Inside, the house was simple, but clean. The main room served as kitchen and living area with a table and chairs, a wood stove, and shelves lined with mismatched dishes. Two small bedrooms opened off one side, and James showed her to a third room, barely bigger than a closet, but it had a real bed with a quilt and a window that looked toward the mountains. "It's not fancy," James said, hovering in the doorway. "But it's yours for as long as you need it." Margaret set down her carpet bag and touched the quilt.
It was beautifully made, the stitches tiny and even. Did your wife make this? My mother, James said, she passed 5 years ago. This was supposed to be for guests, but we've never had any. That night, Margaret helped make dinner.
Simple fair of beans and cornbread, and watched as James interacted with his daughters. He was patient and gentle, helping Sarah when she spilled her milk, listening seriously when Emma told a rambling story about a frog they'd seen by the creek. But she also saw the exhaustion in his face, the way his shoulders sagged, how he seemed to be carrying a weight too heavy for one person. After the girls were in bed, a process that involved three stories, two glasses of water, and one mysterious thumping sound that James assured her was normal. They sat at the table with coffee.
I should explain, James said, staring into his cup about my wife, about why I'm looking for help. You don't owe me explanations, Margaret said. I think I do, if you're considering staying. He took a breath. Rachel was a good woman, a good mother, but she never quite took to ranch life.
She was from Denver, used to city living. When the girls were born, she struggled. Two babies at once, no help. Nearby, me working all hours to keep the ranch going. His voice went rough.
She got sad, real sad, in a way I didn't understand until it was too late. One winter day, she walked out into a storm and didn't come back. We found her three days later. Margaret's hand moved across the table, stopping just short of his. I'm so sorry.
The girls were three. They don't remember her much, which maybe is a mercy, maybe is a tragedy. I can't decide which. I've tried to be enough for them, but I'm not. They need someone who can teach them things I can't.
Someone who can be here when I'm out with the cattle or fixing fence. Someone who won't. He stopped, swallowed hard. Someone who won't leave them. You're afraid I'll leave too, Margaret said quietly.
I'm afraid of a lot of things, James admitted. But mostly, I'm afraid of failing those girls again. Of not being able to give them what they need. Margaret looked around the simple room, thought about the two little girls sleeping in the next room, about this honest, worried man across from her. Mr. Walker, James, please.
James, I won't lie and say I know what I'm doing. I've never been a mother. I've never lived on a ranch. I don't know the first thing about cattle or horses or any of this. She met his eyes.