“I’ve had practice lately.”
That was almost humor.
Nola made a mental note.
Garrick Hale was not humorless.
The humor was simply buried beneath several tons of grief.
She returned to the pantry.
“Who is Vernon Crow?”
The effect was immediate.
Garrick straightened.
“Who told you about Crow?”
“A man at the relay station.”
“Which man?”
“One eye. Bad cornbread. Worse manners.”
Garrick frowned.
“That describes half the county.”
Nola closed the pantry door.
“He said Crow wants this ranch.”
“Crow wants every ranch between here and the river.”
“Why?”
“Because men like Crow don’t know when enough is enough.”
Nola heard bitterness.
But not fear.
Not quite.
“Has he offered to buy?”
“Three times.”
“And you refused.”
“Three times.”
“Is his offer fair?”
Garrick laughed without amusement.
“It would cover the bank note and leave me enough money to move the children into town.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
“So it isn’t fair.”
“No.”
Nola watched him.
“Then why does he keep asking?”
Garrick looked toward the window again.
Beyond the glass lay dry pasture rolling beneath a white morning sky.
“Because he thinks eventually I won’t have a choice.”
—
Three days became seven.
Seven became twelve.
Nola discovered Hollow Creek by degrees.
The ranch itself occupied a broad valley bordered by low hills and cottonwood trees. A narrow creek wandered along the eastern pasture, though the late summer heat had reduced it to shallow pools between stretches of exposed stone.
The land was beautiful in the austere way of places that demanded endurance.
The house had once been beautiful too.
Nola saw evidence everywhere.
Curtains carefully hemmed by hand.
Pressed flowers between pages of books.
A faded blue ribbon tied around a bundle of letters.
Small painted birds along Clara’s bedroom wall.
Those things had belonged to Miriam Hale.
Nola learned her name without asking.
It was stitched onto a sampler hanging beside the stairs.
Miriam Hale.
Beloved wife and mother.
The words seemed insufficient.
The dead always became smaller in memorials.
A whole person reduced to dates and descriptions.
Miriam remained present in subtler ways.
Garrick still slept on only one side of his bed.
Clara refused to wear a yellow dress because “Mama said she would fix the hem.”
Eli kept a cracked wooden box beneath his pillow.
Weston sometimes turned his head when a woman sang.
Nola did not try replacing anyone.
That would have been foolish.
Instead, she found empty spaces and quietly filled them.
She repaired Clara’s dress.
She sharpened Eli’s school pencils, though there was no school close enough for him to attend regularly.
She taught Garrick how to cool boiled water before giving it to Weston.
“You are enjoying this,” he accused.
“Immensely.”
“I raised two babies before him.”
“With your wife.”
“That still counts.”
“It counts as supervised experience.”
Garrick shook his head.
But he smiled.
A real smile this time.
It changed him.
Nola noticed.
Then immediately became annoyed with herself for noticing.
She had not come west to notice men smiling.
She had come because she needed employment.
And because the agency house had become unbearable.
And because Mrs. Talbott’s comment had not hurt at all.
That last part was a lie.
Nola knew it.
She simply preferred lies that allowed her to keep moving.
On the thirteenth morning, she found Garrick asleep at the kitchen table.
His head rested against folded arms.
A ledger lay open beneath him.
Sunlight entered through the window and revealed silver beginning at his temples.
Nola stopped.
There was something unguarded about sleeping people.
Garrick looked younger.
Not thirty-five.
Perhaps twenty-five.
Perhaps like the man Miriam had once married.
Nola glanced at the ledger.
Then looked away.
It was none of her business.
She put coffee on.
Garrick woke to the smell.
His head jerked up.
“How long was I asleep?”
“Long enough to drool on your finances.”
He looked down sharply.
Nola smiled.
“I’m joking.”
He wiped the corner of his mouth anyway.
Nola poured coffee.
“Were you up all night?”
“Most of it.”
“Why?”
“Numbers.”
“Numbers don’t improve after midnight.”
“These might’ve.”
“They didn’t?”
“No.”
She placed the cup before him.
“Show me.”
Garrick stared at her.
“The ledger.”
“You know accounts?”
“My father ran a general store.”
“And you worked there?”
“From the age of eleven.”
Something crossed her face.
“Until I married.”
Garrick hesitated.
He knew almost nothing about her.
