“If you never do, I will still make sure you eat.”
“Still make sure you go to school when weather allows.”
“Still stop you from riding a washed-out north fence when your father specifically told me not to let you.”
Thomas stared.
Lena handed him hammer.
“Fix the gate.”
He took it.
Furious.
She rode away.
That evening he brought her coffee.
Set it beside her ledger.
No apology.
Lena drank it.
No demand.
Summer arrived.
Then autumn.
By September Lena had lived at Reid ranch nearly a year.
The harvest social was held at Prescott’s enormous white house near town.
Everyone came.
Ranchers.
Farmers.
Store clerks.
Banker.
Preacher.
Music.
Tables of food.
Prescott Mercantile had sponsored the gathering for fifteen years.
Adeline Prescott stood near the front porch wearing green silk.
Thirty.
Unmarried.
Beautiful in the expensive, carefully arranged way that announced nobody in her household hauled water.
She saw Reid first.
Her smile changed.
Then she saw Lena.
That changed it again.
“Mr. Reid.”
Reid removed hat.
“Miss Prescott.”
“Still alive, then.”
He frowned.
Adeline looked toward Lena.
“Your wife, I mean.”
Lena smiled.
“Apparently.”
Adeline laughed.
“I heard the boys gave you a week.”
“They underestimated me.”
“Children do.”
Her eyes moved over Lena’s plain burgundy dress.
Not rude enough to be called rude.
“I admire courage.”
“Do you?”
“A man with seven sons cannot afford to be particular.”
Reid’s face tightened.
Lena touched his arm before he spoke.
Adeline smiled sweetly.