“You stopped me from falling.”
“Still.”
“You can apologize when you drop me.”
His mouth twitched.
“There’s the rule, then.”
He climbed beside her.
The wagon started west.
For ten minutes, neither spoke.
The prairie stretched golden beneath the dying sun.
Evelyn watched fences.
Windmills.
Farmland.
Eventually Nathaniel said:
“You hungry?”
“Yes.”
“There’s stew at home.”
“You cook?”
“No.”
Evelyn looked at him.
Nathaniel continued:
“I heat.”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
She smiled for the first time that day.
He noticed.
Then looked away as though the sight affected him more than he wanted her to know.
That made her smile longer.
The Callaway ranch appeared just before dark.
A white farmhouse.
Weathered barn.
Windmill.
Several fenced pastures.
Nothing grand.
Nothing poor.
The house had the appearance of somewhere once cared for closely and then maintained because it had to be.
Nathaniel stopped the wagon beside the porch.
A lantern burned near the door.
He unloaded the suitcase.
Evelyn descended more carefully this time.
Nathaniel stood ready but did not touch her until she asked.
Inside, the house surprised her.
Clean.
Very clean.
Too clean.
The kind of cleanliness produced by one man owning very few things and never moving them.
A dark wooden table.
Four chairs.
Stone fireplace.
Plain sofa.
Photographs.
One woman appeared repeatedly.
Young.
Blonde.
Laughing.
Beside Nathaniel.
Evelyn looked away quickly.
Nathaniel saw.
“My wife.”
“I guessed.”
“She died eleven years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded.
“Thank you.”
No dramatic story.
No grief speech.
He pointed down the hall.
“Your room is here.”
Small.
Fresh sheets.
Washstand.
Window facing the south pasture.
A faded blue quilt.
Evelyn ran her fingers over it.
“This is more than enough.”
Nathaniel stood in the doorway.
“You can stay until you decide what comes next.”
Evelyn’s shoulders stiffened.
“I can work.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“I don’t take charity.”
“Neither do I.”
She turned.
“What does that mean?”
Nathaniel leaned against the doorframe.
“It means I’ve got clothes that need mending.”
“A garden that’s half dead.”
“Kitchen cupboards I’m afraid to investigate.”
“Two hens laying eggs wherever they please.”
“And I’m fairly sure one of my curtains is held together with a nail.”
Evelyn stared.
“That sounds deliberate.”
“It’s not.”
She almost laughed.
Nathaniel continued:
“You help where you can.”
“I provide room and food.”
“No debt.”
“No hidden arrangement.”
“If you want to leave, you leave.”
That last sentence mattered.
She looked down.
Nathaniel’s voice softened.
“Nobody here gets to disappear with your future because you trusted them.”
Evelyn looked up sharply.
He knew enough.
Not details.
Enough.
Her eyes filled.
Nathaniel seemed immediately uncomfortable.