Chapter Thirteen
The afternoon sun stretched across Amy’s bedroom floor and warmed the edge of the quilt while the house settled into the quiet rhythm that followed the noon meal.
Maggie had fallen asleep after declaring that Eloise needed rest as much as any other child, while Noah had gone outside with Russ to bring the cows into the barn before supper.
Beyond the open window, Caleb’s hammer struck wood at steady intervals, each blow ringing across the yard with the same stubborn purpose he seemed to bring to every task.
Amy dipped her pen into ink and studied the clean sheet before her. Three abandoned drafts of a letter rested beside her elbow, their careful beginnings buried beneath so many corrections that the paper was too worn to send. She drew a fresh page closer and tried again.
My dearest Mother,
The familiar greeting eased some of the strain from her shoulders, and she continued before doubt could stop her.
I hope this letter finds you well. I think of you whenever I bake because I can still hear you warning me against rushing biscuits into the oven before they’re ready.
A smile touched her lips as she pictured her mother in their St. Joseph kitchen, flour scattered across her apron while she pretended to overlook Amy stealing dough from the bowl. The memory brought her comfort, though it also sharpened the distance between them.
Amy added another line.
Ranch life grows easier with each passing day.
The words held enough truth to remain on the page, at least. Her pen hovered for a moment before she wrote again.
Caleb works harder than any man I’ve ever known.
Amy studied the sentence and felt the same dissatisfaction that had followed every earlier attempt.
He worked until the daylight faded, and often continued after supper with ledgers spread across his office desk.
He repaired whatever broke before anyone else noticed the damage, then did his best to help put the children to bed.
Amy set the pen down and folded her hands, hoping patience would restore the careful tone she had intended. It failed. The truth had already risen too close to the surface, and when she began writing again, the words came without the protection of politeness.
Mother, I fear I may have been foolish again.
Her throat ached as she stared at the confession, though she decided to continue.
Caleb is a good man. Additionally, and this will likely surprise you, there are also children here.
Caleb never mentioned the children in his letters, so I was as surprised as I imagine you to be.
When I stepped off the wagon at the ranch, I learned I'd gained a husband and two children in the space of a single afternoon.
Noah is six, Maggie is four, and they lost both their parents far sooner than any child should.
Caleb gave his word that he'd raise them, and while I believe he intended to spare me the worry until I arrived, I confess I was too shocked to know whether I'd made the greatest mistake of my life.
Amy smiled as she paused long enough to picture Maggie hugging Eloise beneath one arm while Noah pretended he didn't care whether anyone noticed he'd gathered the freshest eggs for breakfast.
I wish you could meet them. Maggie carries her doll everywhere and chatters enough to fill an entire day, while Noah takes the measure of every person before deciding whether they've earned one of his stories about his father.
Winning their trust has taken patience, but they've begun saving smiles for me, asking for my help, and looking my way when they need comfort.
I find myself caring for them far more deeply than I ever expected.
I came west believing I'd entered a practical marriage because romance had made a fool of me once already, and I thought duty would be enough to build a respectable life.
Instead, I've discovered that the work out here, however difficult, provides a different kind of satisfaction than I'd ever known.
My bread still has its disagreeable days, Buttercup the cow continues to remind me that cows possess opinions every bit as stubborn as people, and each evening I fall into bed more tired than I believed possible, yet I wake each morning eager to begin again because this ranch has started to feel less like a place where I'm living and more like a home that's slowly making room for me.
Her pen slowed before the next sentence.
Yet I don’t know whether my husband will ever find a place for me that reaches beyond duty.
Amy pressed her lips together and read the line twice. She should have crossed it out, yet honesty demanded even more from her.
Some days Caleb smiles at me, and I begin to believe we might become true companions. Then the next day he withdraws so completely that I can’t help but wonder whether I’m another promise he feels he has to keep just because his pride won’t allow him to fail.
The memory of the day by the creek returned with painful clarity. Caleb’s face had looked so afraid when he found them near the cut fence, though his voice had turned that fear into accusation before she understood the danger. Amy’s eyes burned at the memory, and she blinked until the sting eased.
I keep wondering whether I’ve traded one heartbreak for another.
Theodore filled every silence with promises he never meant, while Caleb leaves every silence empty, retreating behind another wall until I wonder whether we'll ever learn how to speak to one another without misunderstanding each other.
Amy lifted one hand to her mouth and looked away from the page.
The words seemed harsher once they had been put on paper, though cruelty had little to do with them.
They reflected the fear she had carried since arriving at the ranch, where every small hope seemed balanced against the possibility that she had once again mistaken companionship for affection.
Amy imagined her mother reading that line at the kitchen table, worry settling across her face, hundreds of miles preventing her from offering her daughter timely comfort.
She shook her head and reached for the paper. She couldn’t send this. The letter would only burden her mother with fears she had no power to ease, and Amy had already caused enough worry when Theodore’s betrayal had sent her hiding from the world.
A knock sounded against the door before she could fold the pages. Amy gathered them quickly and slipped them beneath her journal. “Come in.”
