Perfect suit.
Silver-headed cane.
Pleasant smile.
He tipped his hat toward her.
Mabel understood.
He had arrived in Cinder Creek two days after she had.
And suddenly no one needed workers.
She gathered her children.
Outside, several men lounged beneath the saloon awning.
One called after her.
“Maybe Cross needs a wife!”
Laughter.
Another man slapped his knee.
“Gideon Cross? Hell, he’d scare the widow back east.”
“Send her out there to wash his dishes!”
More laughter.
Mabel stopped walking.
Annie tugged at her sleeve.
“Mama?”
Mabel looked toward the men.
“How far?”
The laughter quieted.
“What?”
“To Gideon Cross’s ranch.”
A cowboy with tobacco staining his mustache pointed north.
“Six miles.”
Mabel adjusted Clara’s bonnet.
Then she started walking.
By noon, the four of them stood before the loneliest house Mabel had ever seen.
The ranch sat in a shallow valley surrounded by miles of gold-brown prairie and dark pines climbing toward distant mountains.
There was a barn.
A corral.
Several horses.
Cattle grazing near a cottonwood-lined creek.
The house itself was large enough for a family.
That somehow made its silence worse.
Mabel climbed the porch steps.
Her knees trembled.
She hated that.
She had buried her husband without collapsing.
She had watched strangers carry furniture out of her home without begging.
She had walked six miles beneath a burning sun with an empty stomach.
But raising her hand to knock on that door frightened her.
Because a person could survive hunger when hope remained.
Rejection after the last hope was something else entirely.
She knocked.
Nothing.
She knocked again.
Bootsteps approached.
The door opened.
Gideon Cross filled the doorway.
He was taller than she expected, perhaps thirty-six or thirty-seven, broad through the shoulders, wearing a faded gray shirt with the sleeves rolled over sun-browned forearms.
A pale scar crossed the left side of his jaw.
His dark hair needed cutting.
His eyes were gray.
Not cruel.
Not welcoming.
Simply guarded.
His gaze moved over Mabel.
Then Clara.
Rose.
Annie.
He noticed their bundle.
Their shoes.
Mabel’s cracked knuckles.
The way Clara leaned against her mother because she was tired.
Mabel lifted her chin.
“Mr. Cross?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Mabel Harlo.”
Something flickered in his expression at the surname.
So quickly she nearly missed it.
“I was told you might need help.”
“Who told you?”
“Men who thought it was amusing.”
One corner of his mouth almost moved.
“Sounds like Cinder Creek.”
“I can cook. Clean. Mend clothes. Keep accounts. Milk cows if they’re patient enough. I don’t want charity.”
His eyes remained on hers.
“I didn’t offer any.”
“No.”
Silence stretched.
Mabel felt Annie move closer behind her.
Then Gideon looked at the girls again.
“Have they eaten?”
Pride leaped automatically into Mabel’s throat.
“Yes.”
Clara said, “Not since morning.”
Mabel closed her eyes.
Gideon looked at Mabel.
Mabel looked at Clara.
Clara whispered, “Sorry, Mama.”
Gideon stepped aside.
“The kitchen needs cleaning.”
Mabel blinked.
“If you’re willing to work,” he said, “there’s work.”
For one dangerous second, tears burned behind her eyes.
She refused them.
