The bullet took the snake's head off cleanly, the body writhing reflexively even as the danger ended. The gunshot shattered the morning quiet. Martha screamed and burst into tears. Kelly rushed forward, scooped up her daughter, and held her tight, shaking visibly.
"Shh, sweet pea, it's okay. Mama's got you," Kelly murmured over and over, her voice unsteady. "You're safe. You're safe." The other children came running.
Sarah, Thomas, the other twin Mary, all talking at once, wanting to see the snake, asking if Martha was hurt, creating chaos the way frightened children do. "Everyone inside," Bo said firmly, his own heart still hammering from the adrenaline rush. "Now. Your mother needs a moment."
To his surprise, they obeyed, Sarah shepherding the younger ones toward the house with a maturity beyond her eight years. Bo holstered his gun and approached Kelly slowly, the way he might approach a spooked horse. "Mrs. Bishop? Kelly?" Kelly looked up at him, and the raw fear in her eyes hit Bo like a physical blow.
"I couldn't move," she whispered. "I saw the snake. I saw Martha reaching for it, and I couldn't move. I was paralyzed. What kind of mother freezes when her child is in danger?"
"The kind who's smart enough not to spook a rattler into striking," Bo said firmly. "You did exactly right. If you'd rushed forward or yelled, that snake would have bitten her for sure." "But I didn't do anything. You saved her. You—"
Kelly's voice broke, and suddenly she was crying, great heaving sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep and painful. "I can't do this. I can't keep them safe. I can't harvest the wheat alone. I can't fix the fences."
"I can't protect them from snakes or hunger or— I can't do this, Bo. I can't." It was the first time she'd used his given name, and hearing it broke something loose in Bo's carefully constructed walls. Without thinking, he stepped forward and pulled her into his arms.
He let her cry against his chest while he stood there awkwardly, one hand hovering uncertainly before finally settling on her back in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. "You can do this," he said quietly. "You're doing this. Every day you're doing the impossible, Kelly. You're raising five children alone, keeping a farm running, holding everything together through sheer force of will."
"The fact that you can't do everything perfectly doesn't mean you're failing. It means you're human." Kelly cried harder, her fingers clutching his shirt like she was drowning and he was the only solid thing in a churning sea. Bo held her, uncomfortable and uncertain, but unwilling to let go while the morning sun climbed higher and the chickens clucked obliviously in their coop.
When Kelly finally pulled away, her face was blotchy and her eyes were red, and she looked mortally embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I don't usually— I mean, I try not to—" "Don't apologize," Bo said gruffly. He pulled out his bandana and offered it to her.
"You're entitled to a moment of fear. God knows you've earned it." Kelly took the bandana and wiped her face. "Your shirt is all wet." "It'll dry."
They stood there in awkward silence for a moment. Then Kelly took a shaky breath and straightened her shoulders, and Bo watched in real time as she rebuilt the walls she'd let down, brick by brick, until she was once again the strong, defiant widow who faced the world without flinching. "I should deal with that snake," Kelly said. "The meat's good eating if you know how to prepare it."