Henry's not bad, he added. Just got opinions. And Molly? The humor left his face. Quiet little thing.
Hannah waited again. Walter picked a blade of grass from his boot. Best let her come to you. That answer told Hannah considerably more than a long explanation would have. They climbed back into the wagon.
By mid-afternoon, the road narrowed to two pale ruts cutting through open grass. A wooden bridge crossed Miller Creek. Beyond it stood an old sign nailed to a pine trunk. High Meadow Dalton Cattle Company, three Mile. Hannah's stomach tightened.
Walter clicked his tongue at the horses. The wagon climbed. The ranch appeared so gradually that Hannah first mistook its fences for shadows across the grass. Then came the barns, a long bunk house, a blacksmith shed, several corral joined by rough pole fencing. Farther back stood a two-story ranch house with a deep porch facing west, its weathered boards gone silver in places beneath years of mountain winters.
Behind everything rose the bitter roots. Up close they did not look picturesque. They looked enormous. The wagon passed through an open gate. A dog barked once from beneath the porch.
Three cowboys near the corral turned to watch. One nudged another. Hannah saw it. She had always seen it. The quick glance, the second look, the private calculation.
Her hand tightened around the strap of her traveling bag. Then a man stepped from the barn. The other men stopped looking at Hannah. They looked at him instead. Grant Dalton was the largest man Hannah had ever seen.
Not merely tall, large everywhere. His shoulders seemed nearly as wide as the barn door behind him, his work shirt stretched across a chest built by years of lifting feed sacks, throwing saddles, and wrestling stubborn gates into place. He wore dark trousers tucked into scuffed boots, leather gloves, and a brown hat that looked almost ordinary until Hannah realized how broad the brim had to be to suit him. Walter had called him big. Walter had been conservative.
Grant crossed the yard without hurry. That somehow made him more imposing. He stopped several feet from the wagon and removed his hat. His hair was dark brown, cut badly enough that Hannah suspected he did it himself. There was gray at one temple.
His eyes were lighter than she expected. Not warm, not cold either. Watchful. Miss Pierce. His voice was low.
Hannah climbed down before anyone could offer assistance. Mr. Dalton. Grant's eyes flicked toward the heavy trunk in the wagon bed. I'll get that.
I can manage one end. I expect you can. He said it without mockery. Then he took the trunk by both handles and lifted it alone. Hannah stared despite herself.
The trunk held nearly everything she owned. Grant carried it toward the porch as though Edith had packed feathers inside. Walter coughed behind her. Hannah shot him a look. His mustache twitched.
Two children stood near the porch steps. The boy had Grant's dark hair and none of his stillness. Henry Dalton was thin, long-legged, and sunbounded with one suspender hanging loose from his shoulder. He looked at Hannah once quickly, then turned his attention to a piece of twine he was knotting around a stick. The little girl stood half hidden behind Grant.
Molly. She wore a faded green dress and dusty button shoes. One hand clutched the back of Grant's shirt. The other held a narrow blue ribbon. The ribbon looked too worn to be decoration.