Three days later, May walked onto the porch without help.
Clara pretended not to watch her every step.
Silas did not pretend.
He hovered so close that when May turned around she nearly collided with his knees.
"Papa."
"What?"
"I'm walking."
"I see that."
"Then stop walking behind me."
Clara covered a smile with her coffee cup.
Silas frowned.
"She's been sick."
"She's also four," Clara said.
May nodded solemnly.
"Four is very old."
"So I've heard."
Within a week, life at the Higgins ranch began assuming a rhythm none of them had expected.
Silas rose before dawn.
The first morning, Clara found him repairing the barn door before the sky had fully brightened.
By breakfast, he had fixed two broken hinges and discovered rot beneath the west wall.
By supper, he had restrung eighty yards of fence.
"Trying to work off the milk?" Clara asked.
Silas wiped sweat from his forehead.
"I owe you."
"No."
"You saved May."
"That doesn't put you in my debt."
"It does in mine."
Clara considered him.
"Fine. Then you can start by repairing the north pasture gate instead of rebuilding my entire ranch before Sunday."
Silas looked toward the sagging gate.
"I was planning to do that tomorrow."
She sighed.
"Naturally."
May recovered quickly.
Soon she followed Clara from room to room asking questions.
"Why do chickens eat rocks?"
"Because they don't have teeth."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Why's bread get big?"
"Yeast."
"What's yeast?"
"Something I'm beginning to regret telling you about."
At night, Clara read to her.
The first time happened accidentally.
May found an old book in the parlor and climbed beside Clara on the sofa.
"Read."
Clara stared at her.
"Please."
So Clara read.
Within minutes May's head rested against her arm.
Silas stood unseen in the hallway.
He had thought seeing another woman touch his daughter would hurt.
Instead, something inside him eased.
Sarah was gone.
Nothing could change that.
But May was alive.
And laughter had returned to her.
Silas went outside before Clara noticed him.
He stood beneath the stars and felt guilty for being grateful.
The proposed marriage remained unspoken.
Clara had not mentioned it again after May recovered.
Neither had Silas.
He told himself that was because the crisis was over.
In truth, he did not know what frightened him more—that Clara might still expect him to marry her or that perhaps she no longer did.
Ten days after their arrival, the outside world came to the ranch.
A wagon rolled through the gate.
A broad man in a clean gray coat climbed down.
Clara's face hardened when she saw him.
Silas was repairing harness near the barn.
"Friend?" he asked.
"No."
"Family?"
"Worse."
The man removed his hat.
"Clara."
"Mr. Pike."
His smile was smooth.
Gideon Pike owned the largest mercantile in Dry Creek and held notes on half a dozen struggling ranches.
He had also spent two years trying to acquire Clara's land.
His eyes found Silas.
Then May.
Interest sharpened in his face.
"You've got company."
"So observant."
Gideon ignored the sarcasm.
"Who's the fellow?"
Silas stood.
"Silas Thorne."
Gideon offered no hand.
"Hired man?"
Clara answered.
"That depends why you're asking."
"Folks talk."
"Folks usually do when they have nothing worth saying."
Gideon's eyes narrowed.
"Town council's meeting Thursday."
"And?"
"Tax assessment."
Clara's mouth tightened.
"My taxes are current."
"For now."
Gideon glanced toward her fields.
"Hard winter. Bad market. A woman alone has no business fighting land this stubborn."
Silas stepped forward.
Clara stopped him with a look.
"This woman has managed."
Gideon smiled.
"For three years. Barely."
May appeared on the porch holding a rag doll Clara had sewn from an old flour sack.
Gideon looked at her.
"And who's that?"
May answered before anyone else could.
"I'm May."
"I see."
She pointed at Silas.
"That's Papa."
Then she pointed at Clara.
"And that's Clara."
Gideon's smile became unpleasant.
"Interesting household."
Clara's voice cooled.
"If your business is finished—"
"My offer still stands."
"No."
"You haven't heard the new number."
"No."
"Clara—"
"Leave."
He stared at her.
"You always were too proud."
"And you always confused refusal with negotiation."
Gideon placed his hat back on.
As he passed Silas, he stopped.
"Word of advice, drifter."
Silas's jaw tightened.
"Didn't ask."
"Women with property sometimes collect strays until they realize feeding them costs more than shooting them."
Silas took one step forward.
Gideon smiled.
"Careful."
Clara's voice cut between them.
"Silas."
He stopped.
Gideon climbed into the wagon.
Before driving away he looked back.
"You ought to think about appearances, Clara. Town's less forgiving than I am."
When the wagon disappeared, Silas turned to her.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means Gideon Pike is a snake wearing polished boots."
"About appearances."
Clara looked toward the house.
"A widowed woman can own property here. That doesn't mean people enjoy watching her do it."
"And me staying here?"
"Gives them something new to chew on."
"Then I'll sleep in the barn."
She turned sharply.
"No."
