Barron shifted wearily in his new saddle, the crisp leather crackling with his every move; he hadn’t had time to break it in yet. In fact, it was the first time the saddle had ever been used, but by the time the roundup was over, it would be worn and comfortable, like his old one, form fitted to him. Barron had acquired the new piece from the general mercantile in Carson City. It had been on special order from San Francisco since before the last session of the Senate had begun, and it had finally arrived just a few days before his return to Carson City.
He’d paid over $300 for the item, which he felt was very reasonable, considering the attention paid to small details, the intricate stitching, the silver accents, and the long hours of labor required to complete such a marvelous piece of craftsmanship. He pushed his Stetson down firmly on his head and adjusted his long black slicker in order to shield as much of his head and neck as possible against the rain and the cool air that seemed to drill an ache into his bones.
The cooler conditions didn’t really bother him that much, particularly after he’d had to endure such sweltering heat in Washington, a place where simply stepping outside caused one to perspire profusely. After years of roundups and cattle drives in rain and snow and below-zero temperatures, Barron had grown accustomed to working in the elements, accustomed to the occasional onset of cold-induced aches. Besides, he had adequate gear to keep as dry and as warm as possible.
Over the years, though, he’d come to realize that others weren’t always so lucky. He shuddered at the thought of frostbite, the sickening color of frozen, rotting flesh. He’d seen many-a-man lose fingers, ears, and even feet to the cold. Those grotesque images would remain with him forever, and thoughts of them made him appreciate all the more everything he had.
The Maynwarings on Amazon US
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