Mrs. Henderson clutching her rosary and murmuring prayers. Old man Sawyer shaking his head in disgust. Though whether at her father or at Bose's $1 bid, she couldn't tell. The Martin twins, barely 18, watching with wide eyes that would fuel gossip for weeks.
The Morland house sat at the end of a dusty street, small and shabby with peeling paint and a sagging porch. Eliza had grown up in this house, but it had never felt like home, more like a way station, a temporary place she was expected to leave as soon as some man claimed her. Well, someone had claimed her now. She pushed open the door, it was never locked, and went directly to the small room she'd occupied since returning from her brief marriage to Harold. Her possessions fit into a single carpet bag.
Two dresses, one for everyday and one for church. Undergarments that she'd mended so many times they were more patched than original fabric. A brush with half its bristles missing. A small Bible her grandmother had given her, and a tin locket containing a tiny portrait of her mother from happier days. She paused over the locket, her thumb tracing the tarnished surface.
Her mother had given it to her on her wedding day, pressing it into her palm with a kiss to her forehead, the last tender gesture between them before Harold's mother had started making pronouncements about Eliza's deficiency. And her own mother had withdrawn into cold silence rather than defend her daughter. Eliza fastened the locket around her neck, tucking it beneath her collar where it rested against her heart like a coal of mixed warmth and pain. When she emerged from her room, Bo was standing in the front hallway, his hat in his hands, looking at the faded photographs on the wall. He turned as she appeared, his eyes going to the small carpet bag.
"That's everything? " "Yes, sir. " Something flickered across his face. Pity maybe, or anger on her behalf, but he didn't comment on how little she owned. Instead, he simply nodded and held the door open for her. "After you, Miss Mland. " The wagon was parked in front of the general store, a sturdy buckboard with worn but well-maintained wheels. Two horses stood patiently in their traces, their coats dull with dust from the road.
B helped Eliza up onto the bench seat with a brief touch to her elbow, then climbed up beside her and took the rains. They left Ash Ridge behind without ceremony, the wagon wheels crunching over the packed dirt road as the sun began its descent toward the western horizon. Eliza didn't look back. There was nothing in that town she wanted to remember. For the first hour they rode in silence.
The landscape rolled past. Scrub brush and scattered pinon pines. Red rock formations jutting up from the earth like the bones of ancient giants. The air smelled of dust and sage carried on a wind that never quite stopped blowing in this part of the territory. Eliza kept her hands folded in her lap, her carpet bag tucked securely at her feet.
She wanted to ask questions about the children, about the ranch, about what exactly would be expected of her, but the silence felt too fragile to break. Bo Thatcher drove with the easy competence of someone who'd made this journey a thousand times, his attention on the road ahead. Finally, as the sun touched the mountain peaks and painted the sky in shades of orange and deep purple, Bo spoke. "The children," he said, his voice rough from disuse. They're not easy right now.
The oldest, James, he's 12, thinks he's the man of the house since I'm gone so much managing the ranch. Then there's Matthew. He's nine and he's angry. Angry at everything. At me for not saving their mother.