“So you kept away from me because you wanted my ownership protected?”
“That was one reason.”
“One?”
Callaway looked miserable.
“The other was that I wanted you.”
Maeve said nothing.
He gave a humorless laugh.
“More than was useful.”
Heat returned despite everything.
Callaway continued.
“And I knew wanting you could make every decision look suspect.”
Maeve looked down at the deed.
“What happens now?”
“Now you decide.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means half the ranch is yours. Half the cattle profits after operating expenses are yours from the date of your father’s death, though there isn’t much cash because most went back into the herd.”
Maeve stared.
“You kept accounts?”
Callaway pointed toward the ledger.
“Every year.”
“For me?”
“For whoever inherited Patrick’s share.”
Maeve opened the ledger.
There were columns.
Cattle sales.
Feed.
Repairs.
Taxes.
Half-interest distributions marked but never withdrawn.
Years of them.
Maeve looked up.
“How much?”
“Enough that you can leave tomorrow and never need me to pay your passage again.”
The answer hurt in a place she could not name.
“And if I leave?”
“I drive you to town when the road clears.”
“And the ranch?”
“You can sell your half.”
“To Mercer?”
His jaw tightened.
“If you choose.”
“You’d lose everything.”
“Probably.”
“And you’d let me?”
Callaway looked directly at her.
“It’s yours.”
Maeve’s eyes filled.
She hated him a little for saying exactly the right thing after doing something so wrong.
“Do you know what is worst?”
“No.”
“I came here believing I had nothing.”
Callaway’s face tightened.
“I know.”
“You watched me live that way.”
“Yes.”
“And you told yourself silence was protection.”
“Yes.”
Maeve wiped angrily at one eye.
“That was not your choice to make.”
“No.”
The simplicity of his answer broke something.
Not forgiveness.
But the beginning of it.
She sat on the bed.
Callaway remained standing.
After a long silence, Maeve asked, “Did my father know you?”
“Not as an adult.”
“You were a child?”
“Eleven when he left.”
“Did he remember you?”
Callaway picked up one of the blue-ribbon letters.
“He asked about me.”
Maeve unfolded it.
The handwriting was her father’s.
Older than she remembered.
The letter had been addressed to Thomas Callaway.
Patrick wrote about Ireland.
About his wife.
About the daughter born after his return.
Maeve.
He had written:
She has her mother’s eyes and my stubbornness, which is surely a punishment for something I did in Montana.
Maeve laughed through tears.
Callaway almost smiled.
She continued reading.
Patrick asked about the ranch.
Asked whether the north pasture still filled with purple flowers in spring.