“The code on that tag means transfer.”
“How sure?”
“Completely.”
She turned it over.
“Look.”
A faint number appeared beneath the writing.
47-D
Pritchard, who had remained in Fort Collins rather than continue his business route, leaned closer.
“That looks like freight notation.”
Everybody turned.
He pointed.
“Forty-seven could be consignment.”
“D could be Denver.”
Eliza’s heart pounded.
“Can you find out?”
Pritchard nodded slowly.
“Maybe.”
“How?”
“I know freight clerks.”
Caleb studied him.
“Why are you helping?”
Pritchard looked uncomfortable.
“Because I spent three days wishing your baby would shut up.”
Silence.
He looked toward Samuel.
“And then I watched a woman who had buried her child save him while I complained about my head.”
He rubbed his jaw.
“I don't like who that made me.”
No one mocked him.
Pritchard took the tag information.
“I'll check the rail office.”
He left.
Mrs. Henderson looked at Eliza.
“People can surprise you.”
Eliza watched the door.
“Yes.”
She looked toward Caleb.
“They can.”
That night Samuel refused to settle.
Not from hunger.
He simply cried.
Eliza had fed him.
Changed him.
Walked with him.
Caleb tried holding him against his chest.
Nothing.
By midnight, exhaustion had taken all three of them.
Eliza sat on the edge of the bed in her boardinghouse room.
Caleb paced near the window with Samuel.
“Give him here.”
“You need sleep.”
“So do you.”
“I've slept.”
“When?”
Caleb did not answer.
Eliza held out her arms.
He handed Samuel over.
The baby quieted slightly.
Caleb looked offended.
“He likes you better.”
Eliza smiled faintly.
“He likes milk.”
“Same thing.”
She laughed.
Samuel settled against her.
Caleb watched.
Eliza felt his gaze.
Not on her body.
On the baby.
Yet the room was small.
The hour late.
Her hair loose because she had removed its pins.
Caleb wore only a linen shirt and trousers, his broad frame seeming too large for the narrow boardinghouse chair.
The intimacy of the scene reached them both at once.
Eliza looked down.
Caleb looked toward the window.
Neither spoke.
Finally Eliza whispered:
“Did you love her?”
Caleb turned.
“Margaret?”
“Yes.”
“Very much.”
Eliza nodded.
“Tell me about her.”
He stared.
Most people avoided Margaret’s name.
They offered condolences.
Then moved away from grief as quickly as possible.
Eliza waited.
Caleb sat.
“She sang badly.”
Eliza looked surprised.
He smiled.
“Terribly.”
“What songs?”
“Everything.”
“She made up words when she forgot them.”
Samuel shifted.
Caleb’s smile faded gently.
“She wanted six children.”
Eliza swallowed.
“Six?”