Chapter Ten
A Week Later
The sky was still ink-dark—the kind of dark that made a man feel like he was moving through molasses—when Weston pulled on his boots. He didn’t bother lighting a lamp. There was no need for it; he knew the path to the barn by heart now, every warped board and soft patch of earth.
The cold air bit at his face, but Weston welcomed it.
It was better to feel something than nothing at all.
He threw himself into the work with quiet fury.
He was pitching hay, mucking stalls, hammering down a splintered rail he had noticed days ago.
He did anything just to keep his hands busy, to keep his mind from drifting where it wanted to go. To her.
Weston scrubbed at the sweat on his brow with the back of his sleeve. He hadn’t seen Nora since yesterday afternoon, since he’d all but barked at Cade and turned on his heel without a word. No goodbye. No explanation. Just left her standing there.
I shouldn’t have acted like that.
On the other hand, he didn’t want her to see the parts of him that were still twisted up with grief and shame and everything he’d lost. But storming off? Leaving her alone at Cade’s and Sadie’s, just because his pride flared up? That wasn’t the kind of man he wanted to be.
He shoved the pitchfork into the hay a little too hard, making the metal scrape wood underneath. The horse in the nearest stall gave a snort and stamped its hoof.
“Easy,” Weston muttered, setting the fork aside. He pressed his hands to the small of his back and stretched. His eyes started drifting toward the barn door, toward the light just beginning to silver the horizon.
I should go back. Apologize. I should say something…anything. To make it right.
But the longer he waited, the harder it got. Pride was a hell of a thing. And so was guilt. And underneath both sat something worse. It was the fear that maybe she was better off without a man like him hanging around, haunted and angry and half-wild from everything he couldn’t outrun.
Still, the image of her standing alone lingered. And something about it felt wrong. It felt off, like maybe walking away hadn’t just been selfish, but also dangerous.
Nash Colter’s name drifted through his thoughts like smoke, bitter and acrid.
The way the man looked at Nora, like she was something owed to him.
Weston had seen it more than once, and it made his skin crawl.
He dragged a hand down his face, as the barn suddenly became too quiet around him.
He’d told himself she could handle men like Nash.
That she didn’t need protecting. But now… now, he wasn’t so sure.
***
The cow, a spotted old girl with sleepy eyes and a stubborn streak, shifted her weight and flicked her tail across Weston’s arm. He chuckled softly, steadying the bucket between his knees. “Now, now,” he murmured with a low and easy voice. “Ain’t no call for dramatics. You know the drill.”
He worked slowly, as the rhythmic sound of milk kept hitting the tin pail.
The cow let out a huff through her nose but didn’t fuss again.
Animals had a way of knowing things about a man, when he meant harm, when he carried a quiet sadness around like an old wound.
This one, at least, didn’t seem to mind the ghost in him.
“Think I’ll name you Tess,” he muttered. “You look like a Tess.”
“She already has a name,” said a small voice behind him. “It’s Rosie.”
Weston turned his head. Mary Jane stood just inside the barn with her pink cheeks. Her braid was a bit crooked and her hands were tucked behind her back like she’d been caught sneaking sweets.
“Well then,” Weston said, grinning a little. “Rosie it is.”
She stepped closer, her shoes crunching softly over the hay. “Are you gonna live here now?” she asked.
Weston looked into the little girl’s eyes. They were big and curious. He leaned back slightly on the stool, wiping his hands on a rag. “Reckon so,” he said. “Me and your sister got married, after all.”
Mary Jane blinked. “That’s what I thought.” Then, after a pause, she added, “You smell like cows.”
Weston barked a deep laugh. “Guilty.”
She came closer and tilted her head at the pail. “You’re good. I like you.”
“Well, your sister doesn’t argue much,” Weston said. “That helps.”
Mary Jane grinned, then picked up a little bit of straw and started twisting it between her fingers. He watched her for a moment, with a smile that started to fade.
“What are you doing out here alone?” he asked gently. “You know your sister doesn't like it when you wander off. It’s not safe.”
Her eyes darted down. “I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Talk, huh?”
She nodded, a little too quickly. “I like you better than Nash.”
Weston raised his brows. “Now that’s a bold statement.”
She leaned in, and Weston could see the unpleasant expression on her face when she talked about that man. “He’s too loud.”
He smirked, but before he could say more, a voice rang out across the field.
