Wind touched the windows. Hannah watched him from across the hearth. A giant cattleman with a damaged shoulder holding his mother's poetry book as carefully as he might hold a newborn calf. When he finished, nobody spoke. Then Henry said, "That one didn't rhyme much." Grant closed the book.
"Thank you for your literary judgment." Henry grinned. Hannah laughed. Grant looked at her. Not quickly. The laugh faded in her throat.
His expression was different again. Not startled, not studying, just quiet. Hannah looked down at the shirt she was mending. The needle suddenly required all her attention. The next morning, a stack of stove wood appeared beside the kitchen door.
Walter usually left firewood near the shed. This had been split smaller into lengths Hannah could fit into the range without trimming them. She found Grant near the porch. You did that. He looked toward the wood.
Did what? You know perfectly well. Could have been Walter. Walter cuts stove wood like he has a personal grievance against women. Grant almost smiled.
Maybe he improved. You're a poor liar. So I've been told. Hannah wanted to tell him not to strain his shoulder. Instead, she said, "Thank you." Grant nodded.
The following morning, she placed his coffee at the western window before he came downstairs. He always stood there after dawn watching the ridge. Hannah had noticed. She told herself it meant nothing. Then she began doing it every morning.
Grant never thanked her. He simply started appearing at the window at exactly 5:40 with the expectation of a tin cup waiting beside the sill. Small habits gathered around them. A chair, a cup, a repaired hinge, an extra blanket left over the parlor rocker. Hannah discovered Grant hated turnips.
Grant discovered Hannah who always saved the heel of fresh bread for herself. One evening he reached the bread plate first, removed the heel and placed it beside her stew without speaking. Hannah stared at it. Grant continued eating. Henry watched both of them.
What? Grant asked. Nothing. Henry smiled into his milk. On Sundays, the ranch slowed, not stopped.
High Meadow apparently considered complete rest an insult to cattle. But Grant let the men sleep an hour later, and Hannah made breakfast after sunrise. One Sunday afternoon, Henry placed Hannah's chair beside Grant's at the table instead of across from him. Hannah moved it back. At supper, it had returned.
She looked at Henry. He was studying his potatoes. The next evening, Molly moved it herself. Hannah opened her mouth. Grant said quietly, "Leave it." She looked at him.
His face remained neutral, but he had shifted his own chair slightly to give her more room. Hannah sat. She hated how much that tiny gesture mattered. Two weeks after the branding accident, Grant could finally lift his arm above his shoulder without wincing. Walter allowed him to begin light work.
Grant behaved as though he had been released from prison. By breakfast, he had inspected two corrals, argued about a wagon wheel, and returned with mud on his boots. Hannah pointed at the floor. Grant looked down, then at her. You're serious?
I scrubbed that yesterday. He removed his boots on the porch. Henry witnessed the entire surrender. Puh. Grant turned.