A body dressmakers considered a negotiation and strangers considered public property for comment.
Thomas finally said:
“You’re smaller than I pictured.”
Mercy stared at him.
That was new.
She looked him over from boots to hat.
“So are you.”
For half a second, silence.
Then one corner of his mouth moved.
Not quite a smile.
“Fair.”
He lifted her trunk.
No grunt.
No theatrical show.
Just work.
Mercy climbed into his wagon.
For the first thirty minutes, neither spoke.
She finally asked:
“How far?”
“Two hours if the road stays dry.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Longer.”
Another ten minutes.
Mercy tried again.
“How old are the boys?”
Thomas answered without looking over.
“Sixteen, fourteen, twelve, ten, nine, seven, five.”
Mercy slowly turned.
“You arranged them that efficiently?”
Thomas looked at her.
“What?”
She almost laughed.
“Nothing.”
His wife had died three years earlier.
That much his letter contained.
It did not explain from what.
Mercy did not ask.
Thomas asked:
“Any children?”
“No.”
“Married?”
“Almost.”
He glanced over.
“Almost?”
“He came home from the war.”
Thomas waited.
Mercy stared toward the road.
“He never really came home.”
That was enough.
Thomas nodded.
No sympathy speech.
She appreciated that.
The Bell Ranch appeared near dusk.
Two barns.
Main house.
Bunkhouse.
Equipment shed.
Large pasture stretching toward low hills.
The property itself looked strong.
The house did not.
A shutter hung crooked.
Porch railing split.
One window had been patched with board.
Thomas stopped the wagon.
Seven boys appeared.
Not together.
One near the barn.
Two from behind the house.
Another from the porch.
The youngest stood in the doorway.
None waved.
Mercy climbed down.
The oldest stepped forward.
“Caleb.”
Thomas gestured.
“My oldest.”
Caleb looked directly at Mercy.
His first words were:
“Don’t unpack.”
Thomas’s jaw tightened.
“Caleb.”
Mercy raised one hand.
“It’s fine.”
She looked at the boy.
“Why not?”
Caleb folded his arms.
“Last one stayed four days.”
A twelve-year-old behind him corrected:
“Five.”
“Four nights.”
Another boy said:
“The one before stayed six.”
Mercy nodded.
“Efficient records.”
Caleb stared.
Thomas looked embarrassed.
Mercy asked:
“Where is the kitchen?”
Nobody answered.
The youngest pointed.
That was how her first evening began.
The kitchen was worse than Mercy expected.
Cold stove.
Dirty dishes.
Gray water.