Her body was never found.

Neither was the baby.

People told Tom that sometimes rivers did not return what they took.

For weeks, he searched anyway.

Then for months.

Eventually the neighbors stopped helping.

Eventually Tom stopped talking.

The unused cradle went into the loft.

The flowers beneath the south window died.

And the man who returned to the ranch after that spring looked like Tom, spoke like Tom, and worked like Tom—but something inside him had been buried beside a grave that contained no body.

For six years he survived.

He did not live.

Then Nora arrived.

It was late September when a wagon stopped outside the ranch house.

Tom was repairing a gate near the barn when he saw a woman climb down.

She was perhaps thirty, dressed in a faded brown traveling coat and a plain blue dress. Her hair was chestnut, pinned beneath a worn bonnet. She had a calm face that did not belong to someone accustomed to an easy life.

A small girl jumped down behind her.

The child landed badly, stumbled, then stood up as though hoping nobody had noticed.

Tom noticed.

He noticed everything.

The woman lifted a carpetbag.

“Mr. Hale?”

Tom rested one hand on the gate.

“That depends.”

A hint of amusement flickered across her face.

“On whether you’re in trouble?”

“Usually.”

She reached into her coat and produced his newspaper advertisement.

COOK AND HOUSEKEEPER WANTED. ROOM, BOARD, WAGES. RED WILLOW VALLEY. CHILD ACCEPTABLE.

Tom had regretted the last sentence almost immediately after placing the notice.

His foreman, Amos, had insisted the house needed someone before winter.

Tom had responded that houses did not need people.

Amos had looked around the kitchen at three dirty plates, a burned skillet, and a potato sprouting roots in a bowl.

“This one does.”

Now Tom looked at the little girl.

She stared back with startling gray-blue eyes.

“This is Lily,” Nora said. “She’s five.”

“I’m almost six,” Lily corrected.

Nora glanced down.

“In February.”

“That’s almost.”

Tom nearly smiled.

Nearly.

“I’m Nora Bennett,” the woman continued. “Your letter said the position was still available.”

Tom nodded.

“You cook?”

“Yes.”

“Sew?”

“Yes.”

“Milk?”

“Yes.”

“Handle chickens?”

Nora sighed.

“If absolutely necessary.”

Tom blinked.

Lily whispered loudly, “Mama hates chickens.”

“I do not hate chickens.”

“Aunt May said you called them feathered devils.”

Nora closed her eyes.

Tom looked toward the barn before the smile betrayed him.

“You can have the room beside the kitchen,” he said.

Nora’s shoulders relaxed.

“Thank you.”

Tom lifted her carpetbag before she could object.

It was heavier than expected.

As he carried it inside, Nora paused just beyond the doorway.

Her gaze had landed on the photograph sitting on the mantel.

Tom almost never looked at it anymore.

Evelyn stood beside the river wearing a white summer blouse, smiling toward the camera.

Nora went completely still.

Tom noticed.

“Something wrong?”

She blinked.

“No.”

Her voice sounded strange.

She walked past the picture quickly.

Tom assumed she had sensed that it belonged to someone dead.

He did not ask.

It would be months before he understood what had happened in that instant.

Nora Bennett had just recognized the face of a dying woman she had held in her arms six years earlier.