones about how he came to know "young Saint Croix here." Valentine played along as far as he dared but worried that the younger girl might say something about the Wolves or their horses that would blow the story. Mary kept her eleven-year-old mouth shut; her only comment during dinner was a request to ride Valentine's Morgan someday.
"Of course, once he's rested. Any time I'm not using him, that is. Of course I'm going to do some riding, looking for some nice land to get a farm going."
"Maybe Molly can show you around the county," Mr. Carlson suggested.
Molly focused her eyes on the plate in front of her. "Sure, Dad. Since you went to all this trouble to find me a husband, it's the least I can do. Glad you've given me so much say in the matter. Should I get pregnant now, or after the wedding?"
"Molly," Mrs. Carlson warned.
The Breitlings exchanged looks. Valentine figured that discord was rare in the Carlson house.
Molly stood and took up her plate. "I'm finished. May I be excused?" She went to the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
Valentine could not tell how much of the byplay was real, and how much was acting.
Two days later, he and Molly Carlson rode out on a fine, cool morning with a hint of fall in the air. Valentine's indomitable Morgan walked next to Molly's quarterhorse. She wore curious hybrid riding pants, leather on the inside and heavy denim elsewhere, tucked into tall rubber boots, and a sleeveless red flannel shirt. They chatted about their horses as they headed west toward the high, bare hills.
"Lucy here is great with the cows," Molly said, patting the horse on the neck affectionately. "They'll follow her anywhere. It's like she can talk to them."
"I've always wondered if animals talk to each other," Valentine ventured.
"I think they can, sort of. In a real simple way. Like if you and I had to communicate by just pointing at stuff. We couldn't write the Declaration of Independence, but we'd be able to find food and water and stuff. Warn each other about enemies. Hold it, Lucy's got to pee."
Molly stood up in her stirrups while the mare's stream of urine arced into the grass behind her.
"You know horses," Valentine observed. "Those are fine riding pants. Do you ride much?"
"No, too much to do at the farm. My sister's the horse nut. But I did make these breeches. I like working with leather especially. I used to have some nice riding boots, but some creep in the patrols took 'em off me. These rubber ones are hotter than hell, but they're good for working around the cows. I sewed a leather vest for Dad, and when Mom does her calving, she's got a big leather apron that I made."
They trotted for a while. Watching the up-and-down motion of Molly posting left him desperate to switch the conversation back on.
"I get the feeling you don't like us staying," he finally said when they slowed to cut through a copse of mixed oaks and pines. The sun had warmed the morning, but Valentine was flushed from more than the heat of the day.
"Oh, maybe at first. Still don't know what you're doing here-"