Only wind.
Silas drove the wagon while Eleanor sat beside him.
For the first hour, they barely spoke.
Eleanor had removed her hat and secured it beside her.
Her dark hair had loosened slightly from the journey.
Silas kept his eyes on the road.
“You're staring,” she said.
“I am not.”
“You've looked at me twelve times.”
He frowned.
“You counted?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you are predictable.”
“I am not predictable.”
“You are.”
“How?”
“You look whenever you think I won't notice.”
Silas tightened his grip on the reins.
“You're very confident.”
“No.”
She looked toward the mountains.
“I'm observant.”
He studied her profile.
“You're not what you wrote.”
“What did I write?”
“That you were willing to live simply.”
“I am.”
“That you were accustomed to country life.”
“I am.”
“That you didn't care for luxury.”
“I don't.”
He glanced at the sapphire dress.
“You're wearing enough silk to buy a year's worth of hay.”
She laughed.
“This?”
“Yes.”
“This dress was my mother's.”
Silas said nothing.
“She wore it when she traveled west with my father.”
He looked at her.
“I thought you said you were from Philadelphia.”
“My mother was.”
“Was?”
“She died three years ago.”
“I didn't know.”
“You didn't ask.”
The words were gentle, but they carried weight.
Silas looked back at the road.
“I'm sorry.”
“Thank you.”
They rode another mile.
“Your father?”
“Dead.”
“When?”
“Eleven years ago.”
Silas nodded.
“Then you understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Loss.”
Eleanor looked at him.
“Yes.”
He swallowed.
“Rebecca died seven years ago.”
“I know.”
“You shouldn't have read that part of the letter.”
“I didn't.”
He looked at her sharply.
“You didn't?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“You mentioned her in another letter.”
He frowned.
“I did?”
“Your third.”
He searched his memory.
He had written that letter late at night.
He had been drunk.
He had written about the ranch, the winter, his mother, his brother Daniel, and Rebecca.
He had forgotten.
“You remember everything.”
“I remember what matters.”
The wagon rolled over a rough patch.
Eleanor's shoulder brushed his.
Neither moved away.
Silas stared at the road.
“You're not afraid of me.”
“No.”
“Most women would be.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't talk much.”
“That isn't frightening.”
“I have a temper.”
“So do I.”
“I've killed men.”