Mercy Callaway had never imagined that the road to Wyoming would end with seven pairs of suspicious eyes staring at her from the porch of a weather-beaten ranch house.
She had imagined a husband.
She had imagined a new life.
Perhaps even a little happiness.
She had not imagined seven boys, a broken kitchen, an empty pantry, and a woman in an expensive automobile watching her from the road as though she had arrived to steal something that belonged to her.
The train journey from Missouri had taken nearly two days.
Mercy spent most of it with one hand resting on the small leather case in her lap and the other touching the folded letter inside her coat pocket.
She had read that letter so many times that she knew every sentence by heart.
Thomas Bell was forty-four.
His wife had died nearly two years earlier.
He had seven sons.
The youngest was six.
The oldest was nineteen.
He owned a cattle ranch outside Lark Crossing, Wyoming.
He was not wealthy, although the ranch was considered respectable.
He did not promise romance.
He did not promise an easy life.
He had simply written:
I need someone who understands that a household is more than walls and furniture. If you are willing to come, I will offer you honesty and respect. If we find that we suit each other, I will marry you.
Mercy had stared at those words for a long time.
Other men had written to her before.
Some wanted a young wife.
Some wanted a woman who could cook, sew, and obey.
Some wanted companionship but expected a wife to become invisible once the wedding was over.
Thomas had been different.
He had not tried to charm her.
He had not told her she was beautiful.
He had not written that she was the answer to his prayers.
He had simply told her the truth.
Seven sons.
A grieving family.
A difficult ranch.
A hard life.
Mercy had decided that truth was worth more than romance.
At thirty-one, she had already learned that promises sounded beautiful only until real life arrived.
So she came.
When the train finally left her at the small station near Lark Crossing, the Wyoming wind nearly stole her hat.
She caught it with both hands.
Then she looked around.
There was almost nothing.
A wooden platform.
A water tower.
Two buildings.
A horse tied to a post.
And a man standing beside a dark bay horse, wearing a brown coat and a hat pulled low against the wind.
Mercy knew immediately that it was Thomas Bell.
He looked older than his letters.
Not old.
Just tired.
His face was hard around the eyes, as though grief had spent months carving lines into his skin.
He removed his hat.
“Miss Callaway?”
“Mrs. Callaway, if you insist on making me nervous.”
For the first time, Thomas smiled.
It was small.
Almost reluctant.
But it was genuine.
“I suppose I deserve that.”
Mercy looked at the horse.
Then at the wagon.
Then at him.
“Are all seven boys here?”
Thomas glanced toward the wagon.
“Yes.”
Mercy sighed.
“That is unfortunate.”
His eyebrows rose.
She smiled.
“I was hoping you had exaggerated.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
From inside the wagon came a boy's voice.
“Pa, is that her?”
Thomas closed his eyes.
Mercy smiled.
“I believe I've just been inspected.”
“You have.”
“Does the inspection ever end?”
“Not in this family.”
Mercy picked up her case.
“Then we'd better begin.”
The journey to the Bell ranch took almost an hour.
The landscape seemed endless.
Grass stretched toward distant hills beneath a sky so enormous that Mercy felt suddenly very small.
She had spent her entire life in Missouri.
Wyoming felt like another world.
Thomas drove quietly.
Eventually Mercy asked, “What should I know before we arrive?”
“About what?”
“The boys.”
Thomas considered.
“Caleb is nineteen. He thinks he is twenty-nine.”
“Good to know.”
“Samuel is sixteen. He talks when he's nervous.”
“Another useful detail.”
“Jonah is fourteen. He believes rules are suggestions.”
Mercy smiled.
“Sounds promising.”
“Eli is twelve. He thinks he's a comedian.”