Chapter Seventeen
That very same day, the sun still low on the horizon, and sweat gathered under Weston’s hat brim.
The scythe in his hands made a steady rhythm.
It swung, it sliced, and it cut clean through the tall, stubborn grass that had grown wild along the western edge of the field.
Each stroke was a small battle, not just with the earth, but with the ache in his shoulders and the storm still curling behind his ribs.
He worked like a man trying to outpace something.
Because he was one. A lark trilled somewhere overhead, and the breeze tugged at his sleeves.
However, nothing could pull his thoughts from yesterday; not the sun, not the work, not even the pain blooming sharp through his back when he twisted too fast.
It wasn’t the confrontation that stuck with him.
He was used to suspicion, used to the way folks narrowed their eyes like they were measuring the distance between him and trouble.
What he wasn’t used to and what still made his throat feel too tight was the way Nora had stepped forward.
Her voice was calm, standing between him and a storm that wasn’t his fault this time.
She didn’t hesitate.
Weston swallowed hard and leaned into the next swing, watching the grass fall away in a line. He hadn’t known how much he needed that until it happened. Someone choosing to believe him, just because they wanted to.
He could still hear her voice in his head, firm and clear. You don’t know him like I do.
Weston paused, the scythe blade sinking into the dirt.
He braced his hands on the worn wood handle, eyes tracing the land that stretched before him.
It wasn’t his, but he was trying, and she saw that.
That kind of knowing…That was the thing he thought he’d lost along with the rest of his life.
The thing he figured he’d never get again.
He couldn’t say the words, not yet. But in some quiet part of him, the one that hadn’t been drowned by whiskey or scorched by loss, he understood: This is what a wife does. She doesn’t just cook or clean or carry your name. She stands beside you when the world goes cold.
He gripped the scythe again, and noticed his knuckles gone white. The sun had climbed higher, and the work stretched ahead in long, unending rows. However, one thing was certain. Weston Crane didn’t feel alone in it, not anymore.
***
The sun was higher now, pressing down on him like a hand to the back of the neck.
Weston had stripped off his coat hours ago, his sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and his shirt was damp and clinging.
The scythe moved slower than before. There was less rhythm now, and more stubborn muscle and grit.
But he didn’t mind. He enjoyed the work that kept his head quiet.
Just then and out of the corner of his eye, he caught the shape of someone crossing the field. He straightened, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
“Nora.”
She walked with purpose, as she kept her skirts slightly gathered in one hand to keep from dragging, and her eyes locked on him. His pulse ticked up.
Nora stopped a few feet from him, letting the wind lift loose strands of her hair. “I went to your family ranch,” she said quietly. “Spoke with your neighbor. Mrs. Elder, I think it was.”
Weston went still. The name struck like a nail to the chest. For a heartbeat, the field vanished.
Then he saw a pair of hands in front of him.
They were weathered, veined, always busy, spooning broth into a chipped bowl.
Mrs. Elder. She was the one who brought bread when his sister got sick, the one who found him sitting outside the barn after the bank came.
That day, she just sat with him a while, like she knew grief needed silence more than words.
Then the wind shifted and the field came back. Nora was still there, anchoring him to the present moment. “I now know what really happened,” she said.
Nora didn’t flinch at the look he gave her.
She just stood there, calm and steady as a fence post in a storm.
Weston blinked once, then turned back to the scythe and picked it up.
Then, he set the blade to the earth again, trying to do anything to keep his hands from shaking.
Anything to give him an excuse not to look at her.
“I can’t,” he muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. “I can’t talk about that.”
He meant to leave it there, to walk off and let the silence settle. But before he could take a step, he felt her hand on his arm.
“Weston,” she said.
Something in the way she said his name, like she wasn’t asking for all of it, just a sliver, made the breath catch in his throat.
“Let me take you somewhere,” she added.
He turned his head slightly, just enough to glimpse her face. He didn’t ask where. Didn’t know why he didn’t resist. But there was something about her eyes, those open, steady eyes, that made it hard to keep the walls up. He gave the smallest nod and let her lead.
***
They walked toward the wagon in silence.
Soon, it creaked beneath them, as the fields rolled by in gold and green.
