Rachel looked at her. She began filling a grain measure. "Don't make that face."
"What face?"
"The one where you decide I'm lying but don't intend to argue."
Helen handed her a broom. "I wasn't going to argue."
"That's worse."
Rachel swept. By seven, two freight horses needed watering. A saddle cinch had torn.
A traveling salesman from Rawlins was complaining that someone had put his gray gelding in the wrong stall. Rachel liked the work. It required attention, not explanation. Helen paid by the day.
Not much. But enough that Rachel could look at the coins in her palm after supper and know they belonged entirely to her. She kept them in a cloth pouch beneath the mattress beside her ledger. Every night she added the total.
Every morning it remained nowhere near enough. Calvin Price's sale was Saturday. Three days had become two. Rachel spent her lunch hour at the county clerk's office.
The clerk was an older man named Mr. Finch, who smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and dust. He adjusted his spectacles while Rachel explained. "The notes are in your father's name."
"Yes."
"And the horses are titled as farm property."
"Yes."
"Then legally—"
"I know."
Mr. Finch stopped. Rachel folded her gloves on the desk. "What I need to know is whether I can purchase the mares separately before the sale if Price agrees."
"Would he?"
"Depends whether he thinks auction brings more."
Rachel looked toward the shelves of deed books. "What about proof that I paid their expenses?"
"Doesn't change title."
"What about breeding records?"
"No."
"Labor?"
Mr. Finch's expression softened. "No."
Rachel nodded. "Thank you."
Outside, Cedar Ridge looked almost cheerful. Wagons rattled through spring mud. A woman carried eggs into the mercantile.
Two boys chased each other past the barber shop. Rachel stood on the boardwalk and realized that the world did not become quiet simply because yours had changed. She returned to the livery. Matthew Hail was waiting.
He stood beside the stable door with one hand resting on the rail. Rachel stopped. Matthew removed his hat.
"Morning."
"It's nearly noon."
"Then I'm late."
She looked past him. His horse was tied at the hitching post. No wagon. No hired men.
Just Matthew.
"How did you know where I was?"
"Helen."
Rachel glanced through the stable door. Helen was nowhere in sight. "Convenient."
Matthew's eyes moved over Rachel's work clothes, then the broom in her hand, then back to her face. "I heard about Price."
Rachel's shoulders tightened. "From who?"
"Your father."
That surprised her. "Pa came to you?"