“A human opinion.”
The boys laughed.
Thomas looked around.
Something passed across his face.
Mercy recognized it.
He had forgotten what his sons sounded like laughing together.
That night, after they slept, he found Mercy washing the final pan.
“You can leave that.”
“I know.”
“I’ll do it.”
She looked at him suspiciously.
Thomas rolled up his sleeves.
Mercy handed him the cloth.
He washed badly.
She corrected him twice.
On the third correction, he said:
“You’re particular.”
“You’re ineffective.”
“Pan is clean.”
“Pan is wet.”
“That happens after washing.”
Mercy laughed.
Thomas stared.
Again.
She had started noticing his staring.
Not crude.
Not even openly romantic.
More like he was hearing a sound he thought the house had forgotten.
Mercy looked away first.
Being watched by Thomas felt different from being watched in town.
People in town measured.
Thomas noticed.
That was more dangerous.
Weeks passed.
The weather hardened.
Bell Ranch moved into winter rhythm.
Mercy learned the boys individually.
Caleb wanted authority before he was old enough to carry it.
Matthew joked when nervous.
Luke collected broken mechanical things and tried repairing them.
Benjamin secretly drew horses.
Owen lied badly about stealing biscuits.
Isaac feared thunderstorms even though he claimed otherwise.
Jonah remembered his mother most through objects.
Thomas remained hardest.
Not because he hid.
Because he had become entirely functional.
Wake.
Work.
Eat.
Parent through instructions.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Mercy once asked:
“When did you last do something because you enjoyed it?”
Thomas looked genuinely confused.
“Today?”
“What?”
“I worked.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I enjoy work.”
Mercy stared.
“That is a tragic answer.”
He smiled.
“What should I enjoy?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you used to?”
Thomas thought.
“Dance.”
Mercy nearly dropped the spoon.
“You?”
His eyebrows rose.
“I’m not dead.”
“No, but dancing?”
“Anna liked it.”
There.
Anna.
Mercy stopped teasing.
Thomas noticed.
“You don’t have to stop every time I mention her.”
Mercy looked at him.
“I don’t know what is respectful.”
“Neither do I.”
His honesty softened her.
Thomas sat at the table.
“She died three years ago.”
“I know.”
“I still talk about her like she might come through the door.”
Mercy lowered herself opposite him.
“Maybe that’s all right.”
“Is it?”
“I loved a man who died.”
Thomas looked toward her.
Mercy rarely spoke of Samuel.
The man she expected to marry.
He returned from war with fever, nightmares, and damage no doctor knew how to name.
He died five months later.
Mercy had spent those months caring for him.
He hardly recognized her at the end.
Thomas asked:
“Did you love him after he came back?”
“Yes.”
“Same way?”
Mercy thought.
“No.”