Julian whispered, “Walter.”
Crane began gathering his papers.
“I withdraw.”
Julian stared.
“You work for me.”
“Not anymore.”
The hearing ended three hours later.
Judge Ward refused the petition.
More importantly, he forwarded the documents to territorial and Pennsylvania authorities.
Dr. Wallace was detained temporarily pending inquiry into fraud and false medical certification.
Julian was not immediately arrested.
That frustrated half of Copper Creek.
Especially Bo.
But legal consequences moved more slowly than fists.
That was probably fortunate.
Outside the courthouse, Julian approached me.
For once, no smile remained.
“You think this makes you independent?”
I looked at him.
“No.”
He seemed confused.
“I already was.”
His eyes moved toward Bo.
“He owns you now.”
Bo stepped forward.
I touched his chest.
He stopped.
I answered.
“No man owns me.”
Julian laughed bitterly.
“Then why marry someone like him?”
I looked at Bo.
Black hat.
Dusty coat.
Scarred hands.
The man who had asked for a fighter and then spent every day learning that loving one meant refusing to cage her.
“Because he understands that.”
Julian left Copper Creek under Marshal Shaw's supervision two days later.
The investigation continued for months.
Dr. Wallace eventually lost his license.
Evidence from Lydia and Margaret contributed to criminal proceedings concerning fraudulent confinement, forged medical statements, and misuse of trust funds.
Julian's reputation collapsed long before the courts finished with him.
My father's estate became another matter.
I inherited more than I wanted.
Shares.
Buildings.
Cash.
For several weeks, lawyers sent letters asking what I wished to do.
Bo never told me.
That omission amused me.
“You have no opinion?” I asked one evening.
We were eating stew.
“About?”
“Several million dollars.”
“Seems useful.”
“That is your expert assessment?”
“Could buy cattle.”
I threw bread at him.
Eventually, I sold most of the industrial shares.
Part of the money went into Rollins Ranch.
Not because Bo asked.
Because I wanted it.
We bought adjoining grazing land.
Improved irrigation.
Built better housing for seasonal hands.
Jacob became a paid partner in the cattle operation.
Another portion established a small legal and medical fund for women attempting to escape coercive marriages or guardianship arrangements.
Lydia helped administer it from Philadelphia.
The largest surprise came from Mrs. Fairchild.
One Sunday she approached me after church.
“I have been thinking about your fund.”
I prepared myself.
“Yes?”
She cleared her throat.
“I have money.”
“I know.”
“My late husband left considerably more than I require.”
I waited.
She looked irritated by her own generosity.
“I would like to contribute.”
I smiled.
“Mrs. Fairchild.”
“Do not make this sentimental.”
“I wouldn't dare.”
She contributed ten thousand dollars.
Then told everyone it had been five.
Marriage continued.
That part mattered more than any inheritance.
Bo and I still argued.
We argued over cattle.
Money.
Risk.
Whether a child should be allowed to climb a hayloft.
The child question stopped being theoretical the following winter.
I woke one morning feeling sick.
Three weeks later, I knew.
I waited until evening.
Bo entered the kitchen carrying firewood.
“Put that down.”
He frowned.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
He dropped the wood immediately.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You look strange.”
“Thank you.”
“That's not what I meant.”
I crossed the room.
His eyes followed me.
I took his hand.
Placed it against my abdomen.
He stared at me.
Nothing.
Then understanding arrived.
“Annabeth?”
“Yes.”
His face went pale.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“Baby?”
“Yes.”
He sat down without looking for a chair first.
Fortunately, there was one behind him.
I started laughing.
Bo Rollins, who had once stopped a charging steer by grabbing a gate and holding it shut with one shoulder, looked as though I had struck him with a shovel.
“We're having a baby.”
“Yes.”
“You're carrying my child.”
“That is generally how this happens.”
“Annabeth.”
His eyes filled.
My teasing vanished.
He stood and wrapped me in his arms.
Then immediately loosened them.
“Am I squeezing you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Bo.”
“What?”
“The child currently weighs less than your coffee cup.”
“Still.”
I kissed him.
“You wanted sons.”
“I wanted family.”
He knelt in front of me.
His enormous hands settled gently against my waist.
“I don't care whether it's a boy.”
That surprised me.
“You were quite specific in church.”
“I was an idiot in church.”
“You remain one.”
“Yes.”
He pressed his forehead against me.
“I want you safe.”
“We'll do our best.”
Pregnancy terrified him.
He pretended it did not.
By my seventh month, he had become incapable of leaving the ranch for more than six hours.
By my eighth, he hovered.
“Stop watching me walk.”
“You're carrying something valuable.”
I stopped.
Bo realized his mistake.
“Something?”
“Someone.”
“Better.”
I pointed toward the barn.
“Go find cattle.”
He went.
Our first child was a girl.
Eleanor Rollins arrived during a January snowstorm with enough lungs to challenge the wind outside.
Bo held her as though she were made of glass.
“She is tiny.”
“She is normal.”
“She looks breakable.”
“You are holding her correctly.”
“What if I drop her?”
“You won't.”
“How do you know?”
“Because your hands are shaking too badly to move.”
He looked offended.
Eleanor wrapped her fingers around his thumb.
The largest cowboy in three counties began crying.
I never told anyone.
Jacob did.
Within a week, everyone knew.