“And you thought walking across Wyoming with two infants in November was a good plan?”
He gave a low laugh. “Didn’t have a plan, to be honest. Just a reason.”
That quieted her again. She knew something about moving because staying hurt too much. About losing so much that forward was the only direction that didn’t burn.
Abby sipped her coffee and looked him over, not just his gaunt face or calloused hands, but the set of his shoulders. The way he stayed small by the fire. Like he didn’t want to take up space. Like he didn’t believe he had a right to it.
“You any good with fence lines?”
He looked up. “Ma’am?”
“Or chickens? Or tending a root cellar? Or wrangling stubborn mules?”
He blinked. “Yes, ma’am. Grew up working land. Ain’t nothing I won’t do if it means keeping my boys fed.”
She nodded once. “There’s a bunkhouse out back. Needs sweeping. Roof leaks a little. You fix it, and we’ll talk.”
Caleb put down his spoon. “You offering me work?”
“I’m offering you a place to stay for a while. Temporary. Until you get your feet under you.”
His face tightened with something like disbelief. Then fear. Then relief so fast it made her chest ache.
“I won’t let you regret it,” he said softly.
“You will if you slack off,” she shot back.
They both smiled. A small, tired peace settled between them.
As the first pale light began to spread across the edge of the hills outside, Abby cleared the dishes and rinsed them. Caleb gathered his boys, now fully awake and softly cooing, and wrapped them close. Luke chewed on his collar. Levi stared at the fire like it told stories only he could hear.
“Can I fix anything before I get started out back?” Caleb asked.
She paused, looked at the frayed curtain, the creaky window, the half-chopped firewood on the porch.
“Chop the rest of the logs first,” she said. “Then sweep the bunkhouse and patch that roof. There’s tar in the shed.”
“Yes, ma’am.” As he turned toward the back door, she said, “And Caleb?”
He looked over his shoulder.
“Don’t call me ma’am.”
“What should I call you?”
“Abby.”
He nodded once, like that name meant something now, like it had weight. Then he stepped out into the cold morning, the door clicking shut behind him.
She watched the fire a little longer, rubbing the warmth into her palms. Something was shifting, and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t mind it.
By the time the sun had fully risen, the Monroe Ranch looked deceptively calm. The early chill began to lift, burning off the fog that had swallowed the hills at dawn. Chickens scratched at the dry earth. The mule bleated once from the small corral. The woodpile by the house now stood stacked neat, even. Someone who didn’t know better might have thought things had always been this steady.
But inside Abby Monroe’s chest, a different storm was building. She stood by the window with a tin mug in hand, watching Caleb hammer down a patch on the bunkhouse roof. He’d already swept it out, hung blankets over the windows, and set a basket of supplies she’d brought outside the door. The man moved like he had something to prove. She admired that, more than she wanted to.
She didn’t notice the dust trail on the road until it got close enough for her to hear hooves. A rider. Not many people visited unannounced, especially not by horseback. Especially not her.
By the time the chestnut mare came into full view and stopped in front of the house, Abby had set her coffee down and opened the front door. She stepped onto the porch just as the rider dismounted.
“Morning,” Abby said, arms crossed.
The woman pulled off her riding gloves slowly. She wore a practical gray skirt, a heavy brown coat, and a wide-brimmed hat pinned neatly in place. Her face was flushed from the ride and maybe something more.
“Is it true?” the woman asked.
Abby didn’t flinch. “Good to see you too, Ethel.”
Miss Ethel Sanderson had been a fixture in the community since Abby was a little girl. She’d run the local school for years, led church bake sales, and volunteered to deliver food baskets in every bad winter. She also had a tongue sharp enough to flay bark off a tree.
“You’re taking in strangers now, Abby? In this town?”
Abby looked down at her boots, then back up with quiet steel. “Not taking anyone in. Letting someone stay. Temporarily. While he finds his footing.”
Ethel’s eyes narrowed. She stepped closer and dropped her voice. “Is that him?” she asked, nodding toward Caleb, who hadn’t noticed them yet, still fixing the roof.
“That’s him.”
Ethel turned back, lips pursed. “You know what folks will say.”
“They say something every time I do anything that ain’t sewing lace,” Abby said flatly. “Let them talk.”
Ethel didn’t argue right away. She walked to the edge of the porch and looked out at the bunkhouse. Her tone softened just a hair.
“You’ve done well for yourself. After your folks passed, most thought you’d sell and move into town. You didn’t. You held this place together.”
Abby said nothing.
Ethel sighed. “All I’m saying is you don’t want to give them more reason to question your judgment.”
“And what’s your judgment say?” Abby asked.
Ethel turned to her. “My judgment says if that man laid hands on a child the way he laid hands on that roof, you’re probably in good company. But you should know. Word’s already out.”
Abby’s stomach tightened. “How?”
“Old Sam Whitlow saw him walking in yesterday. Said he was carrying two babies and looked like he’d been dragged behind a horse.”
Abby felt the heat rising in her neck. “He walked twenty miles with twin boys on foot.”
Ethel’s expression shifted just a flicker. Something like respect or pity. “They’re his?”
“They’re his. And the mother passed, he said, three months ago.”
Ethel crossed her arms. “That’ll raise eyebrows too. A man with no wife showing up with two infants asking for a roof. You know how people get.”
“I do.”
Ethel took off her hat and wiped her forehead. “Listen, I didn’t ride out here to scold you.”
“No?”
“No,” she said, sighing. “I rode out to see if you’re okay and to bring you this.” She reached into her satchel and pulled out a small wrapped bundle—bread and jerky, still warm.
Abby took it, surprised. “I made too much. Figured someone new around here might need feeding.”
Abby’s face softened. “Thank you.”
Ethel put her hat back on and stepped down off the porch. “You just be careful. People around here don’t forget what they see. And they never forget what they think they saw.”
She mounted her mare. “Keep your chin up. And if you need anything—I mean anything, Abby—you send for me. I will.”
Ethel rode off, the dust curling behind her like a ribbon. Abby stood there a moment longer, then turned to go back inside. Only Caleb was standing at the foot of the porch, holding both boys. He’d heard everything.
“I can go,” he said quietly. “If it’s already causing you trouble.”
“No,” Abby said too fast. She looked away, then met his eyes. “No one who matters is troubled.”
“I told you I didn’t come here to make things harder.”
“You didn’t.”
Caleb shifted his weight. “She’s right though. Small towns remember everything.”
“I’ve lived in this town my whole life. They still don’t know me.” He looked down at his sons, then back up. “I’d understand if you wanted to reconsider your offer. I’m used to folks thinking the worst.”
“Well,” Abby said, “I’m not most folks.”
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The boys gurgled, reaching for each other’s hands. Finally, Abby gestured toward the house.
“You fed them yet?”
“Just finished.”
“You eat?”
“Not yet.”
“Then let’s fix that.”
He followed her in. The warmth of the fire still lingered, and the smell of fresh bread from Ethel’s bundle filled the kitchen. Caleb sat at the table while Abby split the loaf in half and ladled out what was left of the stew from the night before. He took a bite and closed his eyes.
“This is the best thing I’ve had in a long time.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s because it’s not burnt.”
Caleb laughed, a real one this time. They ate in silence—the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable. The kind that felt like maybe silence didn’t always mean emptiness.
After the meal, Caleb stood and said, “I’ll finish the south fence this afternoon, and then the henhouse door. It’s loose.”
“You don’t have to do everything at once.”…
