“I know.”

“And I won’t pretend otherwise.”

“Neither will I.”

For the first time, surprise crossed his face.

I straightened my shoulders.

“I’m not going to pretend to be my sister. I’m hardworking. I’m honest. And I traveled four days to get here with nowhere waiting for me if you send me back.”

Something shifted in his expression.

“But I’m not asking for charity, Mr. Walker.”

“What are you asking for?”

I stepped closer.

“The same three weeks you would have given Victoria.”

He watched me carefully.

“Let me show you what I’m actually worth.”

“And if I decide this cannot work?”

“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.”

“Starting tomorrow.”

I thought that was the greatest uncertainty waiting for me at Silver Creek Ranch.

I was wrong.

Because before those three weeks were over, I would discover that my arrival had not been an accident at all.

And the dead woman whose portrait hung over Nathaniel’s fireplace had known my name years before Nathaniel ever did.

The next morning, I awakened before sunrise.

Years of being useful before anyone else opened their eyes had trained sleep out of me.

I dressed quietly and went downstairs.

The kitchen was enormous compared with the one back home, but it was poorly organized. Sacks of flour leaned against one wall. Cast-iron pans were stacked wherever someone had last abandoned them.

A gray-haired housekeeper named Mrs. Bell nearly dropped a bowl when she found me kneading dough.

“What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast.”

“You’re a guest.”

“I’m hungry.”

That made her laugh.

By seven, biscuits were baking, bacon hissed in a skillet, and I had repaired a torn flour sack with twine.

Nathaniel entered while I was pouring coffee.

He stopped.

“You cooked?”

“I hope that isn’t forbidden.”

“It isn’t expected.”

“Those are different things.”

Mrs. Bell covered a smile.

Nathaniel took a biscuit.

He ate half.

Then finished the other half without speaking.

That became our rhythm.

Nathaniel expected nothing from me.

So I gave him no performance.

I helped Mrs. Bell preserve peaches.

I reorganized the pantry.

I stitched a ripped saddle blanket.

When a ranch hand named Samuel cut his palm repairing fencing, I cleaned and wrapped it before anyone rode for town.

When a thunderstorm scattered several calves one evening, I rode beside the hands until midnight despite Nathaniel ordering me twice to return to the house.

“You could have been hurt,” he told me afterward.

“So could you.”

“That isn’t the same.”

“Why?”

He opened his mouth.

Then shut it.

That was the first time I realized Nathaniel Walker was accustomed to being obeyed but not questioned.

It irritated him.

I believe it also interested him.

On my fifth day, he brought me a cup of coffee while I sat repairing one of Mrs. Bell’s aprons.

No announcement.

No explanation.

He merely placed it beside me.

“Thank you.”

He nodded.

Then he sat across from me.

For several minutes, neither of us spoke.

Finally, I asked the question everyone in Red Valley seemed determined not to mention.

“What happened to Margaret?”

His entire body changed.

He looked toward the window.

“Winter fever.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She became sick after Christmas.”

His voice hardened around the memory.

“There was heavy snow. The doctor couldn’t reach us for two days.”

I waited.

“She died before dawn on the third.”

“You loved her.”

He looked at me.

“Yes.”

There was nothing hesitant in the answer.

Strangely, that made me respect him more.

A lesser man might have softened the truth because another woman was sitting across from him.