He looked at her steadily. “I want to.”
That caught her off guard more than anything else had. She nodded. “All right.”
As he stepped out again with the boys bundled close in the sling across his chest, Abby leaned on the kitchen counter and stared out the window. Ethel was right. People would talk. But maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a story to be ashamed of. Maybe it was the beginning of one worth hearing.
The boys were cooing again, happy, warm. And Caleb… he walked with his back a little straighter now. That meant something.
The day ended the way most did lately, quieter than it started. The last of the sun sank behind the ridge, throwing soft pink and amber light across the horizon. In its glow, the Monroe Ranch looked like something out of a dream. Fences mended, smoke curling lazily from the chimney, chickens settled in the coop, and a man sitting on the front porch polishing tools like he had always belonged there.
Abby Monroe stood barefoot in the doorway, her arms crossed, shoulder against the frame. She’d just finished washing dishes and laying the boys down for a nap in the cradle by the stove. Luke and Levi had been fussy all day—teething maybe—but had finally quieted under the warmth of fresh quilts and full bellies.
She watched Caleb in the fading light. He worked with slow, even motions, knife in one hand, whetstone in the other, rhythm steady and sure. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing tanned arms marked with old scars and fresh scratches. She should have gone back inside, closed the door, let the quiet keep its distance. But something in her stayed.
“Knife won’t do much with the stone that dry,” she said at last.
Caleb looked up, surprised. He held her gaze for a beat, then smiled softly. “You’re right.”
She walked over, handed him the canteen from the rail, and sat across from him on the top step. For a moment, neither spoke. The world around them was still.
Then she said, “You never told me how she died.”
Caleb didn’t flinch. “Wasn’t trying to hide it,” he said quietly. “Just… some things are hard to get right in words.”
“You don’t have to.”
He set the whetstone down. “No. I think maybe I do.” He looked out over the fields as he spoke. “Sarah went into labor early. We were two hours from any real doctor. I thought I could ride for help in time, but…” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I didn’t make it back fast enough.”
Abby watched him closely. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t shaking. But he was unraveling inch by inch in the way only grief allows—quietly, stubbornly, without asking permission.
“They said it was my fault. Her family. The town. Said I shouldn’t have taken her so far from people. From safety. Truth is, we didn’t have much choice. Land was cheaper out there. I thought… I thought I could give her a better start.” He exhaled, slow and heavy. “When they buried her, they wouldn’t even let me speak.”
Abby’s chest ached. She reached out, hesitated, then placed her hand on his. “They were wrong,” she said. “Every last one of them.”
He didn’t move. Just stared at her hand, then finally turned his eyes up to hers.
“I should have done more.”
“You did everything you could.”
He shook his head. “Maybe. But there’s a voice in my head that says I didn’t. It’s loud. All the time.”
She held his gaze. “You’re not broken, Caleb. You’re just tired.”
He blinked. Once, then again. And then he laughed—just a breath of it. Surprised. Raw. “No one’s said anything kind to me in a long time.”
She let her hand stay. “I’m not always kind,” she said. “But I know what tired looks like.”
They sat there until the sky turned dark and the stars began to peek through the dusk. When the wind picked up, she finally stood.
“You want coffee?”
He nodded, still not quite smiling. “Only if it’s burnt.”
She smirked and turned toward the door. Inside, the boys had stirred again, one crying softly. Caleb stepped in behind her and moved toward them without being asked. He lifted Luke gently, rocking him with practiced ease.
“You’ve got a good hand with them,” Abby said.
“I’m learning as I go.”
“Looks like you’ve had to learn fast.”
He didn’t answer that, but she saw the weight of it settle in his shoulders. By the time the coffee was poured and the cradle quiet again, they were seated at the kitchen table, the room lit by oil lamps and firelight.
Abby wrapped her hands around her mug. “I lost someone too,” she said after a beat.
Caleb looked up.
“My father first, then my mother six months later. Pneumonia took her fast. Too fast.” She didn’t often speak about them, not because it hurt too much but because no one had asked in so long. “They left me this land,” she continued, “and a whole heap of debts and judgment from every man in town who thought a single woman had no business holding a deed.”
