“Ma.” Tommy’s voice was low, meant only for her. “You want me to get in the wagon, Thomas?”
“But now—” Her eldest son’s jaw tightened, so like his father when Daniel was angry, but he obeyed.
Margaret turned back to Nate. “You got something to say? Say it now. I traveled 14 days with nine children to get here. I ain’t got patience for games.”
Nate exhaled slowly. “The ranch is bigger than I let on.”
“How much bigger?”
“1200 acres.”
Margaret’s heart stopped. “And the house ain’t small either. 12 rooms. Built it myself mostly. Mr. Callahan—”
“I should have told you the truth from the start.” His voice was rough, cracked like old leather. “I know that, but the last woman who knew what she was walking into—” He stopped, started again. “She didn’t survive it.”
“Mrs. Sullivan, your wife.”
“Catherine.” The name came out like a wound. “She died 4 years ago in that house. Some folks think I’m the one who killed her.”
“And you’re telling me this now? After I brought nine children across the territory.”
“I’m telling you because you deserve to know. Because if you want to turn around and get back on that stagecoach, I’ll give you money for the fare. All of you.”
“Back to what?” Margaret’s voice rose, sharp with desperation and rage. “I got nothing back there. Nothing anywhere. I got nine children, 11 cents, and a baby who might not make it through the night if I don’t get her somewhere warm.” Her voice broke. “I got nothing, Mr. Callahan. Don’t you understand? I got nothing but them.”
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