“I’ll find my own way.”
“You just said you have nowhere to go.”
“I’ll find somewhere.”
Silence filled the room.
Then Nathaniel Walker slowly nodded.
“Three weeks.”
He stepped backward.
“Starting tomorrow.”
The next morning, I was awake before sunrise.
If Nathaniel expected a visiting lady who remained indoors embroidering cushions, he discovered his mistake quickly.
Mrs.
Bell found me in the kitchen kneading bread.
“You’re a guest,” she protested.
“Then consider me a hungry guest.”
By breakfast, I had baked two loaves, fried salt pork, and repaired a torn apron Mrs.
Bell had been meaning to mend for months.
By noon I had helped gather eggs.
By afternoon I was standing inside a barn while a furious mare attempted to bite Nathaniel.
“Stay back,” he warned.
The mare jerked against the rope.
“She’s frightened.”
“She’s mean.”
“She’s frightened because you’re angry.”
Nathaniel stared at me.
“Are you an expert on horses?”
“No.”
“Then how would you know?”
“Because frightened people sometimes appear mean too.”
Something unreadable passed through his face.
I walked slowly toward the mare.
“Easy.”
Her ears flattened.
I kept talking.
Not words that mattered.
Just sound.
Soft.
Steady.
After several minutes, the mare stopped fighting.
Nathaniel lowered the rope.
“How did you do that?”
“My father bought a nervous carriage horse once.
He beat it every time it shied.”
Nathaniel’s mouth hardened.
“I fed it apples when he wasn’t looking.”
For the first time, I saw Nathaniel Walker smile.
It disappeared quickly.
But I had seen it.
And for some ridiculous reason, I carried that smile with me for the rest of the day.
Over the next week, the ranch changed around me.
Or perhaps I changed inside it.
I learned the names of the ranch hands.
Samuel Ortiz, who could whistle loudly enough to summon horses from half a pasture away.
Young Ben Carter, whose mother believed he worked in a respectable mercantile store rather than breaking broncos.
Old Ezekiel, who had lived at Silver Creek longer than Nathaniel.
And Amos Pike.
Nathaniel’s foreman.
Amos was perhaps fifty, narrow-eyed and rawboned, with a scar running from his left ear to his jaw.
He had worked for Nathaniel’s father.
Everyone trusted him.
Everyone except me.
I couldn’t explain why.
He was polite.
Too polite.
The first time we met, his gaze rested on me a moment too long.
“Whitmore?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“From Missouri?”
“Yes.”
His face remained expressionless.
But his hand stopped moving.
Only for an instant.
Then he tipped his hat.
“Welcome to Silver Creek.”
That night, I asked Nathaniel whether Amos had ever visited Missouri.
“Not that I know of.”
“Does he know my father?”
Nathaniel looked puzzled.
“Why?”
“No reason.”
But there was.
Amos Pike had recognized my name.
On my ninth day at Silver Creek, the heat broke.
Black clouds rolled over the western hills shortly before supper.
Thunder shook the windows.
Then rain came down in sheets.
One of the ranch hands burst into the house.
“Mr.
Walker!
Bay cow’s calving early down by the creek.”
Nathaniel disappeared into the storm.
I followed.
“Clara!”
He turned in the rain.
“Go back inside.”
“You may need another pair of hands.”
“I need someone who knows cattle.”
“You need hands.”
He looked ready to argue.
Thunder cracked overhead.
“Fine.”
We found the cow near a flooded bank, exhausted and trembling.
The calf was turned wrong.
Nathaniel worked desperately while rain soaked us to the skin.
