Zeus knickered softly as he approached, and Ethan leaned against the stallion stall, letting the animals simple presence calm him. This was where he'd proposed to Margaret, right here in this barn. She'd been helping him with a difficult foing, her hair coming loose from its pins, her dress stained with blood and birth fluids, and she'd never looked more beautiful to him. When the fo had finally stood on shaky legs, he dropped to one knee right there in the straw and asked her to be his wife. She'd laughed and cried at the same time, saying yes before he'd even finished the question.
Now he was married to a woman whose last name he'd barely known this morning, whose favorite color he couldn't guess, whose dreams and fears were complete mysteries to him. The barn door creaked open, and he tensed, expecting Clara. But it was Molly carrying a lantern and wearing her shawl against the evening chill. "You planning to sleep out here?" she asked. Considering it, Molly hung the lantern on a hook and leaned against the opposite stall.
She's not what I expected. What did you expect? Someone weaker, I suppose. More desperate, but that one's got steel in her spine. Is that supposed to be a compliment?
It's an observation. Molly studied him with eyes that had seen too much life to be fooled by his gruff exterior. Margaret wouldn't want this for you. You know, this anger, this bitterness, Margaret would understand about saving the ranch she loved. The ranch maybe, but treating that woman like she's the enemy.
Margaret would have your hide for that. She was right, and he knew it. Margaret had never had an unkind word for anyone, always seeing the best in people, even when they didn't deserve it. She would have welcomed Clara. Probably would have had them being friends within an hour.
It's too hard, Molly," he admitted, his voice breaking, looking at her, sitting in Margaret's chair, knowing she'll be sleeping under Margaret's roof, taking care of Margaret's daughter. "None of that belongs to Margaret anymore, boy," Molly said gently. "It belongs to the living, and that includes you and that little girl who needs a mother, whether she knows it or not, Sophie will never accept her." Sophie's six. Six-year-olds say they'll never eat vegetables either, but somehow they grow up just fine. Molly pulled her shawl tighter.
Give it time. Both of you need to give it time. She left him alone with his thoughts and the soft sounds of horses settling for the night. Eventually, he had to go back inside. The house was quiet, a single lamp burning in the hallway.
Clara's door at the end of the hall was closed, no light showing beneath it. He paused outside the master bedroom, his bedroom now, his alone. The room still smelled faintly of Margaret's lavender soap, though it had been months since she'd used it. Her clothes still hung in the wardrobe. He hadn't been able to bring himself to pack them away.
Her brush still sat on the dresser, a few golden hairs still caught in its bristles. "Tomorrow," he thought, he'd have Molly pack everything away. It wasn't fair to Clara living in a shrine to another woman. It wasn't fair to Sophie, who needed to accept that her mother wasn't coming back. And it wasn't fair to him, torturing himself with ghosts.
But tonight, he lay in the bed he'd shared with his wife, staring at the ceiling, wondering how everything had gone so wrong so fast. 6 months ago, he'd had everything. A loving wife, a thriving ranch, a happy daughter. Now he had debts, a child who cried herself to sleep, and a stranger living down the hall who wore his ring but would never have his heart. The moonlight streaming through the window illuminated Margaret's sampler on the wall, the one she'd stitched during her pregnancy with Sophie.