"Don't say anything. Not now. Let's just finish the harvest. Let's just get through these next few days." She stood.
"Then you can ride away with your money and your clear conscience, and I can start the long process of forgetting how you made me feel." She walked back toward the wheat field without looking back, leaving Bo sitting on the porch steps with his hand still warm from her touch and his heart in pieces. They worked in silence for the rest of the afternoon. The easy camaraderie of the morning was replaced by a tense awareness of everything unspoken between them.
By the time the sun began to set, they'd cut nearly three-quarters of the field and both of them were stumbling with exhaustion. "That's enough for today," Bo said, his voice hoarse from the heat and dust. "We'll finish tomorrow." Kelly nodded wordlessly and trudged back to the house.
Bo watched her go, then made his way to his camp by the creek. He stripped off his shirt, wet with sweat, and dunked his head in the cold water, trying to clear his thoughts. He was in love with Kelly May Bishop. There was no point denying it anymore.
She'd worked her way past every defense he'd built, every lesson he'd learned from Catherine's betrayal. Kelly, with her stubborn pride and gentle strength, her fierce love for her children and her refusal to surrender to circumstances that would have broken a lesser person. But what did that change? He was still a wealthy rancher with a big empty house and a reputation to maintain.
She was still a widow with five children and a farm to run and a community she needed to survive. There was no future where their worlds merged without one of them sacrificing everything they'd built. Bo dried himself off and pulled on a clean shirt, then sat by his fire and tried to eat beans he couldn't taste. As darkness fell, he noticed storm clouds building on the western horizon.
Their tops were lit by the dying sun like mountains of copper and gold. Another storm coming. He wondered if Kelly was preparing the children, singing them songs to ease their fear. He wondered if she was scared herself, counting the seconds between lightning and thunder, pretending to be brave.
Bo was still watching the approaching storm when he heard footsteps. He turned to find Sarah, Kelly's eldest daughter, standing at the edge of his camp. She looked nervous but determined, her thin arms wrapped around herself. "Mr. Callahan, can I talk to you?"
"Of course. Come sit." Bo gestured to a log he'd pulled near the fire. "Is something wrong? Is your mother—"
"Mama's fine. Well, not fine. She's crying again. She thinks we can't hear her, but I can." Sarah sat down, her young face troubled.
"I heard what that man said today. The mean one you hit. I heard what he said about Mama and you." Bo's stomach sank. "Sarah, I want you to know—"
"I know it's not true," Sarah interrupted. "I know you're just helping us with the harvest. But other people don't know that, and they're going to say mean things about Mama. They already do sometimes in town. I hear them when they think I'm not listening."
"What do they say?" Bo asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted the answer. "They say she's too proud for a widow, that she should have taken charity when it was offered, or should have moved in with her sister in Laramie. They say she's teaching her children to be proud, too, like that's a bad thing." Sarah's voice trembled with suppressed anger.