Not hope exactly, not yet, but possibility. The possibility that here in this broken house with these broken children and this broken man, she might finally find a place where being broken was enough. Outside her window, the desert knight sang with crickets and the distant howl of coyotes. The stars wheeled overhead in their ancient patterns, indifferent to human suffering, indifferent to human joy. And in the small room at the top of the stairs, Eliza Morland closed her eyes and let exhaustion carry her into dreamless sleep.
Tomorrow would come soon enough. Tomorrow, with all its trials and terrors and tiny mercies, tomorrow she would begin again. Dawn broke across the New Mexico territory with the subtlety of a hammer strike, all harsh light and immediate heat, even in the early hours. Eliza woke to unfamiliar sounds, a rooster crowing somewhere close by, the lowing of cattle in the distance, and the unmistakable thunder of children's feet on wooden stairs. She sat up momentarily disoriented by the strange room, the strange bed, the strange life she'd stepped into less than 12 hours ago.
Her first instinct was to lie back down, to pull the covers over her head, and pretend yesterday had been nothing more than a fever dream. But the sounds of the waking household wouldn't allow for cowardice. Eliza dressed quickly in her everyday dress, a faded calico that had seen better years, and braided her hair with fingers that still trembled slightly. Through the thin walls she could hear voices raised in argument. I told you to watch the stove, Matthew.
I did watch it. It's not my fault the pan was too hot. Uh, everything's always someone else's fault with you, isn't it? Shut up, James. You're not P.
Boys, please. That last voice was smaller, younger, one of the twins, maybe. Eliza steeled herself and opened her door, stepping into the chaos that was apparently a normal Thatcher morning. The kitchen was a disaster of smoking pans, scattered flour, and five children in various states of dress and distress. James stood at the stove, wielding a spatula like a weapon, his face flushed with frustration and heat.
Matthew sat at the table with his arms crossed, scowlling at the world. Levi hovered near the window, watching everything with those enormous silent eyes, and the twins, both still in their nightclo, were attempting to set the table with more enthusiasm than skill, resulting in forks scattered across the floor like autumn leaves. "Good morning," Eliza said, pitching her voice to carry over the commotion without shouting. Five heads swiveled toward her. The room went abruptly, unnaturally quiet.
Paw's already out with the cattle, James said finally, his tone making it clear this was a warning, not just information. He left before sunup, said to tell you there's eggs in the coupe, milk in the cold cellar, and flour in the pantry. Thank you. Eliza moved into the kitchen, assessing the damage. Burned eggs in one pan, what looked like the remains of an attempted pancake in another.
Coffee boiling over on the back burner, filling the room with a bitter smell. May I? James stepped back from the stove with obvious relief masquerading as indifference. Suit yourself. Eliza had learned to cook in her mother's kitchen under the strict toutelage of a woman who believed that proper food preparation was a woman's highest calling.
She had never particularly enjoyed it, but she knew her way around a stove. She removed the ruined pans, dumped the coffee, which was more sludge than beverage, and started fresh. The children watched her in silence, their expressions ranging from James' barely concealed hostility to Meera's wideeyed curiosity. "Nathaniel, Meera," Eliza said as she measured coffee grounds. "Could you pick up those forks and put them in the basin?