CHAPTER 6
The Cross Household
The Cross Ranch
Nathaniel Cross had spent the better part of the morning of Callie Reyes's expected arrival telling himself, with the particular firmness of a man arguing against his own instincts, that he had no cause whatsoever for the low, persistent unease that had settled over him since Ruth's note confirming the new housekeeper's travel arrangements had arrived.
It was, he reminded himself repeatedly, a simple business matter — a woman engaged to keep his house and mind his children, nothing more complicated than that, and his own considerable wariness on the subject owed nothing to the woman herself, whom he had never met, and everything to the plain, well-earned caution of a man who had twice now watched a stable household arrangement dissolve the moment romance entered the picture.
“You're pacing, boss,” Otis observed, from his position leaning against the porch rail with the particular unbothered patience of a man who had seen his employer pace before and did not consider the behavior worth interrupting for anything less urgent than an actual emergency.
“Whole morning, back and forth, wearing a groove in those boards that'll want fixing come autumn.”
“I'm not pacing. I'm thinking.”
“You're thinking the same way a man paces, which is to say, without much profit to show for the effort, and considerable wear on the floorboards regardless.”
Nathaniel did not dignify this with a response, though he did, somewhat self-consciously, stop his circuit of the porch and settle instead into the chair beside Otis, watching the road toward town with the particular fixed attention of a man expecting trouble he could not properly name.
Sam and Lily, for their part, had each arrived at their own private conclusions regarding the new arrival, conclusions they shared with their father over the noon meal with the particular blunt honesty children generally reserve for matters they haven't yet learned to dress in adult diplomacy.
“She'll leave too,” Lily announced, apropos of nothing, pushing her food around her plate with more attention than actual eating. “They always do.”
“You don't know that, Lily,” Sam said, though his own tone carried rather less conviction than the correction implied.
“Mrs. Halloran left. Mrs. Petrie left. Mama left.” Lily's small chin trembled, though she held herself with the fierce, determined composure of a child who has decided that crying accomplishes nothing beyond making the loss feel worse. “I don't see why this one won't leave too.”
Nathaniel felt the particular helpless ache that always accompanied his daughter's grief, a pain he had grown practiced at managing outwardly, if not entirely at resolving inwardly.
“I can't promise you she won't leave, sweetheart.
I can't promise that about anyone, and I won't lie to you and say otherwise.
But I can promise we'll give her a fair chance before we decide anything about her, same as we'd want a fair chance ourselves.”
Lily considered this with the particular grave seriousness she brought to most matters of genuine consequence, and nodded, slowly, though the nod carried rather more resignation than genuine agreement, and Nathaniel understood, watching her, that whatever fair chance he had just promised on his daughter's behalf would need considerably more patient tending than the promise itself had implied.
Ruth's wagon appeared on the road toward mid-afternoon, and Nathaniel found himself standing on the porch with rather more nervous attention than the simple arrival of a hired housekeeper seemed to warrant, watching as Ruth drew the wagon to a stop and the woman beside her climbed down with the particular careful grace of someone unaccustomed to ranch wagons but determined not to show it.
Callie Reyes was not at all what Nathaniel had pictured, though he could not have said, watching her approach the porch steps, precisely what he had pictured instead.
She was younger than he'd expected, for one thing, with dark hair pinned in a style rather more formal than practical for ranch work, and a bearing that spoke of considerably more refined circumstances than the position she'd traveled so far to fill, and eyes that held, beneath their evident travel-weariness, a particular watchful intelligence that reminded him, oddly, of a woman assessing unfamiliar terrain before committing her weight to it.
“Mr. Cross,” she said, and her voice carried a warmth and a faint musical accent that marked her, unmistakably, as coming from considerably farther south than the Wyoming Territory.
“I'm Callie Reyes. Ruth speaks very highly of your household, and I hope I might prove worthy of the confidence she's placed in me on your behalf.”
“Miss Reyes.” Nathaniel found himself, rather to his own surprise, at something of a loss for the easy, businesslike greeting he had prepared, the woman before him carrying herself with a dignity that made the whole transaction feel considerably less simple than he had told himself it would be.
“I'm obliged to you for coming such a distance.
I hope the position proves suitable, though I'll tell you plain, it's a demanding household, two children and a working ranch both wanting attention.”
“I expect nothing less than demanding, Mr. Cross, and I've come prepared to learn whatever the position requires, however steep the learning proves.”
It was, Nathaniel thought, watching her, precisely the sort of answer a woman gave when she had rather more riding on the position's success than the wage alone accounted for, though he could not have said, in that first meeting, what exactly that additional weight consisted of — only that something in her careful composure suggested a woman who had traveled a very great distance from something rather more complicated than mere ordinary circumstance, and he found himself, against his considerable better judgment, already rather curious to learn what that complication might eventually prove to be.