“I’ve seen what you’ve done here,” Caleb said softly. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“They never do.”
Silence stretched again, but this one was warmer, thicker, like something healing. After a while, she said, “This house has been quiet too long.”
Caleb nodded, glancing toward the cradle. “Feels like it’s waking up.”
Abby smiled faintly. “Maybe we both are.”
The clock ticked quietly. The wind rustled the trees outside. Something in the air shifted—less tense, more expectant.
“I’ve got tools that need oiling tomorrow,” she said, “and the goats are getting restless.”
“I’ll take care of them.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
She looked at him closely. “Why?”
He didn’t blink. “Because this is the first place in months that’s made me feel like I’m not just passing through.”
She swallowed. That landed deeper than she expected.
“All right,” she said. “You’re not passing through. Not yet.”
He smiled then, just a little. After he left for the bunkhouse, Abby sat alone by the fire. She didn’t sew, didn’t read, just sat there watching the flames curl and crackle. Her heart beat a little louder than usual. Maybe that was all right.
The next morning came colder than expected. A hard frost had crept in overnight, leaving the ground silver and hard beneath their boots. Abby was in the barn feeding the mule when she heard the unmistakable sound of a wagon approaching. She stepped out, hay clinging to her sleeves, and squinted toward the road.
Two figures. Uncle Virgil and Cousin Clyde.
Her gut turned. She wiped her hands on her apron and walked toward the house just as the wagon rolled in. They didn’t wait for an invitation to dismount.
“Well, well,” Virgil said, brushing off his coat. “We figured you’d be long gone by now.”
“I’m still here,” Abby said, voice cold.
“Not for long,” Clyde added, smirking. “We need to talk, Abigail. About the land.”
Uncle Virgil always wore his hat like it was part of his skull, like God himself had set it there and only death would remove it. He tipped it slightly as he stepped onto the porch, but the gesture lacked any true civility.
Abby Monroe stood on the top step, her jaw tight, arms crossed. Her fingers were still dusted with feed from the barn. She hadn’t had time to clean up, and she wouldn’t have even if she had. Cousin Clyde slouched behind Virgil, boots muddy, eyes darting toward the bunkhouse where Caleb had paused mid-task. Abby could feel Caleb’s stare, but she didn’t look back at him. Not yet.
“I’m busy,” she said flatly.
Virgil ignored that. “We need a word about the land.”
“You had your chance years ago. You didn’t want it then.”
“Well, things change,” Clyde said with a greasy smile, “especially now that it looks like you’ve got… company.”
Virgil narrowed his eyes. “That the one sleeping in the bunkhouse? Folks are talking, Abigail, and I don’t blame them.”
“Let them,” she said.
Virgil stepped up a little closer, lowering his voice. “A woman alone can’t own 100 acres. Not without a man to answer for it.”
Abby’s eyes didn’t blink. “I’ve been answering for it just fine.”
“Not according to the county assessor. There’s a clause in your father’s deed. I had it checked.” He pulled a folded, dirt-smudged document from his coat and waved it once like it was a sheriff’s badge. “That land was passed to you with the understanding that a family member—male—would oversee it if you didn’t marry within a month.”
“Reasonable according to who?”
“According to the law. And we’re here to tell you we’ll be filing a petition in town next week if this doesn’t get straightened out.”
“Straightened how?” she asked, though she already knew.
“You give over partial stewardship,” Virgil said. “Let us manage the estate. You stay on the land, keep your house, even draw a share of the profits. But the deed transfers to the family.”
Abby’s voice was calm, low. “You want to run this ranch from your porch in town?”
“Better than letting some stranger, some drifter with a couple of sickly kids move in and play husband.”
Caleb stepped down from the porch of the bunkhouse. His pace was slow, deliberate. He didn’t say a word. Virgil turned slightly, catching sight of him.
“There he is, the man himself. Tell me, boy, what’s your interest here?”
“Fixing what’s broken,” Caleb replied evenly, “and staying out of what ain’t mine.”…
