When it held, she stepped back, breathing hard.
“Good,” she said.
The man looked from the repaired brace to her bleeding hand. “That’s one word for it.”
“Is there a better one?”
“Dangerous.”
She faced him fully. He was perhaps thirty-five, maybe older, the sort of age working men wore differently than everyone else. His hat was old, his shirt clean, his expression unreadable.
“Name’s Wyatt Reed,” he said. “My ranch is north of here.”
“Eleanor Hart.”
He glanced at the house. “You’re the woman Silas Boone sent for.”
“I’m the woman fixing the roof Silas Boone walked away from.”
