She Was Auctioned With Tears in Her Eyes, Until a Cowboy Said “Now You’ll Only Know Joy”
Chapter 5
The valley opened before them like a hand uncurling. A modest log house with a stone chimney sat at the base of the hills, a wide barn beside it, a corral holding a few horses, and cattle scattered like brown seeds across the slopes. A creek ran silver through the bottom of the property, and the whole of it wore the settled, orderly look of a place that had been loved for years.
“It’s lovely,” Ella said, and the words came out thick with an emotion she hadn’t expected.
“It’s not much compared to Boston,” Caleb said. “But it’s home.”
A black-and-white border collie came bounding down the track to meet them, barking in wild circles around the wagon wheels. “That’s Patch,” Caleb said. “Best cattle dog in the territory.”
A man emerged from the barn, shading his eyes against the falling sun. He was shorter than Caleb, solidly built, with dark hair and a heavy mustache, and he watched their approach with open curiosity. “Didn’t expect you back so soon, boss,” he called as the wagon drew up before the house. His gaze moved to Ella, and a dozen questions gathered behind his eyes.
“Had a change of plans.” Caleb jumped down and turned to help Ella from the seat. “Andrés, this is Miss Ella Whitfield. She’ll be staying in the bunkhouse for a while.”
Andrés touched the brim of his hat. “Madam,” he said politely, though his eyes darted between the two of them with unmistakable confusion.
“Miss Whitfield ran into some trouble on her way west,” Caleb said, in a tone that suggested Andrés should not ask for details. “I offered her a place to stay until she decides on her next move.”
Understanding moved across Andrés’s face like weather. “The bunkhouse is clean,” he said to Ella. “Not fancy, but comfortable enough.”
“I’m grateful for the shelter. Truly.”
“Come, I’ll show you around.” Caleb led her toward a small cabin fifty yards from the main house, and Patch trotted along beside them as if escorting a guest of honor.
The bunkhouse was a single room with four narrow beds, a table, chairs, and a potbellied stove in the corner. The wood was rough-hewn, but the floor had been swept clean and the windows held proper glass panes. To a woman who had spent three weeks sleeping on the ground and three days more watching her life be priced in public, it looked like a palace.
“There’s a washhouse behind the main house,” Caleb said. “And you’re welcome to take your meals with us. Andrés is a fair cook, though he’ll deny it if you mention it.”
“I can cook,” Ella offered. “It’s the least I can do to repay your kindness.”
Caleb studied her for a long moment. “You don’t owe me anything, Miss Whitfield. But if you want to help out, I won’t stop you.”
That night, Ella unpacked the last of her belongings onto the narrow bed. A change of clothes. A hairbrush worn thin with years. A small Bible that had belonged to her mother. A daguerreotype of her parents on their wedding day, their faces young and serious and full of all the years they hadn’t gotten to live.
And the lavender silk, tucked safely at the bottom, wrapped around itself like a held breath.
She ate supper in the main house with the two men—venison stew, cornbread, coffee—and they answered her careful questions about the ranch with the focused courtesy of men who had not grown up learning to make small talk. Andrés spoke of the calving season and the grass. Caleb spoke of the herd, sixty head and growing, of a quality he was proud of.
After the meal, when Andrés had excused himself to check on a new calf, Caleb poured himself another cup of coffee and sat back in his chair. “Tomorrow I’ll show you around the place,” he said. “Let you get your bearings.”
“I’d like that. And I meant what I said about helping. I’m not afraid of work.”
“I believe you. But take a few days to rest first.” Something in his voice gentled. “You’ve been through a lot.”
Ella wrapped her hands around her own cup. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why did you really do it?” She set the cup down. “Buy my freedom. Three thousand dollars is a fortune.”
Caleb was quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixed on some middle distance where the lamplight pooled. When he finally spoke, his voice was low enough that she had to lean in to hear it.
“I had a sister,” he said. “Moira. She was two years younger than me.”
Ella’s heart gave a single hard knock against her ribs.
“When I went off to war, she stayed behind with our parents in Missouri. In sixty-three, bushwhackers came through our town. They killed my father when he tried to protect our farm. They took my mother and Moira.” He took a breath that seemed to cost him something. “By the time I got word and made it home, it was too late. I found my mother’s body in a ditch outside of town.”
He was quiet again. Ella could not have spoken if she’d wanted to.
“I never found Moira. I heard stories later—the kind of stories you don’t want to be true.” He looked up, and the lamplight caught his eyes, that startling, sea-colored blue. “When I saw you standing on that platform, I couldn’t walk away. Not again.”
Somewhere outside, Patch barked once at a sound only he could hear. And in the silence that followed, Ella’s hand moved almost of its own accord toward the pocket of her dress, where the folded square of lavender silk lay warm against her heart.