“The children can sleep next door.”
“Nobody comes in without knocking.”
Ruth touched the latch.
“Thank you.”
Jonah nodded.
Then left.
That first night, Ruth made beef stew, potatoes, and biscuits.
She opened one of the jars of apple preserves she had carried from town.
Eleven ranch hands and Jonah sat around the long dining table.
Ben Harker, the gray-bearded foreman, took one bite of biscuit and looked offended by how good it was.
“If Mrs. Alden plans to leave after roundup,” he announced, “Mr. Rourke ought to arrest her before she reaches the gate.”
Ruth laughed despite herself.
Tom laughed too.
His laugh was bright.
Careless.
Far too loud for that silent house.
Every man at the table stopped eating.
Tom froze.
Ruth’s stomach tightened.
Jonah stared at the boy for one long moment.
Then lifted his coffee.
“Ben.”
“Yes?”
“If you scare the cook’s children on their first night, you can make breakfast tomorrow.”
The table exploded with voices.
Tom laughed again.
Jonah did not stop him.
The days found a rhythm.
Ruth rose before dawn and cooked for the crew.
She packed midday food whenever the riders worked distant pasture.
She learned which hand hated onions.
Which one lied about disliking pie.
Which one stole biscuits before breakfast and blamed Tom.
Nell learned where every jar belonged.
Tom discovered the calves.
Then developed fierce loyalty toward one red-faced steer that had absolutely no loyalty toward Tom.
The ranch changed by inches.
A carved wooden horse appeared on the mantel.
Jonah had found Tom trying to shape one with a butter knife.
Without saying much, he took the wood away.
Two evenings later, the finished horse appeared beside Tom’s plate.
Nell began reading the weekly newspaper aloud to Ben when his spectacles disappeared.
A blue ribbon turned up on a curtain latch.
Muddy child-sized boot prints crossed the back porch after rain.
Jonah noticed everything.
He objected to almost nothing.
But sometimes the old grief took him without warning.
One afternoon Tom ran through the hallway dragging a stick against the banister.
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
Jonah came out of his office white around the mouth.
Ruth stopped Tom immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
Jonah stared toward the stairs.
“My boy used to do that.”
Ruth said nothing.
Jonah swallowed.
“He was seven.”
The words seemed to cost him.
“Mary died three days before he did.”
“Fever.”
Ruth’s hand settled on the back of a chair.
She did not reach for him.
“I’m sorry.”
Jonah nodded.
Then returned to his office.
That evening, he repaired the loose step that had been squeaking beneath Nell’s feet.
A week later, Ben entered the kitchen carrying two cattle tally sheets.
“Eleven head missing.”
Ruth set down the knife she had been using on onions.
“No broken fence?”
“No.”
“Cut wire?”
“No.”
“Tracks?”
“Nothing useful.”
“When did you last count?”
Ben told her.
“And before that?”
He gave another date.
Ruth wiped her hands.
“May I see those?”