No flowers.
Nothing that suggested anyone had cared about comfort in a long time.
Elias placed the trunk beside the bed.
“Firewood's by the stove.”
Lara nodded.
“The pantry?”
He pointed toward a narrow door.
“There.”
“And where will you sleep?”
“The barn.”
She turned sharply.
“In this weather?”
“The barn has a loft. It's dry.”
“But this is your house.”
He looked at her.
“And you're my guest.”
“Mr. Montgomery—”
“Elias.”
She stopped.
“What?”
“My name is Elias.”
Her lips parted.
“All right.”
He reached for his hat.
“Elias, then.”
His expression softened almost imperceptibly.
“I'll bring more wood before dark.”
Then he stepped outside.
The door closed.
Lara stood in the silent room.
For several minutes, she did nothing.
Then she sat on the edge of the bed.
And cried.
Not because the ranch was poor.
Not because the weather was cold.
Not because the man who owned it was distant.
She cried because she had crossed half a continent believing she was finally wanted.
Her brother had sold her a dream.
Someone else had turned that dream into public humiliation.
And now she was alone in a stranger's house, wondering whether the rest of her life would be another story in which she apologized for taking up space.
Eventually she wiped her cheeks.
Then she stood.
Her eyes moved toward the pantry.
She opened it.
Inside were sacks of coarse flour, salted beef, a few potatoes, one onion, hardtack, dried beans, and a small jar of honey.
Lara stared.
Then slowly smiled.
“Well,” she whispered, “I've certainly seen worse.”
She opened her trunk.
Beneath the dresses and blankets sat her mother's heavy Dutch oven.
She lifted it with practiced care.
Then removed the spice jars she had wrapped in cloth.
Thyme.
Rosemary.
Black pepper.
Smoked paprika.
A small tin of rendered fat.
And her mother's wooden spoon.
For the first time since leaving Boston, she felt certain of what to do.
She tied an apron around her wide waist.
Rolled up her sleeves.
Built the fire.
And began cooking.
The beef needed soaking to remove excess salt.
The potatoes needed trimming.
The onion was small.
But none of that mattered.
Good food, her mother used to say, began with attention rather than abundance.
Lara heated the Dutch oven.
She browned the meat slowly.
Added onion.
Then herbs.
Then water.
As the pot simmered, she prepared simple flatbread.
The stove warmed the room.
Steam gathered along the windows.