Nola preferred it that way.
“Your husband was a merchant?”
“No.”
“Farmer?”
“No.”
“What was he?”
“Dead, eventually.”
Garrick went still.
Nola instantly regretted the bitterness.
He closed the ledger.
“I’m sorry.”
“It was years ago.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I know what it means.”
Their eyes met.
For perhaps the first time, Garrick seemed to understand that the grief in the house was not his alone.
Nola reached for the ledger.
“Give me this before we both start saying things we regret.”
He slid it across the table.
For the next hour she studied the ranch accounts.
Then she studied them again.
Something was wrong.
Garrick had debts, certainly.
A bank loan.
Feed purchases.
Medical bills.
Outstanding payment to the blacksmith.
But the figures did not explain the collapse she had seen.
“There should be more money.”
“There isn’t.”
“I can see that.”
She turned several pages.
“Your cattle sales last autumn were strong.”
“They were.”
“Your expenses rose in December.”
“Feed.”
“Some.”
She pointed.
“What is this?”
Garrick leaned closer.
The entry was written in faded ink.
Twenty-four dollars.
Then another.
Thirty-one.
Then forty-eight.
Payments spread across several months.
Each listed only as property assessment.
Garrick frowned.
“County fees.”
Nola looked at him.
“You paid nearly twice what you did the year before.”
“They increased assessments.”
“For everyone?”
“I assumed.”
“Never assume where money is concerned.”
Garrick took the ledger.
His frown deepened.
“I didn’t notice.”
“You had other things happening.”
Miriam had already been ill then.
They both understood without speaking.
Nola turned more pages.
Something else bothered her.
“Who collected these?”
“County office.”
“You went into town?”
“No. Collector came here.”
“Name?”
Garrick searched his memory.
“Doyle. Seth Doyle.”
Nola sat back.
“And you received receipts?”
Garrick looked at her.
“You’re asking a great many questions.”
“I’m finding a great many reasons.”
Before he could respond, Clara screamed outside.
Both adults were on their feet instantly.
They ran through the back door.
Clara stood near the garden fence pointing toward the barn.
Eli was beside her.
Neither appeared injured.
Garrick slowed.
“What happened?”
Clara pointed dramatically.
“There!”
A goat stood in the vegetable garden eating what remained of a cabbage.
Garrick closed his eyes.
Nola stared at the children.
“You screamed like someone had lost a limb.”
“He’s eating supper!” Clara cried.
The goat took another bite.
Eli began laughing.
Nola tried not to.
Then Garrick laughed too.
It began quietly.
A low sound, almost reluctant.
Then Clara laughed.
Soon all four stood beside the garden while the goat calmly destroyed supper.
Nola looked at Garrick.
He caught her gaze.
For one strange instant, the neglected ranch no longer felt haunted.
It felt alive.
That frightened Nola more than she expected.
Because places could become precious without permission.
People could too.
—
The next week brought rain.
Not much.
Barely enough to darken the soil.
But the children ran into the yard as though silver coins were falling from heaven.
Clara danced barefoot.
Eli tilted his face toward the clouds.
Even Garrick stopped working.
He stood beside the barn watching the rain strike the thirsty ground.
Nola remained beneath the porch roof with Weston on her hip.
The baby had recovered fully.
He was rounder now.
Louder too.
“You approve?” she asked him.
Weston grabbed her collar.
“I’ll consider that approval.”
Garrick walked toward the porch.
Rain had soaked his hair.
He looked younger again.
“You’re getting wet,” Nola said.
“I noticed.”
“You’ll track mud through my kitchen.”
“Your kitchen?”
“It became mine the moment I discovered what you considered washing a skillet.”
“That sounds suspiciously like ownership.”
“Someone must establish standards.”
Garrick stepped onto the porch.
Their eyes met.
Something unspoken had begun happening between them.
Nola knew it.
Garrick knew it.
Neither seemed particularly eager to name it.
Perhaps because naming things gave them power.
Perhaps because both had loved before.
Perhaps because grief could make even hope feel disloyal.
Garrick looked toward Weston.
“He likes you.”
“He has questionable judgment.”
“So does Clara.”
“And Eli?”
“Eli doesn’t like anyone.”
“I like Eli.”
“Exactly.”
She smiled.
Garrick hesitated.
“Nola.”
There was a different weight in his voice.
She looked at him.