Ruth took her leave shortly after the introductions were properly made, promising to call again within the week to see how the arrangement was settling, and Nathaniel found himself standing on the porch beside his new housekeeper in a silence that stretched a moment longer than strict business courtesy required, both of them evidently uncertain how to proceed from formal introduction to actual working arrangement.
“I expect you'll want to see the house properly, and meet the children at greater length than this afternoon's brief introduction allowed,” he said finally.
“They're with Otis just now, mending fence in the south pasture, seeing as I wasn't entirely certain what hour your coach would arrive and didn't want them underfoot for the waiting.”
“I should like that very much, Mr. Cross. I confess I'm rather more nervous about the children's reception than about the house itself, houses being considerably easier to learn than a child's genuine trust.”
“That's a fair assessment, and an honest one.
I'll tell you plainly, Miss Reyes, my daughter in particular has had rather more practice losing people than most children her age ought to have, and I'd not blame you if her welcome proves considerably cooler than her brother's.
It's not personal, whatever coolness she shows.
It's simply hard-won caution, and I'd ask your patience with it, same as I've had to learn my own patience with it these past two years.”
“I've considerable experience with hard-won caution myself, Mr. Cross, though my own history differs from your daughter's in its particulars. I mean to earn whatever trust this household can offer, slowly and properly, and I'll not take any initial coolness as a verdict on my eventual welcome.”
Nathaniel studied her a moment longer, something in her quiet resolve settling an uncertainty he had not properly acknowledged carrying since Ruth's first letter regarding this arrangement, and found himself, leading her toward the house for her first proper tour, feeling considerably more optimistic about the whole undertaking than his morning's anxious pacing had left him to expect.
The house tour itself proceeded with the particular careful formality of two people conducting a business transaction while both privately aware that something rather more significant than mere employment terms hung in the balance of the exchange.
Nathaniel showed her through the kitchen, the modest but comfortable parlor, the children's rooms, and the small chamber that would become her own, offering brief, practical commentary on each space's particular quirks — the kitchen stove that ran hotter on one side, the parlor window that stuck in damp weather, the particular creak in the third stair that had, over the years, become something of a household joke regarding its usefulness in alerting parents to children attempting late-night mischief.
“And this,” he said, pausing before a closed door at the end of the upstairs hall, his voice carrying a sudden, careful flatness that Callie noted immediately, “was my wife's sewing room.
It remains closed, for the present. I'd ask that you not trouble it, whatever curiosity the closed door might understandably provoke.”
“Of course, Mr. Cross. I'll respect whatever boundaries this household requires, without question.”
Something in her immediate, unquestioning acceptance of this clearly significant boundary seemed to ease a tension Nathaniel had not realized he was carrying into this particular moment of the tour, and he found himself, continuing on toward the remaining rooms, grateful for a woman who understood, evidently by instinct, that some doors required patience rather than explanation.
The tour concluded in the ranch's modest but well-organized office, where Nathaniel walked her through the practical particulars of her new position — the wage, paid monthly; the household budget she would manage for provisions and supplies; the general expectations regarding the children's care and the house's daily maintenance.
Callie listened with careful attention, asking questions where her inexperience left genuine gaps in her understanding, and found Nathaniel's patient, thorough explanations considerably more generous than she had expected from a man reputed, by Ruth's careful description, to be somewhat guarded in his dealings.
“I'll want you to feel free to ask whatever questions arise, as they arise,” he said, concluding the practical briefing. “I'd rather field a dozen small questions than have you struggle silently with some misunderstanding that grows into a larger problem for want of simply asking.”
“That's a generous policy, Mr. Cross, and I mean to make full use of it, given how much I've genuinely got to learn.”
“I'd wager you'll learn faster than you're presently giving yourself credit for, Miss Reyes. I've found, in my own experience, that genuine willingness to learn generally accomplishes more than any amount of prior experience ever properly could.”
The briefing concluded, Nathaniel walked her back toward the kitchen where Sam and Lily would soon return from their afternoon with Otis, and paused a moment at the doorway with an expression of evident, if carefully restrained, hope.
“I'll own, Miss Reyes, that I've grown rather weary these past two years of watching housekeepers arrive with genuine promise only to depart within months for marriage or homesickness or simple discouragement at the position's considerable demands.
I don't say this to burden you with expectations you've not yet earned the chance to properly meet, only to explain why I find myself hoping, rather more than strict employer's detachment generally permits, that this particular arrangement might prove the exception to that discouraging pattern.”
“I understand the hope, Mr. Cross, and I'll own I carry a rather similar one myself, for reasons of my own I've not yet properly explained.
I've traveled a very great distance to reach this position, and I mean to make every effort toward its lasting success, whatever challenges the learning curve presents along the way.”
This mutual acknowledgment, offered with a sincerity that exceeded the moment's strict business requirements, settled something between them that neither commented on further, though both, proceeding toward the kitchen's warm, ordinary business, carried the exchange with them as a kind of quiet, private promise regarding the considerable effort each intended to invest in this new arrangement's success.