Two Years Later
Umpqua Valley, Oregon

“There… Try bending it now.”

Susannah tied off the clean bandage around Mary’s knee and drew her hands away. Her niece sat upon the edge of the examination table with one small fist caught in her skirt and the other pressed against her cheek, where the last of her tears had left a shining track.

The injured knee bent a little, then a little more.

“Better?” Susannah asked.

Mary nodded, though she continued to regard the bandage with suspicion.

“Good. Then I believe you may return to the celebration.”

“Cake?” The girl’s eyes beamed.

Susannah smiled despite herself. “I should think so.”

Mary held out both arms, permitted herself to be lifted down, and ran for the open door with a vigor that made Susannah laugh.

“Walk, please.”

Susannah rinsed her hands and hung the cloth beside the basin. Evening light lay across the shelves Silas had made for her, touching the glass jars and the bundles of mint hanging from their pegs.

“Aunt Susannah?”

Molly stood in the doorway, holding Mary firmly by the hand. At seven, she had grown tall enough to reach things Susannah still expected to find beyond her grasp, and she had lately taken to looking after the younger children with such devotion that left Susannah very little to do.

“Everything’s ready,” the girl announced. “Mrs. Prescott says she can’t keep Uncle Silas from the cake much longer.”

Susannah tilted her head. “Did she say Uncle Silas… or Caleb?”

Molly’s mouth twitched. “Uncle Silas.”

“Then we had better hurry.”

Molly released Mary to her, and Susannah took a girl by either hand. Together, they followed the path past the herb beds, Mary lifting her bandaged knee higher than the other with every step.

Beyond the garden, the yard opened beneath the oaks. Lanterns already glowed among the branches, though the western hills still held the last warmth of the sun. Their house stood across the grass, its windows open, with the Fairchild home a short walk beyond it on the neighboring parcel. Farther along, past the orchard, smoke rose from Eleanor and George’s chimney.

“Mama!” Caleb called.

Silas stood beside the long table with their son in his arms. At the sight of her, the child leaned so enthusiastically forward that his father adjusted his hold and laughed.

“Easy, son,” Silas murmured. “She’s coming.”

Mary released Susannah’s hand and hurried toward Eleanor, plainly eager to display the bandage, while Molly went ahead to make certain the candle had been found.

Susannah crossed the remaining distance alone, watching the two faces turned toward her.

“There’s my boy,” she murmured.

Caleb caught at her collar as she kissed his warm cheek. He smelled of clean linen and the pear someone had already given him despite Margaret’s instructions about spoiling his supper. Susannah glanced at Silas.

“He was hungry,” he said.

“Of course he was,” she laughed and rose to kiss her husband. His free hand curved around her waist, keeping her near for a moment after her lips left his.

“You look lovely,” he said quietly.

The way he looked at her still had the power to make her forget what she meant to say. Even now, with their son pulling determinedly at the fastening of her collar, she felt the warmth rise into her cheeks.

“Make room,” Margaret commanded behind them. “Unless you intend me to stand here holding this until morning.”

Walter stepped forward at once to clear a place upon the table, and Margaret set down the cake with the care she might have given a sleeping child. Her wedding band caught the lantern light as she straightened the cloth beneath the plate.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Susannah said.

“He only turns one once.” Margaret examined the icing. “And I had a proper oven.”

“A luxury she reminds me of whenever we’re west of Missouri,” Walter observed.

“Well.” Margaret folded her arms. “Someone ought to remind you.”

Susannah’s mouth curved with quiet affection. The older couple spent roughly half the year with the wagon trains and the other half here, returning with worn boots, stories, and small parcels for the children. Margaret always claimed she meant to put her feet up for a week, though by the following morning, she had generally found something in someone’s kitchen that required her attention.

That evening, Walter drew out her chair, and she let him lay a hand upon her shoulder before she sat as Scout barked beneath the table.

“Yes, you’re remembered too,” Susannah told him.

“He’s been counting plates.” Everett grinned from beside the fence. “Thinks we’ve overlooked a guest.”

“A guest who’s already stolen half a steak,” Eleanor said, lifting Mary onto her hip.

