“She knows the house.”
“I gathered.”
“She lived there?”
“For a while.”
Graham looked at him.
“You talked to her?”
“Five minutes.”
“You learn everything in five minutes?”
“I learned enough.”
Graham adjusted the girth harder than necessary.
Silas said:
“Your mother wrote me once.”
Graham stopped.
Six years compressed into one breath.
“The job.”
Silas nodded.
“I kept the letter.”
Graham stared.
“Why?”
“Didn't know.”
“Maybe because something about it never sat right.”
“You could have asked me.”
“Yes.”
Anger returned.
Silas accepted it.
“I trusted your mother's word.”
“More than mine.”
“You never gave me yours.”
Graham turned.
Silas held his gaze.
The sentence hurt because it was accurate.
“You were supposed to arrive on the fifteenth.”
“You didn't.”
“I assumed you changed your mind.”
“Then I got her letter.”
“I should've written you directly before filling the place.”
Silas looked toward the open yard.
“I didn't.”
Graham said nothing.
Silas continued.
“I was wrong there.”
Simple.
No defense.
Graham hated how powerful a straightforward admission could be.
His mother could have saved them both six years with one.
“Keep the ranch running.”
Silas nodded.
“I usually do.”
Graham mounted.
By noon he discovered Lila had delayed her stage by a day.
Not for him.
She said so immediately.
“The south road washed out ten miles below town.”
Graham nodded.
“I'm riding.”
She looked at his horse.
“Juniper Bend?”
“Yes.”
Lila hesitated.
“My road goes that direction.”
Graham sighed.
“You want to travel together.”
“No.”
He frowned.
She continued.
“I would prefer not to travel alone.”
“Different statement.”
“Yes.”
“You always answer that precisely?”
“When precision prevents misunderstanding.”
Graham thought of his mother.
Then the difference.
His mother would have made the choice for him and called it practicality.
Lila made her request and waited.
“All right.”
They left the following morning.
The first day held little conversation.
Graham preferred it.
Lila seemed comfortable with silence, which made her easier to ride beside than most people.
The second day, rain trapped them beneath an abandoned freight shelter for two hours.
Lila removed her gloves and held her hands toward the small fire Graham built.
“You're staring.”
Graham looked away.
“I wasn't.”
“You were.”
“At your hands.”
She examined them.
“Do they offend you?”
“They don't look like a teacher's.”
Lila smiled.
“Because I mend clothes.”
“And cook.”
“And haul water.”
“And once helped rebuild a chicken coop after Mrs. Alder declared the carpenter had no understanding of angles.”
Graham looked at her.
“My mother said that?”
“Repeatedly.”
He almost smiled.
Lila saw.
There.
Gone.
“You lived with her how long?”
“Three years.”
“Why?”
Lila shrugged.
“My teaching appointment vanished before I arrived.”
“What?”