She hesitated, which was rare enough that he noticed it. "The bunkhouse." "What about it?" "It's not holding heat the way it should. There's a gap in the north wall I found when I was in there with the children yesterday.
If that stays open through December, it's going to be a serious problem." He hadn't been in the bunkhouse in months. He hadn't thought about it because he'd been trying not to think about everything that needed doing and couldn't all be done at once. "I'll patch it," he said. "Evan can help.
He's good with his hands." Caleb looked at her. "You're not bothered," he said, "by him working." "He's 12," she said, "not five.
He needs to work. He's been restless since we stopped traveling. Having something to do is better for him than sitting still." She paused. "He's not doing it because I make him.
He goes looking for it." Caleb thought about the fence post. The horses fed without being asked. The way Evan had approached the morning chores with the same quiet seriousness that his mother brought to the kitchen.
"I noticed," he said. She picked the paper back up and started writing again. After a moment, she said without looking up, "I know you didn't plan for this to be what it is." He sat down across the table from her.
"No," he said. "I didn't plan for a lot of things either," she said. "Plans and what happens aren't always the same thing." "What happened to your husband?"
He said, and immediately wasn't sure why he'd asked. She kept writing for a moment. Then she stopped, but she didn't look up from the paper. "Fever," she said, "last spring.
It came fast and it didn't slow down." A pause. "We weren't we were managing with the ranch, and then we weren't, and then he was gone, and I had about 3 weeks to decide what to do before the bank came about the mortgage." "I'm sorry," he said.