"No," Nathan agreed. "He doesn't."
From the window, she could see Cutter and the four men still sitting their horses in the yard, talking among themselves in low voices. One of the men was looking toward the barn. One was looking at the fence line. Her fence line. Her barn. Her land.
"They're going to do something tonight," she said.
"Probably," Nathan said.
"The cattle," she said, thinking fast. "If they run the cattle through the north fence and drive them off, we lose."
"I'll ride the north line until morning," Nathan said.
"You can't stay awake all night alone."
"I've done it before." He looked at her. "You need to sleep. You've been up before dawn every day for two weeks, and you've got a hearing coming that you need to be sharp for. You sleep. I'll watch the line."
She looked at him for a long moment. The instinct to refuse was there, familiar as breathing—the instinct that said accepting help was the first step toward becoming someone who needed it. But she was tired, and the cattle were more important than her pride in this specific instance. And Nathan Cole had been awake alongside her nearly every night for two weeks and had not yet used it against her.
"Take the Winchester," she said. "It's on the rack by the back door."
"I know where it is."