"Tell me about the dream," he said, sitting on the edge of her bed. Mama was trying to come home, but she couldn't find the house because everything was different because she was here. The venom in that last word was painful to hear from such a young child. Sophie, your mama isn't coming back. We've talked about this.
But why did you have to bring someone else? Why couldn't it just be us? How could he explain to a six-year-old about mortgages and debts, about the crushing weight of trying to hold everything together alone? How could he tell her that some nights he stood in the barn and screamed into the darkness because the grief was eating him alive? That he'd married Clara not just to save the ranch, but because Morrison was right.
He was failing Sophie, failing to be both mother and father, failing to keep his promise to Margaret to take care of their little girl. "Sometimes adults have to make hard choices," he said finally. "This was one of them." "I hate her," Sophie whispered. "You don't even know her. I don't want to know her.
Ethan sighed, pulling Sophie into his arms. She came willingly, burying her face in his shirt. I'm not asking you to love her, Sophie. I'm just asking you to be polite. Can you do that for me?
Sophie was quiet for a long moment. Will you make her go away if I'm good? Sophie, will you? We'll see. He said, hating himself for the half-truth.
Now try to get some sleep. He stayed until her breathing evened out, then carefully extracted himself and headed back downstairs. Clara was no longer in the dining room, but he found her in the kitchen helping Molly with the dishes despite the older woman's protests. I'm perfectly capable, Mrs. O'Brien. I've been taking care of myself for years.
It's not proper, Molly insisted. You're the lady of the house now. I'm a woman who knows how to wash dishes, Clara corrected gently, and I'd rather be useful than ornamental. She looked up as Ethan entered, her hands still in the soapy water. "Is Sophie all right?" "Nightmare," he said shortly.
"About her mother," he nodded. "That's natural. Change is frightening for children. She's processing grief and fear of abandonment simultaneously." "She's six," Ethan said defensively. "She doesn't need to be analyzed." Clara dried her hands on a towel, her movements careful and deliberate.
"Understanding emotions doesn't diminish them, Mr. Walker. But if you'd prefer I not offer insights about your daughter, I'll refrain. There it was again, that calm, measured response to his rudeness. It was almost worse than if she'd gotten angry. Anger he could fight against.
This quiet dignity left him feeling like a brute. I'm going to check on the horses, he said abruptly. Of course. Good evening, Mr. Walker. He escaped to the barn, where the familiar smells of hay and horse and leather welcomed him.