Ita watched it disappear.
Only after the last carriage vanished behind the ridge did Elias notice the expression on her face.
It was not sadness.
It was relief.
“You don't like trains?” he asked.
“I don't like leaving things unfinished.”
“What did you leave unfinished?”
She looked toward the mountains.
“A long story.”
Elias did not ask again.
He should have.
That was his first mistake.
The ride to the Calder ranch took nearly three hours.
The road climbed through dry country where grass grew in yellow patches between red stones. The ranch itself stood in a valley surrounded by low mountains. The house was large enough for a family but looked abandoned despite the fact that someone clearly still lived there.
One barn leaned toward the east.
The roof of the chicken coop had collapsed.
A fence stretched across the southern pasture with three broken posts.
The well beside the house had been reinforced with fresh timber, but the water level was dangerously low.
Ita studied everything.
Elias noticed.
“You don't have to inspect it.”
“I wasn't.”
“You were.”
She looked at him.
“Then why did you bring me here?”
He had no answer.
At last she said, “The south fence needs replacing before the next storm.”
“There won't be another storm.”
“There will.”
“You can predict weather?”
“No.”
“Then why say that?”
“Because the clouds above the western ridge are moving differently.”
Elias looked.
The sky was clear.
He shrugged.
“Nothing there.”
“Not yet.”
They continued.
When they reached the ranch house, a gray-haired man stepped from the barn.
Abel Finch had worked for Elias's father for twenty-nine years.
He was sixty-four, broad-shouldered, slow-moving, and suspicious of everyone.
He looked at Ita.
Then at Elias.
Then back at Ita.
“You actually did it.”
Elias frowned.
“Did what?”
“Ordered yourself a wife.”
“Abel.”
“What?”
“Go inside.”
“I've been inside since before you were born.”
Ita almost smiled.
Abel noticed.
He walked toward her and removed his hat.
“Abel Finch.”
“Ita.”
“You know how to shoot?”
“Yes.”
Elias turned.
“I didn't ask her that.”
Abel looked offended.
“A ranch wife ought to know.”
“I know how to shoot,” Ita said.
“With what?”
“Whatever is available.”
Abel's eyebrows rose.
Then he nodded.
“I like her.”
“You've known her for thirty seconds.”
“That's longer than I knew your mother before I liked her.”
Elias looked away.
His mother's death had been the only subject Abel avoided.
Ita noticed that too.
That evening, she unpacked her belongings.
There were only a few dresses, a blanket, a sewing kit, three books, a small wooden comb, and a narrow leather case.
Elias saw the case.
“What is that?”
“Something that belongs to my family.”
“Jewelry?”
“No.”
“A weapon?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“A memory.”
He frowned.
“You brought a memory in a box?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because memories are easier to carry than people.”
She closed the case.
That night, Elias slept in the room at the end of the hall.
Ita took the bedroom that had belonged to his mother.
Neither spoke about the marriage.
Neither spoke about affection.
They had agreed through letters that the arrangement would be practical.
Elias would provide a home.
Ita would help save the ranch.
If, after one year, either wanted to leave, there would be no argument.
It seemed simple.
Nothing about the Calder ranch was simple.
Three weeks passed.
Ita transformed the household without ever announcing that she was doing so.
She repaired the curtains.