Across the yard, Nathaniel raised his glass toward George, who answered with a nod before coming over to pour for the others. Samuel hovered near Lydia with a cushion she had already declined twice. She finally accepted it with a patient smile and lowered herself into a chair.

Beside her stood Violet Hart. Susannah’s gaze lingered upon the brown curls escaping their pins and the fingers worrying a fold of Violet’s deep gray-blue skirt. Lydia said something that made her smile, but when several people laughed near the table, Violet glanced toward them and fell quiet again.

“Will you excuse me?” Susannah asked.

Silas followed her glance. “Of course.”

She went to Violet and took both her hands. “I’ve scarcely had a moment with you since you arrived.”

“You have a birthday to see to.” Violet looked past her toward Caleb. “I still can’t quite believe that’s your little boy.”

“Neither can I, some mornings,” Susannah admitted as she looked down at their joined hands. “I’m glad you came.”

Violet still had those same knowing eyes, though the gaudy saloon colors had vanished from her dress, as if some harsher season of her life had at last been laid aside.

“After your third letter,” she said, “I thought you might come east and fetch me yourself.”

“That’s because you told me to remember you somewhere safe,” Susannah laughed softly, and tightened her hold. “So I did.”

Susannah and Violet looked at one another, two old friends measuring the distance between who they had been and who they had become. Two years wasn’t so long a time, and yet it seemed enough to have remade them both. Violet had gone home and opened a little dressmaking shop of her own, earning her living now beneath her own name and no man’s watchful eye.

Susannah squeezed Violet’s hand one last time and returned to Silas before her friend could see how close she had come to weeping herself.

Meanwhile, Molly had begun directing the proceedings. “He must be able to see the candle,” she informed her father. “You’re standing in front of it.”

Samuel obediently moved.

Someone struck a match. The little flame sprang up, and Caleb stopped tugging at Silas’s shirt long enough to stare. They sang a merry verse Molly had contrived for the occasion, with Everett joining in so heartily that Scout barked, adding his own contribution. Susannah sang with them, her hand upon her son’s back.

“Like this,” Silas said, leaning closer. He drew a breath and blew gently across the flame, showing him.

Caleb watched with grave attention. When the song ended, Caleb pursed his lips and made a determined little puff, though the candle scarcely flickered.

“Again,” Silas encouraged.

Another puff, accompanied this time by a discreet breath from his father, finally extinguished the flame.

The applause startled Caleb. He considered the company with a knitted brow for a moment, then clapped his own hands and laughed.

Susannah bent her head against Silas’s shoulder. “A whole year,” she whispered.

“I know…” His lips brushed her hair. “I can’t believe it either.”

Cake was cut, plates passed, and a neighbor took up his fiddle beneath the nearest oak. Susannah had just accepted Caleb into her lap when Scout lifted his head toward the lane.

Two riders were coming between the fences. At first, she saw only the dust upon their clothes and the slow, tired gait of their horses. Then the woman lifted her head. Susannah rose so abruptly that the bench scraped behind her.

“Silas.”

He was beside her before she said anything more. She passed Caleb into his arms and gathered her skirts.

The letter had promised they would come. She had carried it in her pocket for days, after counting the weeks their journey might take, refusing to let herself hope for any particular evening.

Rosalie was dismounting at the gate.

“Rosalie!” Susannah barely remembered crossing the yard.

“Oh, my girl.” Rosalie’s arms closed around her. There was road dust upon the older woman’s shoulder and more gray in her hair than she remembered, yet the hand that came to the back of her head was unchanged.

“You’re here,” Susannah managed.

“I told you I’d come.”

“I know…” She drew back far enough to see Rosalie’s face, then embraced her again. “I know you did.”

Jamie stood beside them with both sets of reins in his hands. He had grown taller and broader, though the uncertain smile was the same one Susannah remembered from a hundred evenings beside the campfire.

“Have you no greeting for me?” he asked.

“You foolish boy.” She laughed as she reached for him at once.

When she released him, her cheeks were wet, and Jamie was looking at the horses, as if fighting to keep his own eyes dry.

“She made me stop to rest them,” he said after a small pause. “We might have been here an hour ago.”

