That surprised her. She hadn't expected him to be prepared for that. And the fact that he was told her something she wasn't sure yet. What, but something. You'll wait on the porch while I get my children dressed, she said.
Of course. She went back inside, still holding the knife and stood in the kitchen for a moment with her back against the closed door. Her heart was going faster than she'd like to admit. She looked around the kitchen, the empty shelves, the half-sack of cornmeal, the four remaining potatoes, and then she straightened up. She called Tessa.
The written agreement took nearly an hour. Bramwell Concaid sat at her kitchen table with the paper in his pen and wrote down everything she said without argument. Wages per month paid on the first. Her own room adjacent to the children's rooms with a lock on the door. The children would work age appropriate tasks on the ranch in exchange for their food and lodging, but none of them would be separated from her.
She would manage the household, not take orders from the ranch hands. If either party wanted to end the arrangement, 14 days notice in writing. She pushed back on two things and he changed them. That told her something, too. He signed it.
She signed it. She still didn't entirely trust him, but she trusted the document. Tessa sat at the far end of the table through the whole negotiation, watching, and when it was done, she caught her mother's eye and gave a small nod that meant she thought it was acceptable. Miriam had learned to trust Tessa's assessments of people. For 12 years old, her daughter had an uncomfortable accuracy about them.
"When would you want to leave?" Bramwell Concaid asked. "Tomorrow morning," Miriam said. We don't have much to pack. He nodded and stood and picked up his hat from the table.
I'll send the wagon at first light. There'll be room for everything you need to bring. After he left, Miriam went and sat on the edge of her bed in the empty bedroom and looked at the cold side where Orson used to sleep and tried to figure out what she was feeling. It wasn't relief exactly. It was something more provisional than that.
It was the feeling of a person who has been holding on to the edge of something with both hands and has just been told there might be solid ground close enough to reach but who can't yet see the solid ground themselves and isn't fully prepared to believe in it. Tessa appeared in the doorway. Are we going? She said. Yes, Miriam said.
Good, said Tessa. And then because she was 12 and because she already understood some things about pride and survival that most adults spent years trying to avoid understanding, it doesn't mean he won. Orson, it just means we're smarter than staying here. Miriam looked at her daughter. When did you get so old?