“Lydia Ward was a friend of mine. A true lady. It is unpleasant seeing a stranger settle into her kitchen as if grief were an opportunity.”
Clara’s hands tightened around the flour sack.
“I’m not replacing anyone.”
“No,” Adeline said softly. “Of course not. Women like you rarely replace. You attach.”
Clara walked out before she answered with her hand.
The laughter followed her into the street.
That evening, Silas asked if people in town had been cruel.
Clara paused at the stove.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because they always are when someone new comes.”
He was peeling potatoes with the seriousness of a man performing surgery.
“They were cruel to Mama sometimes. Said she was too soft for ranch life. Said Pa should have married someone with land.”
Clara sat down across from him.
“People who have nothing useful to give often give opinions.”
Silas considered that.
“Mrs. Crowe told Pa after Mama died that he should send us east to Aunt Laurel.”
“What did your father say?”
Silas’s mouth twitched.
“He told her if she stepped on his porch again without being invited, he’d let the dogs decide whether she stayed.”
Clara almost laughed.
“He said that?”
“Pa was better then.”
The words landed quietly.
Clara looked toward the window, where Gideon stood outside repairing a fence rail in the fading light.
“He may be better again.”
Silas followed her gaze.
“Do you think so?”
“I think some people don’t die when they break. They just need help finding where to mend.”
The first true danger came through Ruth.
It happened near midnight, when Clara woke to the sound of retching upstairs.
She ran barefoot to the girl’s room and found Ruth doubled over a basin, trembling so hard the bed shook. Sweat shone on her forehead. Her lips were pale. Her eyes were unfocused.
Gideon appeared moments later, shirt untucked, panic cutting through his face.
“What is it?”
“Poison or fever,” Clara said. “Maybe both. Ruth, look at me. Did you eat anything unusual?”
Ruth tried to speak and gagged again.
Silas hovered in the doorway, white-faced.
“We were in the loft yesterday,” he said.
“What did you eat?”
“Nothing.”
Clara turned on him.
“Silas.”
His eyes filled.
“Berries. Behind the barn. Ruth said they looked like chokecherries.”
Clara’s stomach dropped.
“Show me.”
She followed him to the barn with a lantern. In the loft, behind a cracked crate, she found a handful of dark purple berries wrapped in cloth.
Not chokecherries.
Deadly enough if too many were eaten.
She ran back to the house.
Gideon was sitting on Ruth’s bed, holding her upright while she shook.
“Poison berries,” Clara said. “We have to make her bring up whatever remains, then bind what’s in her stomach.”
“How?”
“Salt water first. Charcoal after.”
His face tightened.
“You know how?”
“I know enough.”
The next hours were brutal.
Ruth cried and begged them to stop. Gideon held his daughter with tears running silently down his face while Clara forced salt water past the girl’s lips. Silas burned willow wood until it charred, then crushed it with trembling hands. Ben sat on the stairs clutching a blanket, too frightened to move.