“I owe you something.”
“More than thirty dollars?”
“A better explanation.”
“For what?”
“For Miriam.”
Nola’s smile disappeared.
Rain whispered across the yard.
Garrick leaned against the porch post.
“She wasn’t sick when it started.”
Nola waited.
“She became tired. We thought it was Weston. Pregnancy took a lot out of her. Then she started losing weight.”
His gaze remained on the distant pasture.
“The doctor came. Said her lungs were weak. Then he said her blood was weak. Then he said he didn’t know.”
Nola said nothing.
“He gave her medicine. It made her sleep.”
“What medicine?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did it help?”
“At first, she said it did.”
“And later?”
Garrick’s face changed.
“She stopped wanting food. Said everything tasted bitter.”
Nola’s attention sharpened.
“Bitter?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
Garrick looked at her now.
“Why?”
“Tell me.”
“She complained of stomach pain. Headaches. Her hands trembled sometimes.”
Nola felt something cold move through her.
“Did anyone else get sick?”
“No.”
“Did she drink from the same water as everyone?”
“Yes.”
“Eat the same food?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“The doctor gave her tonics.”
There it was again.
Nola set Weston carefully into the wooden cradle on the porch.
“What doctor?”
“Dr. Bell.”
“The one who refused to come for Weston?”
Garrick nodded.
Nola walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To look at Miriam’s medicines.”
Garrick followed.
“I threw most away.”
“Most?”
“There might be something upstairs.”
They found the bottles in a cabinet inside Garrick’s bedroom.
Three empty.
One containing dried residue.
Another half full of dark liquid.
The label had faded.
Nola held it toward the window.
She could make out only part of the writing.
Tonic.
One tablespoon nightly.
Dr. H. Bell.
Garrick watched her.
“You know medicine?”
“No.”
“You’re looking at that bottle like you do.”
“My husband was sick before he died.”
“With what?”
Nola did not answer immediately.
The rain sounded louder against the roof.
“He worked at a mine,” she finally said. “Silver mine in Colorado.”
Garrick waited.
“He became sick slowly. Headaches. Weakness. Trembling. His stomach hurt. He couldn’t eat.”
Garrick stared at the bottle in her hand.
“You think Miriam had the same thing?”
“I think similar symptoms can come from many illnesses.”
“But?”
Nola turned the bottle.
The residue clung darkly to the glass.
“But my husband wasn’t sick from disease.”
The room seemed to narrow.
“What happened to him?”
Nola’s fingers tightened around the bottle.
“The mine used compounds for processing ore. Arsenic among them.”
Garrick’s face emptied.
“No.”
“I said the symptoms are similar. That’s all.”
“You think someone poisoned her?”
“I did not say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
Nola met his eyes.
“I was thinking that before anyone starts accusing anyone of anything, we need facts.”
Garrick walked to the window.
Outside, Clara shouted happily in the rain.
The ordinary sound felt strangely distant.
“Miriam was sick six months.”
“I know.”
“Why would anyone—”
He stopped.
Nola saw it happen.
A thought.
A memory.
Something he had not considered important until this moment.
“What?”
Garrick shook his head.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
He turned.
“Do what?”
“Remember something and decide I’m too fragile to hear it.”
His mouth tightened.
“Nola.”
“What happened?”
Garrick lowered his voice.
“Two months before Miriam got sick, Crow came here.”
Nola felt the chill again.
“He offered to buy the ranch?”
“Yes.”
“You refused.”
“Yes.”
“What did Miriam say?”
“She wanted me to consider it.”
That surprised Nola.
“Why?”
“She hated the winters.”
His expression softened at the memory.
“Not the ranch. Never the ranch. But after Weston came, she wanted to be closer to town.”
“And Crow knew that?”
“Probably.”
“Then?”
“I refused. He left.”
“That’s all?”
Garrick hesitated.
“No.”
Nola waited.
“He told me land changes hands eventually whether men want it to or not.”
She studied his face.
“Was that a threat?”
“I thought it was Crow being Crow.”
“And now?”
Garrick looked toward the medicine bottle.
“Now I don’t know what I think.”
—
The rain continued through evening.
Nola insisted they speak of nothing around the children.
Garrick agreed.
But suspicion changed the atmosphere of the house.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
Every ordinary object seemed to acquire another meaning.
A cup.
A bottle.