Clara stepped down from the train.
The wind immediately caught her bonnet.
She grabbed it.
A horse whinnied nearby.
Then she saw him.
A tall man stood beside a dark bay horse near the station fence.
He wore a faded brown coat and a black hat pulled low over his eyes.
He was not smiling.
He looked tired.
Not ordinary tiredness.
The kind of exhaustion that seemed to live beneath the skin.
He removed his hat when Clara approached.
"Miss Whitmore?"
"Yes."
"I'm Samuel Hayes."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Clara looked at the man she had agreed to marry.
Samuel looked at the woman who had traveled halfway across the country to become his wife.
"You brought much luggage?"
"One suitcase."
He looked mildly surprised.
"That's all?"
"Everything else I owned was taken by the bank."
Something flickered across his face.
Regret, perhaps.
But it vanished quickly.
"I'm sorry."
"So am I."
His mouth almost moved into a smile.
Almost.
"Come on. It's a long ride."
The wagon waited beyond the station.
Clara climbed aboard.
Samuel drove.
For the first several miles, they said nothing.
Finally Clara asked, "Are your sons at the ranch?"
"Most of them."
"Most?"
"They don't always stay where they're supposed to."
She looked at him.
"That sounds difficult."
"It is."
"How many will be home tonight?"
"All six, if I can get them back before dark."
Clara stared at the road ahead.
"And what exactly do you expect from me?"
Samuel's hands tightened around the reins.
"Honesty."
"Anything else?"
"Don't try to replace their mother."
Clara blinked.
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good."
"Then what am I supposed to be?"
He was silent for a long time.
"Someone who stays."
Those words stayed with her.
The ranch appeared just before sunset.
It was larger than Clara expected but far poorer.
The main house had peeling paint and a sagging porch. The barn roof needed repair. Several fence posts had fallen. A windmill turned slowly against the evening sky.
Six boys were waiting outside.
Clara counted them.
The oldest stood nearest the porch.
He was eighteen, perhaps, with dark hair and the guarded expression of someone who had stopped trusting adults.
Beside him stood a sixteen-year-old, thinner and sharper.
A thirteen-year-old leaned against a fence post.
Two younger boys stood together.
And the smallest one was sitting on the porch steps.
He looked about four.
No one welcomed her.
Samuel climbed down.
"Boys."
Six pairs of eyes looked at Clara.
"This is Clara."
The oldest answered.
"We know."
Samuel's jaw tightened.
"Come inside."
Nobody moved.
Then the youngest boy stood.
He stared at Clara for several seconds.
"Are you going to leave too?"
The question struck harder than anything else could have.
Clara crouched down.
"I don't know."
The boy looked confused.
She continued.
"But I didn't come here planning to leave."
His name was Noah.
The oldest was Daniel.
The others were Matthew, Isaac, Caleb, and Ben.
Their mother had died from pneumonia two winters earlier.
Samuel had tried to keep the family together.
But he had spent most of his days on horseback, working the ranch.
Daniel had become responsible for the younger boys.
Matthew had become the cook.
Isaac handled the horses.
Caleb repaired whatever broke.
Ben collected eggs.
Noah wandered wherever nobody was looking.
The house was not filthy.
It was worse.
It was a house where everyone was exhausted.
Clara discovered that within ten minutes.
There were six plates stacked beside the kitchen sink.
A pot sat cold on the stove.
The pantry contained flour, dried beans, potatoes, salt, and almost nothing else.
A loaf of bread had been divided into six uneven pieces.
Clara stared at it.
"Is this dinner?"
Matthew crossed his arms.
"It was supposed to be."