“I know, baby. We’re almost there.”
“Where’s there?”
“Our new home.”
“Is Papa there?”
Margaret’s throat closed. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.
“Papa’s in heaven, Birdie.” Rosie’s voice was gentle, old beyond her 12 years. “Remember? He’s watching over us from heaven.”
“But I want him here.”
“I know. I want him here, too.”
Silence fell over the wagon, heavy as the snow that had started falling again. Margaret looked at her children. Really looked at them for the first time in weeks. Tommy with his father’s jaw and his father’s stubborn pride. Rosie with her quiet strength and her endless journals. Patrick, who never stopped moving, never stopped asking questions. The twins, identical and inseparable, finishing each other’s sentences. Colleen, who’d stopped talking almost entirely since Daniel died. Samuel, who still set a place for Papa at every meal. Martha, who’d taken to carrying her father’s old pocket watch everywhere she went. And Bridget, sweet Bridget, who’d never know her father at all.
Nine children. Her nine reasons to keep breathing.
“Ma.” Patrick’s face appeared over the wagon’s edge. “Ma, look.”
Margaret turned, and her stomach dropped. It wasn’t a ranch. It wasn’t even a farm. It was an empire. A massive house dominated the valley below. Two stories of timber and stone, windows glinting gold in the dying light. A porch wrapped around three sides. Smoke curled from two chimneys. Beyond the house, buildings spread like a small town: a barn that could hold 50 horses, workers’ quarters, storage sheds, a separate cottage. And beyond that, land. Endless land stretching to the mountains.
“Holy Moses.” Patrick breathed.
“Language,” Margaret said automatically, but her voice was faint.
“That ain’t a farm,” Tommy had climbed up beside Patrick, his face pale. “Ma, that ain’t a farm.”
“I know. He lied to us.”
“I know. What else did he lie about?”
Margaret didn’t have an answer.
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