He rubbed his sweaty palms along the sides of his jeans, formed a fist, and pounded the screen door twice. His heart was caterwhomping in his chest.It was barely dawn. Most ranchers hereabouts had already done an hour or two of work and were heading for the Kincaid Hotel in town to have a cup of coffee and trade the latest market information on beef and mohair, the other cash crop in Uvalde. Marsh hoped to catch Ray John Carson before he left home. His hands were damp again by the time the Carsons’ housekeeper answered his knock.“Buenos dias, señor.”He tried to speak, couldn’t, cleared his throat and said, “I’m Marshall North. I’d like to see Mr. Carson.”“Come inside, señor. I will get him for you.”The housekeeper left him standing inside the door. As he looked around, he got a harsh reminder of how far above his reach Delia Carson was. Most of the North ranch house would have fit in the Carson kitchen. It was filled with shiny appliances, including one of those new-fangled microwave ovens that cooked without heat.
