Part 5
Chapter 5
Penny smiled, entirely satisfied with this answer. She sat cross-legged on the floor beside his wool-stockinged feet, leaning her little chin on his knee as if they were lifelong companions.
Sarah held her breath, waiting for Garrett to send the child away. Instead, he reached into his pocket, took out a small whetstone, and began gently smoothing the rough splintered wood.
Outside, the blizzard howled against the timber eaves, but inside the kitchen, the only sounds were the scrape of stone on wood, the crackle of pine logs, and Penny's quiet humming.
By the end of the second week, Sarah’s probationary period was over. She stood before Garrett’s desk in the library, her apron smoothed down, waiting for his final judgment on their future.
"You keep the house cleaner than anyone before you," Garrett said, looking through the ranch accounts without raising his head. "Finch says you waste no lard, and the cookhouse hands praise your bread."
"Thank you, sir," Sarah said quietly. "Does that mean we may stay through the winter season? Penny has been careful with your books, and I will take on the heavy spring butchering."
Garrett looked up, his gaze holding hers. "You stay as long as you wish, Mrs. Miller. The wages are twenty dollars a month, with board and beef included. The child remains here."
A weight that had pressed upon Sarah's heart for twelve bitter months suddenly lifted. Tears sprang to her eyes, though she blinked them back, too proud to weep before her employer.
"Thank you, Mr. Thorne," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "You have given my daughter safety when every door in town was closed against a widow with an empty purse."
"You earned it with your hands," Garrett replied, his tone rough as if he wished to dismiss sentiment. "I give no charity on this ranch. You work, and I pay. That is all."
Yet his actions spoke far differently than his gruff words. Two days later, a small wooden crate arrived from town on the supply wagon, addressed simply to "Miss Penny Miller."
Inside lay a warm red wool coat with horn buttons, a pair of sturdy sheepskin-lined boots, and a small tin box filled with peppermint drops and honey sweets from the general store.
Penny danced around the study rug, clutching her new red coat like a treasure. "Look, Mister Garrett! The mail wagon brought me clothes! Now I am warm like a little bear!"
Garrett pretended to read his cattle ledger, but Sarah saw the twitch at the corner of his mustache. "Bears hibernate in the winter," he muttered. "They do not dance on carpets."
"I am a dancing bear," Penny declared boldly, twirling until she lost her footing and tumbled into Garrett's legs, laughing with pure, unfettered joy that echoed through the high ceiling.
Garrett caught her before she hit the floorboards. For a heartbeat, his arms tightened around her small frame, a sudden, fierce protectiveness flashing across his weathered features before he set her down.
Sarah looked away, her eyes stinging. She saw the ghost of the boy he had lost, and she saw the tenderness he fought so hard to bury beneath ledgers, barbed wire, and cattle.
As January settled over the Wyoming plains, a different kind of trouble began to cast its shadow across the Thorne valley. The Panic of 1893 had left the territorial banks desperate and ruthless.
One cold morning, a shiny black buggy pulled through the iron gates. A man in a beaver-skin coat stepped down, carrying a polished leather satchel and walking with self-important steps.
His name was Donald Vance, vice-president of the Laramie Territorial Trust. He was a man with slicked hair, narrow teeth, and a reputation for foreclosing on struggling ranches before the spring thaw.
Finch showed Vance into the study, where Garrett sat reviewing the winter feed bills. Sarah was polishing the brass candlesticks near the bookshelf, while Penny sat quietly beneath the window reading pictures.
"Mr. Thorne," Vance began, speaking with an oily warmth that made Sarah's instincts flare. "A fine winter morning, though hard on the grass. The board sent me to discuss your land notes."
"My notes are paid through March, Vance," Garrett said coldly, not offering the banker a seat. "You have no business riding out here in five-degree weather to state what ledgers already prove."
"The financial climate has shifted, Garrett," Vance purred, pulling several parchment documents from his case. "The bank has called in the secondary mortgages on your eastern river pastures. A liquidity issue, you understand."
"Those river pastures are the heart of my winter grazing," Garrett growled, rising slowly to his feet. He towered over Vance, his massive shoulders blocking the light from the library lamp.
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"Unless you can produce fifteen hundred dollars in gold by next Friday, the deed reverts to the syndicate," Vance said, his smile thinning. "A shame, but the eastern syndicates require security."
—END OF Chapter 5,
