She turned.
He regretted saying it.
But Eleanor only asked, “Did they deserve it?”
“Two did.”
“And the third?”
Silas's expression hardened.
“The third was war.”
Eleanor looked away.
“I see.”
They rode in silence.
After several minutes, she said, “You think I came here because I needed a husband.”
Silas looked at her.
“Didn't you?”
“No.”
The answer was so immediate that he nearly pulled the reins.
“Then why did you answer my advertisement?”
“I'll tell you when we're at the ranch.”
“You're going to make me wait?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you don't listen when you're angry.”
He frowned.
“I listen.”
“You react.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Very different.”
The ranch house appeared just before dark.
It was larger than Eleanor had expected.
A two-story structure of rough timber and stone, surrounded by corrals, barns, sheds, and fenced pasture.
Smoke rose from the chimney.
Several cowboys emerged from the bunkhouse.
They stared.
Silas climbed down.
“This is Eleanor Vale.”
One of the men grinned.
“So this is the bride.”
Silas glared.
The man stopped smiling.
Eleanor stepped down from the wagon.
She looked around.
Then she breathed in.
The air was cold.
Clean.
Wild.
Her expression softened.
Silas noticed.
“You like it.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
She looked at him.
“It's beautiful.”
He nodded.
“It is.”
They stood together beneath the evening sky.
For one quiet moment, the ranch did not seem lonely.
Then Eleanor noticed something.
A small white cross near the cottonwoods.
She stared.
“Who is buried there?”
Silas's face changed.
“Rebecca.”
Eleanor looked at him.
He expected discomfort.
Instead, she said softly, “Take me there.”
“Why?”
“Because if I'm going to live here, I want to know who came before me.”
Silas did not answer.
He simply walked.
They reached the grave together.
The stone was simple.
Rebecca Creed.
Beloved wife.
1878–1881.
Eleanor stood before it.
Silas watched her.
“You don't have to say anything.”
“I know.”
She lowered her eyes.
“She was young.”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Twenty-four.”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“I'm twenty-seven.”
“I know.”
“You loved her.”
“Yes.”
“Do you still?”
Silas stared at the grave.
“I don't know how to stop loving someone who is dead.”
Eleanor's throat tightened.
“You shouldn't.”
He looked at her.