Either he meant no harm or he had enough vigilantes with him not to worry about one man. Standish slipped from the back door of the barn and into the trees. Shadows were deep still in the pine. Dark enough that he could slip through the trees without being seen. He waited near the path that lead to the Belshaws. No other riders, not that he could see, anyway. The stranger climbed down from his horse and stepped to the door, knocking on the rough wood. Standish stepped from the shadows as a turtle without a shell might climb on a sandbank. “Halloo.” The rider turned and waved. Young, he was, and a star glinted from his shirt. He leaned against the door, waiting. “You look like a man who needs a cup of coffee.” “Clive Jenkins,” he said, extending his hand toward Standish. “Nice to meet a man who can read minds.” Standish smiled and opened the door, gesturing Jenkins inside. Jenkins sat at the table, and Standish poured two cups. “Early.” Jenkins nodded. “Way early. When I got up this morning, looked like God had forgotten how to turn on the light.”