The door opened partway, and Caleb appeared in the gap with his hat held between his hands. He stayed near the threshold, turning it through his fingers as his gaze settled on the floorboards instead of her face. “I hope I haven’t interrupted you.”
Amy rested one hand over her journal. “I was only writing to my mother.”
His eyes lifted to hers briefly before dropping again. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”
She suspected he had rehearsed the words during the work she had heard from the yard. “I thought you might.”
Caleb shifted his weight, and the floorboard beneath his boot gave a faint creak. “What happened near the creek was my fault.”
Amy hadn’t expected him to begin so plainly, and the tension she had carried since morning eased enough for her to breathe more freely.
He rubbed one thumb along the edge of his hat. “You didn’t deserve the way I spoke to you.” Every word sounded carefully chosen, as though apologizing belonged to a language Caleb had never learned to speak with ease, yet he'd come to find her anyway.
“I thought you were angry with me,” she said.
“I believed that too, at first.” Caleb glanced toward the hallway, then faced her again with visible reluctance. “Fear has a way of falling from my mouth as anger.”
The admission drew a small smile from her because the phrasing sounded so thoroughly like him: dry enough to protect the feeling beneath it. “That seems inconvenient,” she commented.
His mouth curved, though the smile carried more embarrassment than amusement. “It’s caused trouble for me before.”
Amy waited, allowing him time to continue without filling the silence for him.
“When I saw you beside that fence with Noah and Maggie, I thought whoever cut it might still be close.” His fingers stilled around the hat.
“All I could think about was getting you home, and what could have happened to you.” The roughness in his voice revealed what the words left unsaid, and Amy’s hurt softened when she understood how badly fear had shaken him.
“You frightened me as well,” she admitted. “I couldn’t understand why you were looking at me as though I’d failed you.”
Caleb’s expression shifted, regret deepening the lines around his eyes. “You didn’t fail anyone. You kept the children as safe as you could”
Amy searched his face. “Then you should’ve trusted me enough to explain the danger before any of this happened.”
“You’re right.” He took a breath before adding, “I should’ve told you more, especially since I leave the children in your care.” The admission mattered because it hadn't come easily. Every word seemed wrestled from a man more accustomed to shouldering blame in silence than speaking it aloud.
“I don’t expect every detail about every matter,” Amy said. “I only need enough truth to keep them safe.”
Caleb nodded. “I can manage that.”
The promise lacked elegance, though she believed it because he hadn’t decorated it with assurances he might fail to keep. Caleb remained near the doorway after he’d finished his apology, and Amy noticed the corner of a small parcel beneath his coat.
He followed her gaze, reaching inside and withdrawing a bundle wrapped in brown paper. “Russ found this while sorting through Jonah’s office.”
Amy accepted it with both hands. “What is it?”
Caleb rubbed the back of his neck as color rose faintly along his ears. “Russ thought you’d enjoy it more than I would, which isn’t a high standard since I’ve never been accused of excessive reading.”
His awkward humor warmed her, especially because it seemed intended to ease the uncertainty between them.
Amy untied the string and unfolded the paper.
A worn novel rested inside, bound in faded green cloth with gold lettering nearly erased by years of handling.
She opened the cover and found a name written in careful script on the inside of the cover.
Sarah Bell.
Amy traced the letters lightly before looking up. “This belonged to Jonah’s wife, didn’t it?”
“Russ said she loved books.” Caleb’s gaze settled on the worn cover. “Leaving it buried in a box seemed wrong when you might actually read it.”
The worn novel meant more than its condition suggested. Caleb had chosen to entrust her with it, and she found herself wondering what had made him think of her when he saw it.
"The children won't mind," Caleb said. "They know how much Sarah loved her books. They'd rather see one being read than left to gather dust." He glanced at the worn cover before adding, "I expect Sarah would've felt the same."
Amy opened the book and breathed in the familiar scent of old paper.
The softened edges showed how often Sarah had held it, and Amy wondered which passages had brought her comfort during the long ranch evenings.
“Thank you,” she said, closing it with care.
“This means more than you probably realize.”
Relief loosened Caleb’s expression. “I wasn’t sure if books made proper peace offerings.”
"Seems a sight easier to care for than a milk cow.”
His brows rose. “I hadn’t considered bringing you a cow.” Caleb glanced toward the hallway, beginning to edge away, and adjusted his grip on the hat. “I should let you finish your letter.”
The thought of returning to those bleak pages made her look back down at the book. “Or you could…stay awhile.” The invitation left her mouth before caution had time to interfere.
Caleb hesitated, and regret touched his eyes before he answered. “I’ve still got a gate to finish before dark.”
Amy managed a smile. “Then I’ll see you at supper.”
Caleb nodded after a beat. “I’ll be there.”
After he left, Amy drew the unfinished letter from beneath her journal and read the final lines again.
Her fears remained on the page, though they no longer seemed to describe the whole truth.
Caleb still guarded his feelings and often left her wondering where she stood, yet he had crossed the hallway to apologize and had offered her a kind gift as an apology.
Amy folded the letter without sealing it and placed it beneath the other abandoned attempts. Her mother could wait for a version where Amy understood her marriage more clearly.