“Don't tell anyone.”
“I don't talk much.”
“I’ve heard.”
He left.
Fifty-two minutes later, Cora closed her trunk.
At fifty-six minutes she cried for approximately ninety seconds.
At fifty-nine she washed her face.
At sixty-one she walked downstairs.
Wyatt stood near the front door.
“Ready?”
“No.”
He waited.
Cora picked up her battered trunk handle.
“Let's go.”
Wyatt took the other side.
They carried it together.
By sunset, Cora Bennett became Cora Mercer in a county clerk's office with one bored clerk, Mrs. Shaw as witness, and a snowstorm beginning outside.
There were no flowers.
No music.
No ring until Wyatt realized the clerk expected one.
He used his mother's plain gold band from a small leather pouch.
Cora looked at him.
“You carry a wedding ring?”
“My mother gave it to me when Catherine died.”
“Why?”
“She said someday I'd stop being stupid.”
Cora almost laughed.
“Did you?”
“No.”
“That is becoming clear.”
The clerk pronounced them husband and wife.
Wyatt did not kiss her.
He offered his arm.
Cora stared.
“What?”
“Floor's icy.”
She took it.
That was their wedding.
Twenty miles later, she met the boys.
They appeared from the trees before the wagon reached the house.
Cora first thought they were ranch hands' children.
Then realized nobody else would look at Wyatt with that particular combination of familiarity and defiance.
Ten-year-old Caleb Mercer was thin, long-legged, with dark-brown hair falling into gray-blue eyes and a face already learning to hide emotion.
Seven-year-old Seth was smaller.
Messier.
Mud on one cheek despite frozen ground.
Coat unbuttoned.
One mitten missing.
Both stared at Cora.
Wyatt stopped the wagon.
“Boys.”
No answer.
“This is Cora.”
Caleb looked at the trunk.
Then her.
“What is she doing here?”
Wyatt answered:
“She lives here now.”
Seth narrowed his eyes.
“Why?”
Wyatt paused.
Cora almost admired his courage.
“She is my wife.”
Seth spat into the dirt.
Caleb's face transformed completely.
Not surprise.
Betrayal.
“You married her?”
“Yes.”
“You said you weren't getting married.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You said Mama was your wife.”
Wyatt went very still.
“She was.”
“Then what's that?”
Caleb pointed at Cora.
Cora felt the insult.
More than that, she felt the grief beneath it.
She climbed down.
Wyatt started:
“Cora—”
She raised one hand.
Then faced Caleb.
“I am not your mother.”
The boy stared.
“I’m not going to ask you to call me that.”
“Good.”
“I’m not going to move her things.”
Caleb's expression shifted.
“There are things?”
Wyatt looked toward the house.
Cora understood.
“Yes.”
“Your father's kept some of them.”
Caleb looked at Wyatt.
“You said nobody could touch Mama's room.”
“No one has.”
Cora said:
“And I don't want it.”
That mattered.
Only slightly.
But it mattered.
Seth stared at her dress.
“You look poor.”
Wyatt's head snapped.
“Seth.”
Cora answered first.
“I am.”
The boy blinked.
“You know?”
“Yes.”
He seemed disappointed.
Children enjoyed discovering information adults wanted hidden.
Cora offered no sport.
Wyatt unloaded the trunk.
The boys disappeared.
Cora watched.
“What now?”
“They'll come back when they're hungry.”
“You speak about them like wolves.”
“Wolves are easier.”
He carried her trunk inside.
The Mercer house surprised her.
Stone foundation.
Heavy timber walls.
Two levels.
Large kitchen.
Fireplace.
Six bedrooms.
A central room with animal hides and books.
Not elegant.
Solid.
Warm.
Someone had built it expecting generations.
Instead it felt half abandoned.
A woman's shawl still hung beside a rear door.
Cora looked away.
Wyatt noticed.
He showed her room upstairs.
Separate.
As promised.
Bed.
Wardrobe.
Washstand.
Window toward mountains.
Lock.
Key already inside.
Cora tested it.
Wyatt remained in hallway.
“This is yours.”
“For one year?”
“If that's what you want.”
She looked at him.
“And yours?”
He pointed down corridor.
“Last door.”
Far.
Good.
Cora put her trunk down.
Wyatt asked:
“Need anything?”
“Time.”
He nodded.
She almost closed the door.
Then:
“Wyatt.”
He turned.
“Thank you.”
“For?”
“The lock.”
His expression changed.
Not much.
“You're welcome.”
The first supper nearly ended the marriage.
Cora could cook.
Usually.
But the altitude, unfamiliar stove, damp flour, anxious boys, and Wyatt's enormous silent presence conspired against her.
The stew survived.
Cornbread did not.
Black underneath.
Raw in center.
Seth poked it.
“What's this?”
“Cornbread.”
He sniffed.
“Looks like cow shit.”
Cora stared.
Wyatt looked up.
“Seth.”
Too late.
The boy picked up the bread.
Threw it across the table.
It hit the wall.
Caleb laughed.
Something inside Cora snapped.
She slammed the cast-iron skillet onto the table.
Both boys jumped.
Wyatt looked at her.
Cora leaned forward.
“I did not ask to be here.”
Silence.
“I do not want to be here tonight.”
Caleb stopped smiling.
“I spent an hour scraping four-year-old grease from those plates because apparently nobody in this house believes water and soap are related.”
Seth's mouth opened.
“Close it.”
He did.
Cora pointed at the bread.
“I know it's burned.”
“I have eyes.”
“I also know nobody throws food in a house where people work for it.”
She looked between them.
“You will eat what can be eaten.”
“You will speak without comparing my supper to cattle waste.”
“And if you decide hunger is preferable to manners, I am perfectly capable of allowing you to discover how long stubbornness lasts before breakfast.”
Silence.
Cora's anger cooled instantly.
Oh God.
She had screamed at two grieving children on her first evening.
She slowly straightened.
Wyatt would throw her out.
Maybe he should.
Instead Wyatt reached across the table.
Picked up the least destroyed cornbread.
Cut a piece.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
His expression remained impressively neutral.
“Bread's burnt.”
Cora stared.
Wyatt took another bite.
Looked at the boys.
“Eat your dinner.”
Caleb picked up his fork.
Seth muttered:
“Tastes bad.”
Wyatt nodded.
“Yes.”
Seth ate anyway.
Later, Cora sat alone in her room furious with herself.
Someone knocked.
She tensed.
Then remembered the lock.
“Who?”
“Wyatt.”
“What?”
“Can I come in?”
Cora stared at the door.
He had asked.
“Wait.”
She put on her robe.
Unlocked.
Opened.
Wyatt stood outside holding a plate.
Two biscuits.
Not burned.
She frowned.
“You can bake?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Caleb.”
Her eyes widened.
“He knows how?”
“Catherine taught him.”
Wyatt handed over the plate.
“He left them by the stove.”
“For me?”
“Didn't say.”
Cora looked toward the hall.
“What did I do?”
“Got angry.”
“I threatened to starve them.”
“You said if they refused food, you wouldn't force another meal.”
“I shouted.”
“So?”
“They lost their mother.”
Wyatt's face tightened.
“Cora.”
“They are children.”
“Yes.”
“Children can also be unbearable.”