Chapter Seven
Amy woke before sunrise to the unfamiliar weight of a wedding ring against her finger and the equally unfamiliar knowledge that she was no longer a guest beneath Caleb Whitaker’s roof.
She lay quietly beneath the quilt while pale light gathered around the curtains.
The house remained still, though the noise of faint movement carried from the yard beyond her window.
A gate creaked, followed by the low murmur of Caleb’s voice as he spoke to one of the horses.
He must have risen while the sky was still dark.
Amy pushed herself upright and tucked a curl behind her ear.
Her wedding dress still hung on the wardrobe door, carefully brushed out after their return from town, while her plain brown work dress waited over a chair.
Yesterday she had stood beside Caleb in the courthouse and promised to share his life.
Today she would begin proving she belonged in it.
She dressed quickly and pinned her hair back before heading downstairs with a hopeful determination that lasted until she entered the kitchen.
The room looked worse in the early light.
A stack of dishes waited beside the dry sink, while flour dusted one corner of the worktable.
A pan still sat on the stove with the remains of last night's supper hardened along the bottom.
Near the pantry, a crock gave off a sour smell, and a basket of unfolded laundry occupied one chair.
Amy stared. A library could fall into disorder when careless patrons returned books to the wrong shelves, yet books rarely spoiled or demanded breakfast before a woman had fully awakened.
The kitchen looked as though no one had truly kept on top of it for weeks, and for one reckless heartbeat she wished she were back among dusty shelves that smelled of paper instead of sour milk.
The thought embarrassed her almost as quickly as it came. She had chosen a fresh start, not the comfort of familiar routines. Drawing a steady breath, she rolled up her sleeves.
By the time footsteps sounded overhead, Amy had coaxed the stove to life and mixed some biscuit dough according to Lydia's recipe. Though it clung stubbornly to her fingers, she managed to shape a few uneven rounds before sliding them into the pan.
Noah entered first, already dressed in worn trousers and a faded shirt. He paused in the doorway, his gaze drifting from Amy to the flour scattered across the table, then finally to the pan beside the stove. Whatever he found there seemed to satisfy him.
“Good morning,” Amy said, offering him a tentative smile.
“Where's Caleb?”
Amy let the unanswered greeting pass. Expecting warmth on her first morning in the house would have been asking a great deal of a little boy who had buried his father such a short time ago. “He's outside tending the animals.”
Noah nodded, then crossed the kitchen with quiet purpose. His gaze settled on a tin resting on the highest shelf, and he reached for the nearest chair.
Amy wiped her hands against her apron. “What are you looking for?”
“Oats.”
“I'll get them.”
He shook his head determinedly. “I know where they are.” His fingers curled around the chair and dragged it across the floor before she could stop him. The scrape echoed through the quiet kitchen as he climbed onto the seat and reached toward the shelf.
“That chair wobbles,” Amy said, stepping closer. “Let me save you from an exciting trip to the floor.”
“I don't need any help.”
The answer arrived so quickly that it sounded well-practiced rather than impatient.
Amy's smile faded. Children rarely insisted on doing everything alone unless life had taught them to. One of the chair’s legs shifted against the uneven floorboards, and she rested a hand on the back to steady it.
“I’m sure you’re quite capable,” she said, “though I'd rather spare Caleb the pleasure of hearing how his new wife watched his nephew tumble headfirst into the counter.”
“I won't fall.”
“I expect every fellow who falls says the same thing first.”
Noah tugged the tin toward himself. Its weight caught him by surprise, and the chair rocked. Oats spilled across the counter as the tin lurched forward, and Amy caught Noah’s arm before he pitched backward. His boots had barely reached the floor before he pulled free.
“I had it!” His mouth pressed into a stubborn line. “Papa let me get things on my own.”
Amy understood he was trying to protect the independence Jonah had trusted him with, and giving that up must have felt like losing another piece of his father. She released the chair. “I see. I'm still learning how your father liked things done.”
His gaze drifted toward the stove. “You aren't my mother.”
Amy swallowed hard. “I know.” She never wanted him to think otherwise. She only hoped that one day he might allow her to care for him without feeling he'd betrayed the father he loved.
He lifted the oat tin and headed toward the back door.
“You can eat with us,” Amy called, keeping her voice light.
His hand rested on the latch, and she waited while hope quietly stirred inside her, but Noah gave a small shake of his head. “I'm feeding the chickens.”
