Clint turned off the radio and lit up a cigarette. "Ain't playing anything good," he muttered as he turned off the ceiling light and plunged the room into semi-darkness. He walked from the kitchen table to check the fire. Along with warming the great room, the fireplace was also providing most of the ambient light. The night was still cool for late March; a chilly wind had been gusting down from the north since before the sun had set. "It should storm soon. Come down in buckets I reckon." He was used to talking to himself. Too many years of living alone out here, he thought with wry smile. "Need some rain for the garden. I'm getting too old to carry water from the well for all them plants." He stared through the big window out into the darkness.

The stars were out, plainly visible in the night sky. The barn was a just a dark shape against the horizon.

Out in the pasture beside the barn, one of the cows mooed.

"Shit." Clint tossed his spent cigarette into the fireplace, then took a long twig from a jar on the mantle and lit the end of it. He used the impromptu match to light a lantern hanging near the door, and then headed out into the yard, rifle in hand.

The night chill was present, but not quite cold enough to send him back inside for his jacket. Not for just a quick walk to the barn and back. His breath puffed out in front of him and he paused a moment to watch it in the moonlight. The grass rustled under his boots as he started walking again. The lantern was something he hardly needed outside--Clint had walked this land since he was a baby. He knew every fold and gopher hole.

The barn was quiet.

Too quiet. Clint pulled the door open--it creaked and he made a mental note to oil it in the morning--and stepped inside. The air was heavy with the smell of hay and dust and manure and just the faintest hint of cigarette smoke. He hung the lantern on a nail near the door and then pulled the door closed behind him.

Out in the field, one of the cows mooed again.

Two horses lifted their heads to look at him in sleepy surprise. Normally he left them alone after stabling them for the night. The grey mare went back to eating out of a bucket of oats. The roan stallion just snorted and pawed at the floor of his stall.

Clint took the lantern down from the nail and he surveyed the inside of the barn. Everyone looked to be where he had left it earlier. With measured steps, he walked past the two occupied stalls towards the empty ones at the back. His boots clicked softly on the stone floor. He stopped and peered into one stall, seeing nothing but a surprised field mouse, then he hung the lantern on a hook and turned around to the other stall.

He pulled the gate open with one hand and pointed the rifle in. "What you doing in my barn?" he demanded.

A boy was huddled in one corner, half-buried in the straw, staring back at him from under the brim of a tan-coloured cowboy hat. He looked frightened and a bit desperate.

Clint kept the rifle pointed towards him.

"I don't want no trouble," the youth said in a soft voice.

"Neither do I, boy. That's why I got this after all." He hefted the rifle as he spoke. "So what you after?"

"Nothing," he shook his head. "I was just looking for a place to spend the night."

"In my barn?"

"It's warm and dry."

Clint eyed him. "You're not from around here."

"No."

Stepping out of the lantern's light, Clint could see now that what he thought was just a young boy was actually a young handsome man, probably in his mid-twenties. Though it's hard to tell under all that grime on his face. "What's your name?"

"Jesse."

Clint's eyes narrowed. "Got a last name?"

"Helmer. Jesse Helmer."

"I'm Clint Baxter." He flipped the rifle up to rest on his shoulder. "You can't sleep out here. You'll frighten the horses. Come up to the house. There's some spare rooms there where you can bunk yourself down."

Jesse didn't move.

"It's either that or out in the pasture with the cows. You ain't sleeping in my barn."

"I'll take the bunk."

"Good choice. Come on then. I don't plan to be out here all night."

"Thank you." Jesse grabbed a small bundle from the straw beside him and followed Clint.

"A word of advice. If you're gonna try to hide in a barn, give up smoking. That match glows brighter than any firefly. Too early in the season for fireflies."

Jesse kicked at a stone with his boot as they walked across the grass. "I was wondering how you'd found me."

"I know a lot of tricks, boy." Clint stepped through the doorway and hung his rifle on a pair of hooks on the wall. "You look cold."

"I'm okay." Jesse rubbed his arms through the long sleeves of his blue shirt as he spoke though.

"You can set your stuff over there for now."

Jesse dropped his bundle on the floor near the wall. It didn't look like the tied-up shirt contained very much at all.

A single change of clothes at best. This boy sure travels light. Clint hooked a thumb towards a doorway across the room. "Washroom through there if you want to clean up. Down the hallway on the left."

"Thank you." Jesse hurried through the door.

Clint snorted. He filled a small kettle and then put it onto the wood stove.

When Jesse returned to the kitchen, Clint set a mug of hot coffee in front of him. "This'll take the night's chill off ya." Clint gave the young man a closer inspection. He cleans up real nice, he thought.

Jesse looked to be in his late twenties. He had scrubbed the dirt from his face and the few days' growth of dark stubble on his cheeks gave him some character. A puffy bruise coloured his left cheek. His green t-shirt was dirty, as were his torn jeans, but his hands were now mostly clean. He had discarded his grimy blue shirt on top of his small bundle, along with his hat.

Some dirt you just can't rinse away, Clint thought. Nature of farm life. It just stays under your fingernails. He shambled away from the table, his worn black boots clicking on the old wooden floorboards. "Drink up. The nights are still too damned cold for this time of the year."

Jesse took the mug and took a drink before replying. "That's why I snuck into your barn. I was freezing last night trying to sleep under the stars."

"Got no sleeping roll?"

"Nope."

Clint brought a few slices of bread and some yellowish cheddar to the table and set them down in front of his impromptu guest. "Where you from?"

"A little town near Medicine Hat. Redcliff."

"I've heard of it." Clint sipped his own mug of coffee and watched Jesse stuff an entire slice of bread into his mouth at once. "You're a long way from home then."

"I have my reasons," Jesse mumbled around the half-chewed bread.

Clint granted him a few moments of peace to gorge himself. Not been eating too well it looks like, he noted. Wonder if he's got a hairy chest? He gave his head a shake. Stop thinking shit like that, he told himself. "Why you running?"

Jesse froze in mid-bite. "Who says I'm running?"

"You got the look." He paused a moment. "You're also, what two hundred clicks from home?"

Jesse swallowed his mouthful.

Clint sipped at his coffee. "You ain't a local boy. You ain't visiting anyone around here cause you'd be there and not camping out in my barn, molesting my milkers."

"I didn't touch your animals."

Clint's mouth twisted into a grin. "I know ... the horses were settled down for the night and they would've raised a ruckus if you'd bothered either of them."

"I'll be gone in the morning."

Clint allowed the silence to drag out for a few moments. "Not so fast, boy," he said. "You're staying under my roof tonight. You're eating my food. You owe me something in exchange."

Jesse shook his head sadly. "I got no cash on me. I can't pay you for the bed."

"You can work it off. I got chores. Lord, do I got chores around this place."

Jesse licked the last crumbs from his fingers. "Chores, huh?"

"Yep." Clint nodded. He watched Jesse as the young man looked around, giving the place a casual appraisal. It was a fairly typical farmhouse with a big kitchen that blended directly into the living room. The furnishings were plain and most were home-crafted. Everything was clean. "How old are you?"

He hesitated for a long moment, staring down at the torn knee of his jeans. "Twenty-five."

Shit, I'm old enough to be his father, Clint thought with annoyance. He himself had just turned thirty-nine. Well, maybe his brother, he amended a moment later. His much older brother.

Jesse yawned.

"I'll show you where you're bunking down."

"Thanks, Clint." Jesse scooped up his small bundle and followed Clint down the short hallway.