Rachel looked at him. The question sounded almost accidental. "I'm working."
He nodded. "Suppose you are."
He left. Rachel waited until his footsteps disappeared. Then she sat down on an overturned bucket. Not crying.
Not even close. The strange thing was how little surprise there was. Jacob had spent hours talking to her because she knew horses. Then he had gone inside and chosen Lillian.
It had happened before in smaller ways. A man asked Rachel which road was safest after rain, then asked Lillian to church. A neighbor praised Rachel's biscuits, then brought Lillian candy. Another told Rachel she had good sense, then told Lillian she had beautiful eyes.
Maybe this was simply the order of things. Rachel sat there until the mare bumped her again. She stood. That night, after the house went quiet, Rachel lit the small lamp beside her bed.
She pulled out the private ledger and opened to the page. A place of her own. Good mares. A barn.
Work that was hers. Marriage. She rested her finger over the last word. Then she tore the page carefully from the binding.
The rip sounded louder than it should have. Rachel folded the paper once, then again. She fed it into the lamp flame. The corner blackened.
The word marriage curled inward and disappeared. Rachel dropped the last piece into the wash basin and watched it turn to ash. Then she opened the ledger to a clean page. At the top, she wrote, "Two mares. Four acres. Start again."
Rachel closed the ledger and slid it beneath her mattress. For the next several weeks, she did what she always did. She worked. January gave way to February with hard mornings and pale afternoons.
Snow packed itself into the wagon ruts west of Cedar Ridge, thawed under weak sun, then froze again before supper. The Hart Farm seemed to creak through the cold. Lillian's engagement to Jacob Mason became the main subject inside the house. There were visits from his mother.
Measurements for a dress. Talk of spring planting and where the couple might live. Rachel listened when she had to. Mostly she stayed outside.
She liked the barn better than the parlor anyway. A horse did not ask whether she was disappointed. A harness did not pity her. A ledger never told her she should be grateful for what she had.
By early March, the weather began playing tricks. One morning felt almost mild. The next brought sleet sharp enough to sting the face. It was on one of those uncertain days that George sent Rachel into Cedar Ridge for lamp oil, salt, and a packet of nails.
"I told Eli to go," she said.
"He's helping at Mason's."
Rachel looked at her father. "Of course he is."
George either missed the tone or chose to. "The blacksmith's got the wagon wheel ready too. Bring it back if there's room."
Rachel glanced toward the sky. Clouds sat low over the western ridge. "Storm coming."
"Not till evening."
"You sure?"
George pulled his coat tighter. "Been watching weather longer than you."
Rachel said nothing. She had learned that arguing with a man who had already decided he was right only made him more determined to prove it. By ten that morning, she was on the road. She took the smaller wagon and tied a pregnant bay mare behind it because the animal needed shoe work at the Cedar Ridge smithy and Rachel preferred not to make two trips.
The mare was due in another six weeks. Calm animal, good feet, good sense. Rachel valued those three qualities more than color, bloodline, or any story a seller told over coffee. The road into town crossed Crow Creek at a shallow ford between two stands of willow.
By noon, the temperature had dropped. Wind came down from the foothills carrying fine pellets of ice. Rachel finished her errands quickly. The blacksmith had the wheel repaired, but it was too large to fit safely with the mare tied behind.
"I'll send it out tomorrow," he said.
"Put it on George Hart's account."
He scratched the amount into a receipt. Rachel checked it before folding it into her coat pocket. The shopkeeper wrapped the nails in brown paper and tied them with string.
She bought one extra lampwick with her own coin. Then she started home. Halfway to Crow Creek, sleet turned to wet snow. The mare behind the wagon began tossing her head.
"Easy, June."
Rachel kept the reins steady. The creek was higher than it had been that morning. Snowmelt from the upper slopes had browned the water and pushed it faster through the crossing. Rachel slowed.
She could turn back. That meant another two hours to Cedar Ridge, assuming the road behind her stayed open. She studied the ford. Still passable.
Probably. She clicked her tongue. The team stepped in. Water reached the wagon hubs.
Then the left rear wheel dropped. The wagon jerked sideways. Rachel grabbed the seat. Behind her, June squealed.
"Easy."
Another jolt. Something metallic snapped beneath the wagon. The left wheel shifted outward. Rachel's stomach dropped.
"Whoa."
The team stopped, trembling. Water rushed around the spokes. Rachel climbed down. Cold creek water came over the tops of her boots.
She swore under her breath. The wheel pin was gone. Without it, the wheel could slide clean off the axle if the wagon moved. June pulled against the lead rope behind her.