“Mary Jane!”
It was Nora, calling from the direction of the house. Her voice was sharp-edged with worry, and it cut through the quiet morning like a blade.
Weston straightened, his heart giving a small jolt. He looked down at Mary Jane, who was already squirming. “I didn’t mean to scare her,” she whispered.
“It’s not about scaring her,” Weston said, already setting the pail aside and standing. “She just loves you, that’s all. Come on.”
Just as he offered his hand without thinking, Weston heard the slap of hurried footsteps on packed earth. He turned and Nora appeared in the barn doorway. She was breathless, her hair windblown, with a pale shawl knotted hastily around her shoulders.
“Mary Jane!”
The girl shrank back instinctively. Weston let go of her hand.
Nora crossed the space fast. Her eyes were wide with worry that bled straight into anger. “What have I told you about running off like that?” Her voice cracked slightly. “You know better.”
“I just wanted to talk to him,” Mary Jane mumbled, looking down at her shoes.
Nora glanced at Weston for half a second, just long enough to register him. But it was not long enough to meet his eyes, because she turned her focus back on her little sister. “I don’t care. You don’t go wandering off without telling me. Ever. You understand?”
Mary Jane gave a reluctant nod. Nora’s hands trembled slightly as she smoothed her sister’s hair back. “Go find June,” she said more softly. “Tell her I said to keep you close.”
Mary Jane hesitated, casting one last look toward Weston. Then she turned and disappeared into the light beyond the barn door.
Silence lingered in her wake.
Nora stood still, arms folded tightly across her chest like she was holding herself together with sheer will. Weston, on the other hand, unsure whether to speak or stay quiet, ran a hand over his neck and looked down at the barn floor.
I should say something…
They hadn’t really talked since the wedding, if he was to be honest. Not beyond small, practical things. Not beyond what needed saying to keep the house and land running.
He hadn’t really tried to talk to her, either.
And the worst part was, he couldn’t even tell why.
And Nora…she hadn’t brought it up. Hadn’t needled or pried or scolded him for it.
And for that, he was grateful. She let him carry the weight of it in peace, and somehow that made it lighter and heavier at the same time.
She finally spoke, with a voice much quieter now. “Duke just rode in. You know, the new ranch hand. He’s in the yard.”
Weston nodded, brushing hay off his pants. “I’ll go talk to him.”
Their eyes met for a moment then. It was brief, uncertain. Hers held something, a flicker of distance he didn’t know how to cross. He tipped his head slightly, then stepped out into the morning light, leaving behind the warmth of the barn and the questions he didn’t know how to ask.
***
The boy was already standing beside the fence post when Weston stepped out into the yard. A canvas sack was slung over one shoulder, a hammer sticking out the top. He straightened at the sight of Weston and offered a quick, eager nod.
“Mornin’, sir.”
Weston grunted softly. “You Duke?”
“Yes, sir. Duke Brooks. Miss Nora said you might need a hand.”
Weston looked him over. He was lanky, sunburned, with boots too big and a hopeful glint in his eyes. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, but he stood straight and tried to act like a man twice his age.
“Windmill’s sticking again,” Weston said, tipping his head toward the ridge. “Come on.”
They set off through the dewy grass, past the grazing field and the dry creek bed.
The sun had risen higher now, warming the back of Weston’s neck, and the air smelled of dust and mesquite.
Duke kept pace beside him, close enough that Weston could feel the boy’s eagerness radiating off him like heat.
“Have you ever worked on a windmill before?” Weston asked.
“No, sir. But I’m a quick study.” Duke adjusted the strap on his shoulder. “I worked on fences, patched the roof after the last storm, helped Miss Nora with the calving back in spring. She says I’m useful…At least I try to be.”
Weston nodded without replying. He appreciated the honesty. And the humility.
Duke, undeterred by Weston’s silence, kept talking.
“My pa says there’s no future in ranching.
Says the railroad’s gonna run us all out.
But I don’t know…I like the work. Like being outside.
I figure if I save enough, maybe I could get a little land of my own one day.
Don’t have to be much. Just enough for a few head of cattle. Maybe chickens.”
Weston adjusted his stride, eyes scanning the hill ahead. The windmill stood crooked against the sky like an old sentry, blades still. “Miss Nora says you, too, are from South Dakota.”
Weston didn’t answer that. Just kept walking.