Amy glanced at the tin. She could have sworn she'd once read that chickens ate grain and mash rather than plain oats, but ranches seemed to have a way of making every book she'd ever trusted feel incomplete. "Do they like oats?"
Noah looked at her as though she'd asked whether horses liked grass. "Papa always gave 'em some." The door closed firmly behind him.
Amy looked across the kitchen at the oats scattered through her ruined biscuit dough.
Soft footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Maggie appeared in her nightdress, dragging her rag doll by one arm. Her hair had escaped its braid overnight, forming a soft tangle around her face.
Amy managed a smile. “Good morning.”
Maggie crossed the kitchen in silence before lifting both arms toward Amy.
Amy hesitated before understanding. “Would you like me to pick you up?”
The little girl nodded. Warmth filled Amy as she lifted Maggie and settled her against one hip, where she seemed quite comfortable. Maggie tucked her face beneath Amy’s chin, holding fast enough to suggest she had no intention of moving.
“Well,” Amy murmured, “this is a kinder welcome than your brother offered.”
Maggie studied the flour on Amy’s cheek. “You’re dirty.”
“I’ve been cooking.”
Maggie wrinkled her nose with complete seriousness, then leaned closer as though sharing an important secret. “Papa burns biscuits.”
Amy glanced toward the pan. “We may discover I share his talent.”
Maggie giggled, and Amy carried her toward the washbasin. “Let’s get you dressed before breakfast.”
The child’s arms closed harder around her neck. “You do it.”
Amy’s heart lifted. “I’d be glad to.” She carried Maggie upstairs and found a small yellow dress folded inside the wardrobe. The garment had been mended several times, and one button hung by a loose thread. Amy set Maggie on the bed. “We’ll repair that after breakfast.”
Maggie nodded until Amy reached for the dress. Then she suddenly pulled away. “I want Caleb.”
Amy’s heart sank at the shift in her demeanor. “He’s working outside.”
Maggie's arms wrapped around herself. “You’ll pull my hair.”
Amy's smile faltered. She hadn't even touched the child's hair. Was Maggie truly afraid, or was this another way of keeping everyone at arm's length before they could disappoint her?
“I’ll be careful. I promise, Maggie.”
Maggie’s face crumpled. “I want him!”
The speed of the change in her left Amy helpless. A few minutes earlier, the child had clung to her as though they had known each other for years. Now Maggie twisted away from every careful touch and called for Caleb louder and louder until Amy feared the entire ranch would hear.
Heavy steps sounded in the hallway, and Caleb appeared at the door with his sleeves rolled above his forearms. Dust marked one shoulder, and his hair looked as though the wind had been arguing with it since dawn. “What happened?”
“She asked me to help her dress,” Amy explained, keeping hold of the yellow dress. “Then she suddenly decided my assistance presented a grave danger to her hair.”
Maggie reached toward him. “Amy pulls.”
Amy stared at Maggie in disbelief. The little girl said it with such certainty that, for one awful heartbeat, Amy wondered whether Caleb might believe her. “I haven’t touched her hair.”
Caleb looked at Maggie thoughtfully. “Did she really pull it?” he asked slowly.
Maggie considered the question, then shook her head. “She might, though!”
Caleb looked at Maggie with the patient resignation of someone who had weathered this particular storm before. “Amy’s trying to help,” he said. “You can let her finish, or you can wear your nightdress while helping feed the chickens.”
Maggie’s eyes grew round at the thought and she glanced toward the window. “Noah would laugh.”
Caleb nodded solemnly. “He surely would.”
She gave Amy a doubtful look before lifting her arms again. “Careful, please.”
Amy eased the dress over Maggie's head, relieved when the little girl stopped protesting.. The little girl did manage to hold still until Amy fastened the final button.
Once dressed, Maggie slipped from the bed and hurried into the hallway without offering any thanks.
Amy bent to pick up the discarded nightdress, trying to ignore the knot settling in her stomach.
She’d imagined proving herself useful this morning.
Instead, every task seemed to remind her how little she understood this family.
“You managed that well,” Caleb said.
Relief loosened the tight knot she’d been carrying since sunrise. Maybe she hadn’t ruined everything after all. “Only because she behaved once you arrived.”
“She behaves for me because I’m taller.”
Amy looked up, exhaustion flooding her brain and confusing her. He actually looked serious about that. “Is that the secret?”
“It helps with horses too.”