“Everybody calls her Gracie.”
Jack looked away.
He did not tell her that years ago, while lying beneath the stars after Lucy had fallen asleep between them, Mary had whispered that if they ever had another daughter, she wanted to name her Grace.
Some coincidences were too sharp to touch.
That night, Jack unlocked Lucy’s room.
He had not planned to.
He simply found himself standing before the door with the key in his hand.
The lock resisted.
When the door finally opened, cold stale air drifted into the hall.
Moonlight lay across the floor.
Jack stepped inside.
Nothing had moved.
There was Lucy’s wooden horse.
There was Miss Abigail.
There was the blue quilt Mary had sewn during the winter Lucy was born.
Jack touched it.
Dust rose.
And suddenly he could hear everything.
Mary laughing downstairs.
Lucy running along the hall.
A spoon falling in the kitchen.
A child’s voice demanding another story.
A house full of life.
Jack sat on the bed.
He pressed the quilt against his face.
For six years, he had believed tears were something a man eventually ran out of.
He discovered he had been wrong.
The next morning, Sarah returned.
Gracie toddled into the kitchen wearing a red wool hat several sizes too large for her.
Jack pretended not to notice when she examined everything.
He pretended not to notice when she followed him to the barn.
He pretended not to notice when she stood beside the fence watching him feed the horses.
Then he heard her say, “Big.”
Jack glanced down.
She pointed at his black gelding.
“Big horse.”
“His name’s Samson.”
“Samsin.”
“Close enough.”
She held up both arms.
Jack frowned.
“What?”
“Up.”
“No.”
“Up.”
“Absolutely not.”
Five minutes later, Gracie was sitting in front of him on Samson’s saddle.
Sarah came running from the house.
“Gracie!”
Jack turned.
“I’ve got her.”
Sarah stopped.
Gracie squealed as Samson walked three slow circles around the corral.
The sound struck Jack somewhere beneath the ribs.
A child’s laughter.
Here.
On his ranch.
He had forgotten what that did to a place.
Even the horses seemed to notice.
That afternoon, Jack rode into town.
He told himself he needed flour.
He bought flour.
He also bought sugar, cinnamon, oranges, peppermint sticks, ribbon, three candles, a doll, and a small wooden train.
Then, while riding home, he stopped beside a stand of young pines.
For ten minutes he sat in the saddle staring at them.
“This is foolish,” he muttered.
Samson flicked an ear.
Jack dismounted.
An hour later, he dragged a six-foot pine tree into his parlor.
When Sarah arrived the next morning, she stopped in the doorway.
Gracie screamed.
“Tree!”
Jack was suddenly very interested in removing his gloves.
Sarah looked at him.
“Expecting someone?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“It was in the way.”
“In the forest?”
Jack glared.
Sarah covered a smile.
Something changed during those three days.
Not suddenly.
Life returned to Callahan Ranch by inches.
Sarah opened curtains Jack had kept closed.
She scrubbed the kitchen until sunlight bounced from the copper pans.
She sang while kneading bread.
Gracie scattered wooden spoons across the floor and held conversations with the barn cat.
Jack repaired a broken dining chair.
Then another.
He fixed the loose hinge on the pantry.
He carried firewood before Sarah asked.
Once, passing the kitchen, he heard Sarah laughing because Gracie had covered herself in flour.
Jack stopped in the hallway.
