“Right.”
The rancher almost smiled.
Fair.
They made beds from whatever existed.
Blankets from trunks.
Spare quilts.
Bedrolls used by ranch hands.
Two children shared mattresses.
The twins refused separate beds despite an available room.
The older girl insisted the toddler sleep with her.
The rancher did not argue.
Then came supper.
He had beef.
Beans.
Bread.
Enough.
But feeding nine children revealed problems he had never considered.
The youngest boy hated beans.
One twin ate too quickly.
The toddler could not hold the spoon properly.
The older girl fed her instead of eating.
The rancher noticed.
He moved his chair.
“I'll do it.”
She immediately pulled the toddler closer.
“No.”
The rancher stopped.
“She's hungry.”
“I can feed her.”
“You haven't eaten.”
“I will.”
He understood.
Control.
The older girl had kept the toddler alive inside uncertainty.
Giving up that duty to a strange man was not simple.
The rancher returned to his seat.
“All right.”
He cut another piece of bread.
Then pushed it toward the older girl.
“Eat while you feed her.”
She hesitated.
Then took it.
Later, the smallest boy spilled milk.
The cup hit the table.
White liquid ran across the boards.
The child froze.
Absolutely froze.
His face drained.
The rancher reached for a cloth.
The boy whispered:
“I'm sorry.”
“It's milk.”
“I didn't mean—”
“I know.”
The boy slid from his chair.
The rancher frowned.
“Where are you going?”
The boy's eyes widened.
He clearly expected punishment.
The rancher understood too late.
He softened his voice.
“Sit.”
The boy did.
The rancher wiped the milk.
“That’s it?”
The child asked.
The rancher looked at him.
“What else?”
No answer.
The rancher set the cloth aside.
The children exchanged glances.
Something had happened before the widow took them in.
Maybe different things.
Maybe many things.
The rancher realized nine children meant nine histories, not one problem.
That night, after everyone slept, he stood alone in the kitchen.
Almost midnight.
Nine children upstairs.
One rancher downstairs.
Forty-eight hours.