"Anything I can help with?"
She looked toward Chester.
"You talk to your horse."
I laughed.
"He's a better listener than most men."
She tilted her head.
"Does he answer?"
"Usually by doing the opposite of what I want."
For the first time, she laughed freely.
It was a beautiful sound.
Not because it was delicate or musical, but because I had heard her crying, pleading, and struggling to remain composed beneath that tree. I hadn't known whether she would be able to laugh again so soon.
Chester flicked his ears toward us.
"See?" I said. "Now he's offended."
She laughed again.
Then her expression softened.
"You have been alone a long time."
I looked toward the road.
"Yes."
"Why?"
I could have given her a simple answer.
My wife died.
I sold the ranch.
I preferred traveling.
But those facts didn't explain the loneliness.
So I told her the truth.
"Because leaving places became easier than losing people."
She considered that.
Then looked toward the hills.
"I understand."
We rode in silence for a while.
Then she spoke again.
"I was afraid to love my son."
I turned.
She kept her eyes on the road.
"After they told me he died, I tried not to remember his face. I thought if I remembered too much, the pain would kill me."
Her voice became quieter.
"Now I am afraid I have forgotten him."
I shook my head.
"You haven't."
She looked toward me.
"How can you know?"
"Because you've told me about him every day since we met."
She stared.
I continued.
"You remember his hands. His hair. The sound he made when he was hungry. You remember how he looked at you."
Her eyes filled.
"That isn't forgetting."
For a moment, she couldn't answer.
Then she reached across the side of the wagon and rested her hand briefly on my arm.
"Thank you, Callan."
It was the first time she had spoken my name without fear in her voice.
And I remembered it long after the sun went down.
We reached Silver Mesa shortly before noon on the third day.
The estate stood behind an iron gate on a broad plateau overlooking a green valley. The main house was enormous by territorial standards, with two stories, whitewashed walls, shaded balconies, and a stable larger than some of the ranch houses I had worked in.
Flower beds bordered the front walk.
A windmill turned beside a water tank.
Several fine horses grazed beyond a white fence.
It was the kind of place where a child might have everything money could purchase.
Except the truth about where she came from.