Then he looked toward the general store.
“I need provisions.”
“Certainly.”
“And I need to speak with you about the other matter.”
Martha had moved closer.
So had nearly everybody else.
Red Hollow had approximately four hundred residents and the collective restraint of four people.
The Reverend cleared his throat.
“Perhaps inside.”
Nathaniel looked at the children.
“No.”
“They've been listening to adults make decisions about them for two months.”
“If this concerns them, they can hear it.”
That sentence made Clara look at him differently.
The Reverend hesitated.
Then nodded.
“All right.”
Nathaniel removed his gloves.
“I need a wife.”
Silence.
Even Clara stopped breathing for a moment.
Someone near the alley coughed.
Martha Pritchard’s eyes widened with interest.
The Reverend glanced around at the rapidly growing audience.
“I believe Mr. Cole means—”
“I mean exactly that.”
Nathaniel’s voice was quiet.
That made everybody listen harder.
“My wife died in August.”
His eyes moved briefly toward the wagon.
The eleven-year-old girl looked down.
Nathaniel continued.
“Fever.”
“The children’s mother was Apache.”
“My ranch sits north of Black Pine Ridge.”
“Two days from here by wagon if weather behaves.”
“Longer in winter.”
He folded his gloves.
“I've spent eight weeks trying to handle five children, cattle, horses, repairs, cooking, laundry, lessons, and everything else two people used to divide.”
He looked toward the wagon.
“I am failing.”
The directness surprised Clara.
Men in Red Hollow rarely admitted failure before collapsing from it.
Nathaniel continued.
“The roof leaks over the pantry.”
“One chimney needs pointing.”
“The youngest still wakes at night looking for his mother.”
“Samuel’s cough has returned.”
“My oldest daughter has started doing work she shouldn't have to do because she thinks if she doesn't, everything falls apart.”
The girl holding the toddler looked away.
Nathaniel saw.