“And then she died.”
The rancher did not know how to answer that.
Promises could fail without betrayal.
Children did not care about the distinction when the result felt the same.
He finally said:
“I’m not her.”
The boy's eyes hardened.
“I know.”
The rancher let the harshness pass.
He deserved none of the child's trust yet.
They loaded the wagon.
Rain eased near sunset.
The road east was terrible.
Wheels sank repeatedly.
The smaller children huddled beneath blankets.
The twins whispered to each other.
The oldest girl kept the toddler in her lap.
The twelve-year-old boy rode near the back, watching every turn as though memorizing an escape route.
The rancher drove.
After several miles, one younger boy asked:
“Is your house big?”
“Big enough.”
“Do you have horses?”
“Yes.”
“Cows?”
“Cattle.”
“A lot?”
“Too many when fences break.”
The boy almost smiled.
Another child asked:
“Do you have a dog?”
The rancher paused.
“No.”
The twins looked offended.
“No dog?”
“No.”
“What kind of ranch doesn't have a dog?”
The rancher considered.
“Apparently a badly managed one.”
The older girl laughed quietly.
First laugh.
Small.
But real.
The rancher heard it.
He did not turn around.
By the time they reached the ranch, darkness had settled.
The main house stood two stories tall with a long porch and stone chimney.
It had once belonged to the rancher's parents.
After they died, most rooms stayed shut.
He used the kitchen, downstairs bedroom, office, and sometimes dining room.
Everything else had become storage for ghosts.
The children stepped down from the wagon.
Nobody spoke.
The rancher lit lamps.
One by one.
The front hallway looked larger filled with nine frightened faces.
Dust covered the banister.
Three bedrooms had furniture under sheets.
One room contained boxes of tack records.
Another held his mother's old sewing table.
The rancher suddenly saw the house through their eyes.
Cold.
Dark.
Empty.
Not prepared.
The twelve-year-old boy noticed too.
“You knew we were coming?”
“For about four hours.”