Toby lifted his head. Home. That one small word nearly broke her. Clara turned before Silas could see the tears in her eyes. Bring him inside.
The night air is getting cold. That evening, she warmed milk and softened bread in it. Toby sat at the kitchen table wrapped in a wool blanket. He looked at the bowl, then at his father, waiting. "He eats slowly when he is scared," Silas said from near the door.
"No one will hurry him here." Silas gave the boy a small nod. Only then did Toby lift the spoon. Clara kept busy at the stove, yet she noticed Toby's short sleeves, torn sock, and thin shoulders. Silas had given him everything he could, but love had not filled the child's stomach.
When Toby fell asleep over the empty bowl, Silas lifted him against his chest. "You are good with him," Clara said. "He is all I have." She led them to the spare room where a clean bed waited beneath a patchwork quilt. I can sleep in the barn, Silas offered.
I said both of you. People will talk. Let them. Their words have never repaired a fence or paid a debt. As Silas lowered Toby onto the bed, the boy caught one of the silver buttons on Clara's dress.
Pretty, he whispered. The button had come from her father's old Union Army coat. Clara gently unfastened it and placed it in Toby's palm. You may hold it until you sleep. Silas watched her pull up the quilt.
For one dangerous moment, the room looked like the life they might have shared. Near midnight, Toby woke with a frightened cry. "Papa gone?" Clara sat beside him. "No, your papa is right here."
Silas slept on the floor beside the bed. One arm stretched toward his son. Toby looked down at him and slowly relaxed. "Papa comes back," the boy whispered. The words pierced Clara.
Silas had not come back for her, but he always came back for Toby. At sunrise, Silas was already outside. By noon, he had reset fence posts, cleared the well-housing, and climbed the windmill tower. Clara carried him a jar of cool water. You cannot save this ranch in one day.
Silas took the jar, but did not drink. I have 12 years to repay. Work can mend my fence. It cannot explain why you disappeared. His hands went still.
I wrote to you, Clara, she stared at him. Six letters, he continued. I sent six, and you never answered. I never received them. The dry wind moved between them.
From the porch, Toby laughed as a grasshopper jumped through the dust, but Clara barely heard him. "I waited 2 years," she said. "I came back 3 months too late. They told me you had married Arthur. Clara's heart began to pound.