"Yes, Mr. Callahan," Kelly said, her eyes dancing despite the fear still visible in their depths. "Tell us a story about storms." So Bo, who hadn't told a story in more years than he could count, found himself talking about a cattle drive he'd been on in '76, when a thunderstorm had spooked the herd and caused a stampede. He told them about the chaos and the danger, but also about how the cowboys had worked together to turn the herd, about the camaraderie and the triumph when they'd finally gotten the cattle under control.
He found himself embellishing details, adding dramatic pauses, doing different voices for different characters, things he'd never done before, didn't even know he could do. The children listened with rapt attention, even baby James growing quiet and drowsy in Kelly's arms. By the time Bo finished the story, the storm had passed, rumbling away toward the eastern horizon. The children's fear had been replaced by heavy-lidded sleepiness.
"All right, little ones," Kelly said softly. "Time for bed. Thank Mr. Callahan for the story." A chorus of sleepy thank-yous filled the room as Kelly shepherded the children toward their beds. All in one room, Bo noticed, probably so they could share body heat during the cold Wyoming winters.
Sarah, the oldest, helped with the younger ones, showing that same startling maturity he'd noticed before. Bo stood awkwardly, suddenly aware that he was dripping water all over Kelly's floor, that he'd inserted himself into her family's private moment without real invitation. "I should go. I'm making a mess." "Stay," Kelly said quietly.
She'd settled baby James in a cradle near the far wall and was returning to the main room. "Please, just for a few minutes. The rain's still falling, and I'd like to— I'd like to thank you properly." "You don't need to thank me for anything."
"I do, though." Kelly moved to the stove and poured two cups of coffee from the pot that always seemed to be brewing. She handed one to Bo, and their fingers brushed briefly, a point of warmth in the cool evening air. "You didn't have to come check on us during the storm."
"You didn't have to tell the children that story or admit that brave people can be scared, too. You didn't have to transplant those rose bushes by the porch." "You saw those." "Of course I saw them. I see everything that happens around here. I have to."
Kelly settled into one of the mismatched chairs at the table, gesturing for Bo to take another. "They're beautiful. They'll be even more beautiful next spring when they bloom." "If they survive the transplant," Bo cautioned, sitting carefully. The chair creaked under his weight.
"It's late in the season for moving plants." "They'll survive," Kelly said with certainty. "Things that are meant to bloom find a way, no matter how late they're planted or how poor the soil." They sat in silence for a moment, sipping coffee, listening to the soft sounds of rain on the roof and children settling into sleep.
It was peaceful in a way Bo hadn't experienced in years. Domestic, comfortable, real. "Can I ask you something, Bo?" Kelly's use of his first name had become more natural over the past few days. "Something personal?"
Bo tensed slightly. "You can ask. Can't promise I'll answer." "Why are you really here? And don't tell me it's just about protecting your investment."
"You could have sent Jack or one of your other hands to supervise the harvest. You didn't need to stay yourself." Bo stared into his coffee, watching steam rise in lazy spirals. For a long moment, he considered giving her some version of the lie he'd been telling himself about business, about debts, about practical concerns. Instead, he found himself saying, "Because your daughter asked if I was the bad man, and I didn't want to be."
Kelly was quiet, waiting. "Seven years ago," Bo continued, the words coming slowly, painfully, like pulling an arrow from a wound, "I was engaged to be married. Catherine Morehouse. Banker's daughter."