Weston kept his eyes on the road ahead, loosely holding the reins in his hands.
Nora sat beside him, and he could feel her skirt brushing against his coat sleeve now and then.
But she didn’t speak, and he didn’t ask.
When she finally told him to stop, they were on the edge of a hilltop clearing he hadn’t seen before. A pair of headstones stood beneath the cottonwoods, their edges softened by weather and time. Wildflowers had grown up around the bases, and Weston knew that Nora must’ve planted them herself.
“This is them,” she said quietly.
Weston climbed down from the wagon, as he felt his boots sinking into soft earth. He then took off his hat without thinking.
“My parents,” she added, walking ahead of him. “We buried them here after the accident. I couldn’t bear the thought of them being far from home.”
She paused by the stones, and he saw her hand drifting down to brush a petal off one of the flowers. “I come up here when it gets too heavy. Thought maybe…you could come with me this time.”
She stepped down without a word, and he followed, but slower. He could feel the weight of the place pressing in around them, quiet and reverent. The kind of silence that didn’t ask for filling.
“My father used to bring me up here,” she said. Her voice was calm, but he heard the strain beneath it, like something steady trying not to crack. “He said the trees kept the wind from reaching them. I used to think that was a kindness.”
She knelt to pull a weed near one of the stones, then brushed her fingers across the name. Weston looked away.
“I already told you… It was a coach accident,” she said, still crouched. “It all happened so quickly… I didn’t even have time to act,” Nora lost her breath. “They died in front of my eyes… while Mary Jane cried in my arms.”
Weston didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if he should say anything at all.
“I thought I’d stop breathing,” she whispered, more to the stone than to him. “But I had my baby sister to look after, and no time to mourn. I don’t know who I’d have become if I hadn’t had her to hold onto.”
She stood up, wiping her hands on her apron, and turned to face him. “I judged you,” she said simply. “I looked at your silence and your scars and I assumed the worst. That’s my fault.”
Weston met her eyes, but couldn’t hold them long. He looked down at the grass.
“I’m sorry,” she went on. “For not trusting you. For making you carry all of it alone.”
A lump rose in his throat, sudden and hot, and he clenched his jaw hard enough to ache. He wanted to say something, anything…but the words turned to dust in his mouth.
Nora stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath. “When you’re ready,” she said softly, “I’ll be there. You don’t have to tell it all at once. Just…let me be there.”
Then, without waiting for him to answer, she turned and walked away, heading back toward the wagon as the wind kept tugging gently at her shawl.
Weston stood there long after the sound of her footsteps faded. He looked down at the graves. At the stone that bore her father’s name. At last, he didn’t feel like a trespasser in someone else’s grief.
***
The scent of cornbread hit him before he even reached the porch. Weston paused a moment outside the door to take his boots off and let the low hum of laughter drift through the wood. It was the kind of sound that made a house feel like home, and something he was definitely not used to walking into.
He stepped inside and followed the noise to the kitchen.
Sadie, June, Mary Jane, and Nora, they were all gathered around the table.
Their hands were busy with bowls and platters, and their smiles were coming easy.
The light was warm, softening the edges of things.
Mary Jane had flour on her cheek. June was bent over laughing at something Sadie had said.
And Nora…Nora was laughing, too. She looked younger at that moment.
Lighter, like some part of her had unclenched without her even knowing it.
“I told her that pie doesn't count if it’s more flour than fruit,” Sadie was saying, resting one hand on her hip.
“I like lots of flour,” Mary Jane declared cheerfully, sticking a doughy finger in her mouth and grinning. “It’s yummy.”
“That’s not how it works, darling,” June teased, wiping her hands. “You’re supposed to bake it first.”
Mary Jane’s eyes went wide. “But it tastes good now.” She glanced around, lowering her voice in mock secrecy. “Better than Nora’s pickles.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nora protested, though she couldn’t hide the fact that she was enjoying the moment as much as everybody else had.
“Nothing.” Mary Jane kept giggling. “But yours are better than Mrs. Deffner from Sunday school. I swear!”
The conversation between Nora and Mary Jane set the women off again, as laughter bubbled around the room like spilled milk.