"Clara—"
"You came here with a half-dead child. I'm not making either of you sleep beside livestock because Dry Creek's gossiping matrons lack hobbies."
Silas studied her.
"What does Pike really want?"
"My water."
Clara walked toward the north field.
Silas followed.
The ranch appeared modest, but beyond the rise a narrow creek crossed the property.
"Thomas bought this parcel because of it," Clara said. "The Higgins spring feeds year-round. Even through the worst drought."
Silas understood.
"Gideon's buying ranches south of here."
"Three already."
"He gets yours, he controls water access."
"Exactly."
Silas looked toward the horizon.
"Why hasn't anyone stopped him?"
"Because he holds their debts."
Silas was quiet.
Then he said, "He won't get this place."
Clara looked at him.
"You've known me ten days."
"Long enough."
"To know what?"
"That you'd burn the deed before handing it to him."
A corner of her mouth moved.
"You may be less foolish than you look."
"That's a remarkably low compliment."
"It's all you're getting."
Thursday, Clara rode into Dry Creek.
Silas insisted on going.
May sat between them in the wagon.
The town consisted of a main street, a church, a schoolhouse, two saloons, a smithy, and Gideon Pike's oversized mercantile.
People stared.
Clara felt it immediately.
Silas did too.
Whispers followed them.
"That's him."
"The drifter?"
"Sleeping at her place, I hear."
"Child ain't hers."
"Could've fooled me."
May heard none of it.
She was delighted by a dog sleeping beneath a hitching rail.
Inside the mercantile, Clara purchased flour, salt, lamp oil, and medicine.
A woman named Beatrice Cole approached.
Beatrice was the banker's wife and considered herself responsible for deciding which Dry Creek residents were respectable.
"Clara."
"Beatrice."
Beatrice's gaze moved to Silas.
"I hear you've taken in a man."
Silas nearly choked.
Clara remained calm.
"I took in a child who was dying."
"And her father."
"They arrived attached."
May giggled.
Beatrice frowned.
"People are concerned."
"People should concern themselves with their own kitchens."
"You are a widow."
"I'm aware."
"And Mr. Thorne is unmarried."
"Also aware."
Beatrice lowered her voice.
"There are standards."
Silas stepped beside Clara.
But before he could speak, May tugged Beatrice's sleeve.
The woman looked down.
"What?"
"Clara saved my life."
The store went quiet.
May continued.
"My papa says God sends good people when you're almost done hoping."
Silas froze.
He had said those words beside May's bed, believing she was asleep.
May looked around the room.
"So if you don't like Clara, maybe you're not very smart."
A clerk coughed to hide laughter.
Someone near the back snorted.
Beatrice's face turned scarlet.
Clara took May's hand.
"That will do."
Outside, Silas burst out laughing.
Clara tried to stay stern.
Failed.
May looked confused.
"What?"
Clara knelt.
"You cannot tell the banker's wife she's not smart."
"Why?"
"Because..."
Clara glanced helplessly at Silas.
He shrugged.
"Actually, I'm curious too."
Clara stood.
"You are both impossible."
They returned home before sunset.
That night, after May slept, Silas found Clara on the porch.
"I've been thinking."
"That sounds dangerous."
"About your offer."
Clara became still.
Silas leaned against the railing.
"I won't pretend I can replace Thomas."
"I never asked you to."
"And nobody replaces Sarah."
"I wouldn't try."
He nodded.
"But if marrying me protects you from some of the gossip and gives May stability..."
Clara looked toward the darkened plains.
"It will create different gossip."
"Let them talk."
"You heard them today."
"I've heard worse."
She looked at him.
"Silas, I don't want gratitude dressed up as marriage."
"It's not gratitude."
"What is it?"
He took a long time answering.
"A bargain."
The word hurt more than Clara expected.
But Silas continued.
"An honest one."
He faced her.
"You give May a home. I work this land like it's mine. We protect the ranch. We protect each other. And neither of us pretends grief disappeared just because a preacher says some words."
Clara searched his face.
"And affection?"
Silas hesitated.
"Maybe that comes."
"Maybe it doesn't."
"Then we remain decent to each other."
Clara looked through the window.
May's small silhouette slept on the bed.
"I wanted a daughter," she whispered.
Silas followed her gaze.
"You seem to have acquired one."
"She's already asking if she can paint the chicken coop yellow."
Silas nodded gravely.
"You've lost control of the household."
Clara laughed softly.
Then she surprised him.
"Sunday."
"What?"
"Reverend Hale comes through every second Sunday."
She extended her hand.
"Sunday, Silas Thorne."
He stared.
Then took it.
"Sunday, Clara Higgins."
Neither noticed the rider stopped far beyond the fence.
Gideon Pike watched the porch from the shadows.
When Clara and Silas shook hands, his expression changed.
He turned his horse toward Dry Creek.
And before sunrise, everyone in town would know that Clara Higgins intended to marry the starving drifter.
But Gideon knew something the others didn't.
Marriage would make his plan more difficult.
Which meant the drifter had to go.