What? Something more than being useful? She finished quietly. Is that selfish? If it is, then I'm just as selfish, Silas said.
Because I wanted the same thing. They drank their coffee on the porch as the sun climbed higher and the day's heat began to build. Silas pointed out the boundaries of his property, explained his routine, checking cattle, mending fences, the endless small repairs that kept a ranch functioning. Norah listened carefully, asking questions that showed she understood ranch work better than her letters had suggested. I can help, she offered.
I'm not afraid of work. Uh, I can see that, he hesitated. But first, I need to build you a chair. What? A real chair?
One that fits you. He gestured at the porch's rough boards. Can't have you standing through every meal or sitting on the floor like you're being punished. It's not right. Something shifted in Norah's expression.
A softening, a breaking down of some defensive wall. No one's ever offered to build me furniture before, she said. Usually, they just suggest I learn to take up less space. Taking up space isn't a character flaw, Silas replied. He meant it.
He spent that morning in the barn working with lumber he'd had stored for winter repairs. Carpentry had never been his strongest skill, but he understood the basics, and he had time. More importantly, he had motivation. The memory of Norah standing through breakfast, the way she'd tried to fold herself smaller to fit his inadequate furniture. While he worked, she explored the ranch.
He'd catch glimpses of her through the barn door, walking the creek line, examining the cattle with a practiced eye, inspecting the sorry state of his vegetable garden with what looked like professional dismay. She moved with the confidence of someone used to outdoor work, her long stride covering ground quickly, seemingly unbothered by the heat. Around noon, he heard shouting. Silas dropped his hammer and ran outside to find Norah standing in the middle of his pasture, facing down his prized Angus bull. Thunder, 2,000 lb of muscle and bad temper, who'd won him second place at the county fair, 3 years running.
The bull was snorting, pawing the ground, head lowered in that way that meant he was about 3 seconds from charging. Norah stood perfectly still. "Don't move!" Silas shouted, running toward them. But Norah did move.
She took a step forward toward the bull, not away, and started humming. Low and steady, a tune Silas didn't recognize, something that sounded like a lullaby mixed with a work song. She held out one large hand, palm down, and kept humming. Thunder stopped pawing. His head came up slightly, ears forward.