His wife.
Even from the grave.
He lowered the pages.
For a long time, nobody spoke.
Finally:
“You waited six months.”
The Apache woman nodded.
“Why?”
“She died eight months ago.”
“Yes.”
“You could have come immediately.”
“I almost did.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because grief crowds a house.”
He stared.
She continued:
“You had family.”
“Friends.”
“People everywhere.”
“I didn’t know whether coming then would help or turn me into another person asking you to feel something.”
The father looked toward the corral.
“Then why now?”
The woman breathed.
“Three weeks ago, I ran into one of her old nursing classmates.”
“She asked whether I had ever gone to see you.”
“I said no.”
“She told me she’d heard you were trying to run the ranch while caring for the baby alone.”
He frowned.
“Who told her?”
“Small world.”
“That means gossip.”
“Yes.”
He almost smiled despite himself.
The woman continued:
“I drove out here twice.”
The father looked at her.
“What?”
“First time I reached the county road.”
“Turned around.”
“Second time I got to the ridge where you can see the barn.”
“Turned around again.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t know whether the letter was an invitation or an intrusion.”
He held the pages tighter.
“And today?”
“I got tired of being afraid of the answer.”
That he understood.
The baby began fussing.
The father bounced her.
Nothing.
The Apache woman waited.
He looked at her.
“Would you…”
He hated how difficult the words were.
She did not rescue him.
Good.
He finished:
“Would you sing?”
She smiled.
“Yes.”
She hummed.
The baby quieted.
That was how she entered the ranch.
Not as a nanny.
That became clear before sunset.
The father eventually invited her inside because standing beside the corral while processing a letter from his dead wife seemed absurd.
She sat at the kitchen table.
He made coffee.
Then forgot to give her any.
She reminded him.
He apologized.
The baby sat in a high chair between them chewing the corner of a silicone spoon.
The father asked:
“So what exactly did she expect you to do?”
The Apache woman shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“You came with a saddlebag.”
“Not a suitcase.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m not moving in.”
He nodded too quickly.
She raised an eyebrow.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Silence.
Then both almost smiled.
The woman explained her own life.
She was thirty-one.
Registered nurse.