“Is he?”
“No.”
Mercy laughed.
Thomas continued.
“Matthew is ten. He reads everything he can find.”
“I like him already.”
“Jacob is eight. He follows the older boys everywhere.”
“And the youngest?”
“Peter is six.”
Thomas's voice changed slightly when he said the name.
Mercy noticed.
“What about him?”
“He still asks when his mother is coming home.”
Mercy looked down.
“I see.”
“I don't expect you to replace her.”
“I couldn't.”
Thomas glanced at her.
“That is the first thing you've said today that makes me think you understand this house.”
Mercy turned toward him.
“I wouldn't want to replace a woman I never knew.”
The ranch appeared beyond a line of cottonwoods.
The house was larger than Mercy expected, but badly maintained.
The roof needed repair.
Several fence posts leaned.
A barn stood behind the house.
Three horses were tied outside.
And seven boys were waiting on the porch.
The oldest crossed his arms.
He had dark hair and the same eyes as Thomas.
“This is Caleb,” Thomas said.
Caleb nodded.
“Ma said strangers don't stay.”
Thomas's jaw tightened.
“Your mother also died eighteen months ago.”
Caleb looked at him.
“That doesn't change what she said.”
Mercy stepped down from the wagon.
“No,” she said. “But it does mean she wasn't talking about me.”
The other boys looked at her.
Caleb seemed surprised.
Mercy picked up her case.
“Where do I put this?”
Thomas pointed toward the house.
“Your room is upstairs.”
“Good.”
She walked past the boys.
Then stopped.
She turned.
“And which one of you is going to show me the kitchen?”
Seven boys looked at one another.
Finally, Peter raised his hand.
“I know where it is.”
“Excellent.”
He ran toward her.
Mercy followed.
Behind them, Thomas looked at Caleb.
Caleb looked back.
Neither man knew that the arrival of Mercy Callaway would change the Bell ranch forever.
And neither knew that someone in Lark Crossing had already decided she must leave.
The kitchen was a disaster.
Mercy stood in the doorway.
She did not speak.
Peter stood beside her.
“Well?”
She slowly looked around.
“Does your family eat?”
Peter nodded.
“When?”
“Mostly when Pa remembers.”
Mercy turned toward the pantry.
Inside were two sacks of flour, a small quantity of beans, potatoes beginning to sprout, a little sugar, some dried meat, and almost nothing else.
She opened the icebox.
There was milk.
Barely.
She closed it.
“Peter.”
“Yes?”
“When did you last eat?”
“Breakfast.”
“What did you have?”
He thought carefully.
“Bread.”
“Anything with it?”
“No.”
Mercy looked at the empty table.
“Then we are going to have supper.”
Peter smiled.
“But we don't have much.”
“Neither did my aunt when I was ten.”
“What did she do?”
“She learned how to make something from almost nothing.”
Mercy rolled up her sleeves.
By sunset, the kitchen smelled completely different.
Onions sizzled in a pan.
Beans simmered.
Potatoes roasted.
Mercy found enough flour to make biscuits.
She discovered a small jar of dried herbs behind a shelf.
She used every scrap carefully.
The boys began appearing one by one.
Caleb stood in the doorway.
“What are you making?”
“Supper.”
“We have supper.”
Mercy looked at him.
“Not this kind.”
He frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means if you continue asking questions, it will become tomorrow's breakfast.”
Samuel laughed.
Caleb glared at him.
Mercy placed the first biscuits on a plate.
Thomas entered.
He stopped.
For a moment he simply stood there.
Mercy looked over her shoulder.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.”
He looked around the kitchen.
“When was the last time this room smelled like that?”
Mercy understood.
He was not talking about food.
He was talking about home.
They ate together at the long table.
At first nobody spoke.
Then Peter asked for more potatoes.
Jacob asked for another biscuit.
Samuel asked whether there was more gravy.
Even Caleb eventually pushed his empty plate forward.
Mercy filled it.
Thomas watched.
“You don't have to feed everyone twice.”
Mercy glanced at him.
“They're growing.”