She glanced at him.
“Careful.”
“What?”
“You’re about to become nostalgic.”
“Never.”
“Good.”
“I would hate to have you sentimental.”
Caleb smiled.
“You married me.”
“Temporary lapse.”
“Thirty years?”
“I’m patient.”
Caleb laughed.
The sound had changed with age.
Lower.
Rougher.
Still the same laugh she had first heard beside a chuck wagon when she insulted his cooking judgment.
Henrietta put down her pencil.
“What are you doing here?”
“Visiting my wife.”
“You live seventy feet away.”
“I missed you.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“What did you break?”
His expression became offended.
“Nothing.”
“Caleb.”
He reached into his coat.
Henrietta sighed.
There it was.
He placed a folded letter on her desk.
She recognized the handwriting immediately.
Emily.
Henrietta’s face softened.
Emily Carter had come into their lives at fourteen after her mother, May, died during an influenza outbreak.
At first Emily stayed “until spring.”
Then “until after summer contracts.”
Then “until we find something better.”
Eventually nobody used temporary words.
She became their daughter in every way that mattered, though Henrietta never demanded she use the word.
Emily eventually did.
On her own.
That had mattered more.
Emily now lived outside Denver with her husband and three children. She managed the western office of the supply business Henrietta had once believed would never grow beyond one wagon.
Henrietta opened the letter.
The first page contained family news.
A broken wrist.
School trouble.
A new freight contract.
The second page changed tone.
Henrietta read silently.
Then again.
Caleb watched.
“What?”
“She wants us to come for Christmas.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“She says Clara is asking.”
“Grandchildren are manipulative.”
Henrietta looked up.
“You taught them.”
“I taught bargaining.”
“Same thing.”
She kept reading.
The final paragraph stopped her.
Mama, I know you and Papa always say the company belongs to those who work it now, not to the people who began it. But the Denver men keep using your name to close contracts. Some of them are turning “Henrietta Lawson standards” into something I don’t think you would recognize. I need you to come see this before I make a decision that affects all three branches.
Henrietta’s expression changed.
Caleb saw immediately.
“What?”
She handed him the letter.
He read more slowly than she did.
Always had.
Not poorly.
Carefully.
By the time he finished, his mouth had flattened.
“What standards?”
Henrietta stood.
Her knees objected.
She waited until they settled.
“I suppose we’re going to Denver.”
Caleb looked horrified.
“In December?”
“You survived Montana.”
“Texas froze me enough.”
“Pack coat.”
“You do realize we are old?”
Henrietta looked at him.
“I am.”
“You are merely slow.”
“Cruel.”
“Pack.”
Three weeks later, they boarded the train north.
Henrietta had traveled by rail many times.
She still disliked it.
Not because trains frightened her.
Because railroad seats seemed designed by narrow men who believed all bodies came from one mold.
Caldwell-Lawson always purchased two adjacent seats for her on longer runs. Henrietta hated paying twice at first.
Caleb had been furious the first time.
“This is theft.”
Henrietta had answered:
“No. Theft is taking without permission.”