The woman whose name he hadn’t bothered to ask because he intended to see the last of her real soon stared at him, her eyes narrowed, the ax before her like—well, like a deadly weapon.
He sucked in air… or at least he tried. His chest refused to obey his plan to relax.
“Chet Berch? He’s—” He gulped. “Was he…?” The words stuttered from his lips. With great effort, he tried again. “Was he expecting you?” Though what difference did that make now?
The log crackled, sparks flew up the chimney, and she darted a look in that direction before her dark eyes refocused on him. Her mouth settled into a hard line. “I wrote him, so yes, he’s expecting me.” Each word carried brittle defiance.
He understood her unspoken message. What business was it of his? “Fine. Good.” Two nods, two unnecessary words, and then nothing? No need for him to be so rattled, and yet he was. So much so, he couldn’t think what to say next. How to tell this woman there’d be a change of plans?
“I think it’s time for us to leave. Eddie, are you warmed up?” She spoke to her son but didn’t look at the youngster.
“Yes, Mama.” The faint whisper suggested the boy’s confusion and maybe even fear.
“Good.”
No one moved.
“I need to return to the way station.”
Jace nodded. Of course, she did. Didn’t she? But would she continue her plans if she knew the truth? Should he tell her? The skin on the back of his neck itched, but he ignored it. He could let her go to Golden Valley and discover the truth for herself.
Was that fair? Why not tell her himself? Except?—
He lifted a hand, pointed a finger at her, saw her surprise, and lowered his hand again. “I take it you haven’t gotten the news?” Well, obviously. Unless?—
The door and escape beckoned, but his feet did not move. He must deal with this.
“What news?” Warning and worry intermingled in her tone.
“Chet is—” A little boy with big blue eyes studied him. He modified the word he meant to say. “No longer with us.”
“He’s goneaway? Where?”
He tipped his chin upward. “Pretty sure he’s up there.”
“Up—” Her gaze went in the same direction. Then, realizing he didn’t mean on the roof, she pulled her son closer. “He’s?—?”
Seeing she understood, he nodded.
Her knees folded, and she sank to the floor, the boy held tightly in her arms, the ax falling to the wooden boards. Was she in shock? Should he offer her a drink of water? Wrap a blanket around her shoulders? But he stood uncertain and motionless.
Her shoulders heaved, and a gust of air from her set the flames dancing. “His ranch was to be my home.” Her back straightened, and she turned her desperate gaze to him. “Who owns it now?”
“I do.” Would she hear the sorrow and desperation that admission brought him?
“You?” Wide-eyed surprise. “Are you his son?” She shook her head. “I didn’t know he had one.”
“I’m only a—” Did he call himself a hired hand? He’d been much more than that. “Someone he took in.” Even that was inadequate to explain how Chet treated him. Befriended him. Provided shelter and family and home when his parents and sisters died on their journey west.
Silence fell between them as she digested the information, and he stood mired in regrets.
“Do you need a housekeeper? You and your wife?”
“I’m not married, and I don’t need a housekeeper. I plan to stay here.” He leaned back and let that soak in.
“Here? But Chet’s ranch— I recall he was very proud of it. Why won’t you be there?”
A shrug was his only answer.
