Part 4
Chapter 4
Penny stepped forward from Sarah’s skirts, planting her small boots firmly. "I tied the ribbon tight on that little calf, Mister Garrett. He knows my ribbon now. He won't run away again."
The ranch hand, Cole, who had just stepped into the foyer to deliver the morning horse tally, ducked his head to hide a grin. No one in Laramie ever addressed Garrett by his first name.
Garrett looked down at Penny’s upturned face. The stern crease between his dark eyebrows softened ever so slightly. "His name is Cinder," Garrett muttered. "Make sure you stay behind the fence line."
"Cinder is a good name," Penny declared wisely. "Like the bottom of the fire. But he needs extra oats because his legs are very thin, Mister Garrett. You should tell the barn men."
"I will inform them," Garrett said, his tone dry as prairie tumbleweed. He picked up his broad-brimmed hat, took the warm lunch tin from Sarah's hands, and walked out into the freezing wind.
As the heavy oak door closed behind him, Sarah released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She looked at Penny, who was already inspecting a brass door handle with thoughtful fascination.
The week passed in a steady rhythm of hard labor. Sarah scrubbed the dark floorboards until the grain shone like river stone, washed heavy woolen blankets, and dusted shelves filled with leather-bound histories.
She found the house held many memories that nobody dared touch. In the parlor sat an upright pianoforte, covered in a white sheet, its keys yellowed and silent beneath layers of untouched dust.
In the hallway hung portraits of Thorne ancestors, solemn men with stern beards and sharp eyes. But above the library mantel hung the portrait of Garrett's late wife, Clara, and their four-year-old son, Arthur.
Sarah stood before the painting one quiet afternoon while Penny was napping. Clara had gentle gray eyes, and little Arthur had the same stubborn chin that Garrett carried through every cold Wyoming blizzard.
"They were taken in the spring thaw of eighty-nine," a voice said quietly behind her. Sarah turned to see Mr. Finch standing in the doorway, holding a silver candlestick that needed polishing.
"A sudden flash flood at the creek crossing," Finch murmured, his usual sternness fading into sorrow. "Mr. Thorne tried to reach the wagon, but the current was too swift. He pulled only timber back."
"A terrible wound," Sarah whispered, feeling an ache in her own chest. "My Thomas died in a bed of sickness, yet grief feels like water all the same. It swallows every light you have."
"He built these stone walls to keep the world away," Finch said. "No laughter has lived here since that spring. He works until his bones ache, simply so he does not have to dream."
Sarah understood that kind of labor. After Thomas died, she had chopped firewood until her hands bled, hoping the sheer exhaustion would silence the quiet house where a father's boots no longer walked.
Later that afternoon, a sudden squall rolled off the Laramie Mountains. The sky darkened into a deep bruised purple, and pellets of hard ice rattled violently against the tall glass windowpanes.
Garrett returned late, his coat crusted with white frost and his beard stiff with ice. He walked into the kitchen to warm his numb fingers over the iron stove, breathing heavily from exhaustion.
Sarah hurried over with a dry wool towel and a steaming bowl of venison soup. "Sit down by the hearth, Mr. Thorne. You're frozen through. Let me take those wet boots away."
Garrett looked at her, his dark eyes shadowed with fatigue. "I can pull my own boots, Mrs. Miller. I am not an invalid. I have worked these plains in worse storms than this."
"Working hard doesn't make a man immune to freezing," Sarah answered calmly, refusing to flinch from his glare. She knelt with practiced strength, grasping the wet leather heel and pulling steadily.
The boot slid off with a dull thud. Garrett stared down at her brown hair, pinned neatly beneath a simple cotton kerchief. No one had tended to his basic needs with such uncomplaining kindness.
Penny slipped into the kitchen holding a wooden horse with a broken ear, which she had found tucked away in a corner cupboard. She walked directly to Garrett's chair without hesitation.
"His ear fell off," Penny announced, presenting the battered toy. "Can you mend it with your big knife, Mister Garrett? Or is he going to be lopsided like the three-legged barn dog?"
Garrett looked at the toy horse. Sarah froze, fearing it might have belonged to Arthur, but Garrett did not push it away. He took it gently into his scarred, calloused palm.
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"A three-legged dog still runs if he has heart," Garrett said softly, his voice gravelly. "And a horse with one ear can still hear the grass growing when the spring comes back."
—END OF Chapter 4,
