A month earlier, he might have reacted with anger.
That evening, he simply looked tired.
"We're finished."
Miriam shook her head.
"No."
"We don't have enough feed."
"Then we'll find some."
"Where?"
"From the neighboring ranches."
"They're preparing for winter too."
"Then we trade."
"For what?"
"Work."
Elias stared at her.
"They won't agree."
"Have you asked?"
"No."
"Then you don't know."
The next morning, they rode to the nearest ranch.
The first owner refused.
The second barely let them finish speaking.
The third man, however, listened.
He needed several miles of fencing repaired before winter.
Miriam offered labor in exchange for hay.
The rancher laughed.
"You understand everyone around here needs fence work?"
"Yes."
"And you're offering to do mine?"
"With Elias."
The rancher looked at the exhausted rancher beside her.
"How much can you repair?"
Miriam gave him a number.
His eyebrows rose.
"That's a lot."
"We'll do it."
"And in exchange?"
"Hay."
He considered.
"Deal."
Elias looked at Miriam as though she had just performed some kind of magic.
She shrugged.
"It was a negotiation."
Over the next two days, they worked.
They repaired fences until their hands ached.
They carried posts.
Hammered nails.
Dragged wire.
Loaded hay.
And slowly, the Ward Ranch began receiving what it needed.
Then another ranch agreed.
Then another.
Miriam discovered something Elias had forgotten.
Red Creek was not simply a valley filled with competing ranchers.
It was a community.
People remembered who helped them.
They remembered who showed up when a fence collapsed.
Who lent a horse.
Who shared feed.
Who worked without asking what they would receive in return.
Elias had spent years believing that being strong meant carrying everything alone.
Miriam showed him another definition of strength.
Sometimes strength meant knowing when to knock on a neighbor's door.
The next problem was the river.
Miriam had noticed the low water level on her first tour.
Now she followed the river upstream.
Elias rode beside her.
"There," she said.
He looked.
A narrow channel carried part of the river away from the main flow.
"That's been there for years."
"Where does it go?"
"Toward the old mill."
"How much water do they take?"
"They have rights."
"How much?"
Elias hesitated.
Miriam dismounted.
She followed the channel.
A few minutes later, she found a larger diversion system hidden among the trees.
She returned to Elias.
"They've expanded it."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Maybe they have permission."
"Maybe."
She looked at him.
"Do you have a copy of their permit?"
"No."
"Then get one."
The mill owner was not pleased when Elias arrived.
"You have no business questioning my water rights."
Elias remained calm.
"I'm asking to see the permit."
"It's legal."
"Then showing the permit shouldn't be difficult."
The man hesitated.
Miriam stood beside Elias.
She said nothing.
She did not need to.
Eventually, the document was produced.
The authorization covered the original diversion.
The larger channel had been added later.
Without approval.
Elias filed the necessary complaint.
The diversion was reduced.
Within days, water began returning to the river.
The cattle would have enough.
But Miriam was not finished.
The western field was still waiting.
Elias expected little.
He was wrong.
They broke the compacted soil before the hard freeze.
It was not enough to produce a miracle overnight.
But it was enough to change the field's future.
Water could reach deeper.
Roots could establish.
Come spring, grass would have a chance.
For the first time, Elias looked at Miriam not as the woman his mother had arranged for him to marry.
He looked at her as a partner.
He did not tell her.
Not yet.
There were still too many problems.
And winter had not arrived.