Lillian lowered her eyes. Rachel buttered a biscuit. No one said Miss Hart to her. Not that morning.
Jacob stayed almost two hours. Rachel spent most of that time outside measuring grain and pretending she had no reason to wonder what was being said inside the house. At 11, she saw Jacob and Lillian walking near the south fence. He held her elbow where the path had iced.
Lillian leaned toward him. Rachel turned away before they reached the corner. She spent the afternoon repairing a bridle in the tack room. The leather had split near the buckle.
She replaced the strap, punched three new holes, rubbed the piece with oil, and worked until her hands stopped feeling restless. At supper, George talked more than usual.
"Jacob's a sensible young man."
Rachel ate potatoes.
"He owns 40 head outright already."
Lillian's cheeks colored. George noticed. Rachel noticed him noticing.
"You could do worse," he said.
"Pa."
"I'm only saying."
Rachel reached for the salt. George looked at her. "You heard anything from the Daly place?"
"About what?"
"The bay colt. They want 35."
"Too much."
"He's worth it."
"Not to me."
Rachel set down the salt. "He'll be worth 50 by summer if his legs stay clean."
George frowned. "Since when are you buying horses?"
"I'm not."
"Then don't spend money in your head."
Lillian's spoon stopped against her bowl. Rachel said nothing else. Later upstairs, she pulled a small ledger from beneath her mattress. This one was different from the farm book.
No feed receipts. No debts. No stud fees.
On the first page were numbers Rachel had copied and changed so many times the paper had gone soft. Two mares, four acres with water access, small barn, used wagon, basic tack, seed, winter feed reserve, total. She had added the sum a dozen times. It never became smaller.
Rachel sat on the edge of her bed and opened to a page near the back. Months earlier, when she had still allowed herself certain foolish thoughts, she had written several things she wanted. A place of her own. Good mares.
A barn that belonged to nobody else. Work that was hers. And one word beneath them. Marriage.
She had almost crossed it out before. Tonight, she stared at it. From the room across the hall came Lillian's voice, low and excited. George answered, then laughter.
Rachel closed the ledger. Three weeks later, Jacob Mason came to the farm in a clean black coat with a small bunch of winter roses wrapped in newspaper. Rachel saw him from the barn. For half a second, something inside her lifted.
He had never brought flowers before. Then he walked past her, straight toward the house. Rachel stayed where she was. The mare beside her nudged her shoulder impatiently.
"Easy." Her voice sounded normal. She filled the manger. By noon, George came into the barn carrying himself like a man who had just made a profitable sale.
"Jacob asked for Lillian."
Rachel kept measuring oats. "Did he?"
"Says he'll marry her after spring planting."
"That's good."
George waited. Rachel poured another scoop.
"She'll be secure," he said.
"That's good."
"Young Mason has prospects."
"So you've said."
George glanced around the barn. "You all right?"