Chapter 3
The McKenna ranch house sat sentry over the prairie, its white clapboard walls catching the late-afternoon sun.
Flower boxes bursting with color lay beneath every window.
Carrie took Josh’s outstretched hand and climbed down from the wagon, her legs trembling from the shock still coursing through her veins.
There was a tingling sensation skittering across her palm where Josh had held her hand.
Her heart seemed to stutter for a moment, as if unsure how to continue beating.
Thomas was dead.
Her last hope had been snuffed out like a candle.
The rug had been pulled out from under her.
The kindness of Josh and Irene was the only reason she was still standing.
It had given her a lifeline. She swallowed, knowing that every step toward their home would feel like a betrayal.
Her secrets could destroy these people. Her feet dragged, the weight of her lies pressing against her chest like a stone.
Irene pushed open the front door, revealing a home of quiet prosperity.
The hardwood floors were well-polished, and the furniture looked to be of high-quality, adorned with the tiny details of highly paid craftsmen.
The windows framing the endless prairie were not just utilitarian.
They were meant to make a statement, letting golden light bathe the open floor plan that most people could only dream of, let alone furnish.
The air smelled of beeswax and fresh bread, a world away from the stale boarding houses where Carrie had hidden away all this time, her knife always within reach. “Welcome home,” Irene said, her voice warm. “You’ll have the guest room down the hall.”
Carrie clutched her traveling bag, her voice holding firm despite her turmoil. “Ma’am, if I am to stay here, I want to earn my keep. I can cook, clean, and help with chores. Anything you need, just say the word, and I will do it.”
Irene’s shrewd blue eyes softened. “A willing heart’s worth more than gold out here.
We’ll find plenty for you to do. Breakfast is at six.
The men need fuel for the morning chores around the ranch, and trust me, they are nothing short of ravenous first thing in the morning.
Lunch is at noon for those who want it, and supper is at six, once the day is done. ”
“Thank you,” Carrie said, her throat tight. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“Nonsense,” Irene said, leading her down the hallway. “You are no burden, Catherine. Thomas would have wanted you to be looked after. He was family, and by extension, you are, too.”
Carrie tried not to think about how her words made her stomach tighten as if it were being twisted into a knot and pulled toward the ground.
Her fingers curled around the worn leather of her bag as she forced herself to breathe, her lungs stifled by her leaden heart. This kindness… it felt so undeserved.
Still, she followed the older woman down the hall.
She opened the door and gestured for Carrie to come inside.
The guest room was small but cozy, with a quilted bedspread and a window overlooking the pasture.
Carrie set her bag down on the bed. The privacy of her room felt like a luxury after months of crowded, fearful nights.
Irene helped her unpack her meager belongings.
There was a spare dress, a Bible, a hairbrush, and not much else.
“Thomas was beside himself waiting for you,” she said with a wistful tone, settling on the edge of the bed.
“He would read your letters to anyone who would listen. He planned to build a new room on the ranch house just for you. He kept saying you loved books and that he hoped you’d bring a bit of learning to his life. ”
Carrie’s heart skipped a beat. Guilt clawed at her, leaving her throat raw.
She swallowed down the pain and forced herself to speak.
“He sounded… kind.” She paused, running her finger along the edge of her Bible in contemplation.
“His letters were so full of hope. I truly believed we could build a beautiful life together.”
“He was a good man,” Irene said, folding Carrie’s shawl with care. “Generous, too. He helped neighbors through hard times, and he always did it with a smile.” She looked up, searching Carrie’s face. “What about you, child? Is there no family back east?”
Carrie’s rehearsed lies burned like poison.
“No, ma’am. I was orphaned young and raised in a Boston orphanage by charitable ladies.
I migrated to Chicago, where I worked as a seamstress for a while before answering Thomas’s ad.
” Each word felt like a theft, stealing trust from the people who had opened their home to her.
Safety demanded she be Catherine Morgan, not Carrie Harper, but the fiction was a cage of her own making, meant to keep predators from sinking their teeth into her.
It also meant she could never be free of her lies.
Irene nodded, her gaze lingering as if she might see right through the young woman’s story. “It must have been hard growing up without kin. I can hardly imagine it myself. But I can see you’ve got a strong spirit, and God will bless you for it.”
Carrie forced a smile, her hands trembling as she tucked her Bible into a drawer. “I managed,” she said softly, hating the ease with which the lie came.
That evening, the kitchen glowed with lamplight, the table laden with beef stew and freshly baked bread.
Josh sat across from her, his broad shoulders filling the space, his blue eyes quiet yet watchful.
Irene passed the breadbasket, her voice light.
“Josh, why don’t you tell Catherine about the time Thomas tried to bake a cake for Mary’s birthday? ”
Josh’s lip quirked upward, a rare spark in his otherwise stoic expression. “Disaster does not even come close to describing it. The man thought flour and water made batter. He ended up with a rock even the dogs wouldn’t touch.”
Carrie laughed, the sound startling her.
She clamped a hand over her mouth, her cheeks coloring at her outburst. It eased a bit of tension in her chest, and she breathed a little easier.
“He did not mention that in any of his letters,” she said, her guard slipping for a moment. “He made everything sound so… perfect.”
“Thomas had a knack for seeing the best in things,” Josh said, his voice softening. “In people, too.” His gaze met hers, steady and searching. Carrie’s cheeks darkened.
Across the table, Irene sipped her coffee, her eyes twinkling. “You will fit in just fine around here, Catherine. You needn’t worry about that.”
The warmth of the kitchen, the clink of spoons, and the hum of conversation from the other room, where the ranch hands gathered around the dining room table, created a sense of security.
Truth be told, it was the safest Carrie had felt since witnessing Jonathan Webb’s murder, with Emmett Thorne’s hands around his throat.
But safety built on lies was as fragile as glass.
She glanced at the window, where stars pricked the darkening sky, and whispered a silent prayer. “Lord, forgive me for deceiving these good people. I sin, but I have no choice. Do not let them become collateral in my punishment. Protect them from the danger I have brought to their door.”