Silas came down the path with Caleb, while George followed to take the horses. Nathaniel greeted Rosalie by name and shook Jamie’s hand.

“It is all finished?” Susannah asked her softly.

“All of it.” Rosalie nodded. “I’m free.”

Susannah let out a breath. “Then come and meet someone,” she said quietly.

She turned toward Silas. Caleb had grown curious at the arrival of strangers and was studying Rosalie from the shelter of his father’s shoulder.

“This is Caleb,” Susannah said. “And, my darling, this is the woman who looked after your mother when she was a little girl.”

“Is that—” Rosalie pressed a hand to her mouth.

Silas stepped nearer. “Would you like to hold him?”

Caleb permitted the exchange after taking a firm hold of Susannah’s finger. Rosalie drew him against her with such gentleness that he soon released it in favor of the button of her coat.

“Your letters said he was a handsome young man,” she murmured.

“His mother’s very truthful,” Silas smiled.

Rosalie laughed through her tears. They brought her to the table, where Margaret had already set out two more plates. Jamie looked from one welcoming face to another before accepting the chair Everett offered him. Within moments, Molly had plucked a small flower from beside the table and gave it to him, and Mary had approached Rosalie to display her knee.

Susannah stood behind Rosalie’s chair, one hand upon her shoulder, listening to voices she had never expected to hear together.

After a little while, Rosalie glanced up. “There’s something I brought for you.”

Her tone made Susannah still. When Silas took Caleb back, Rosalie reached inside her traveling bag and drew out a folded sheet.

“From Orson,” she added quietly.

For a moment, Susannah watched the edge of the page stir in the breeze. Then she took it.

“Thank you,” she uttered.

She walked a few paces toward the garden, close enough to hear the company behind her, yet far enough to be alone. Beneath a lantern, she unfolded the sheet.

Susannah,

Rosalie tells me you have a son. I am glad you are both well.

I have begun this letter several times. Each time I found myself making excuses, and I have made you hear enough of those.

I loved you. That is true, though I never knew how to show it without trying to keep you for myself. You had reason to fear me, and I let myself be angry with you for being afraid.

My men killed your mother and father. I took you from that road and expected you to be grateful for whatever kindness I chose to give afterward. But I know now that nothing I did for you could repay what I had taken.

I am beginning to understand the terrible things I have done. There are names I cannot set down here without remembering how easily I once gave the orders that ended their lives. Your husband’s wife is among them.

I do not ask you to forgive me. I have no right to ask anything of you, including an answer to this letter.

I hope your boy grows up without fear. I hope your husband is kind to you, and that you have work you care for and people you can trust. I hope you are happy, my dear Susannah.

You need never write and tell me so.

Orson

Susannah scarcely moved, yet within her all seemed violently unsettled, as though some long-buried grief had risen suddenly and shaken the foundations of her heart.

Behind her, Caleb laughed at something. She looked around and found Jamie making a little wooden horse gallop along the table while her son reached for it from Silas’s lap.

She pressed the folded paper against her chest. She remembered Orson teaching her to sit a horse, or leaving a peppermint sweet beside her bed after an illness. For years, those memories had troubled her almost as much as the cruel ones. She had never known where to put the tenderness she had sometimes felt for him.

That evening, however, she let herself grieve for that man too, for the kindness he had been capable of, and all the times he had chosen otherwise. She wished there might yet be some peace for him in admitting the truth. At last, she forgave him, because she no longer wished to carry him within her as another wound.

When she lowered the letter, Silas was watching her from the table. He made no move to summon her. She went to him and laid a hand upon his shoulder, and kissed him.

By the time the first stars appeared, Rosalie had taken off her traveling bonnet, Jamie had accepted a second helping, and Violet was laughing with Eleanor over Mary insisting that Scout ought to have a slice of cake of his own.

Later, when the plates had been cleared and the fiddle sounded again, she found Silas standing beneath an oak with Caleb asleep against his shoulder. Their son’s cheek rested upon his shirt, one little hand still curled around the cloth.

“Come with me,” she said.

Without a word, he took her hand. They walked to the edge of the yard, where the lantern light thinned and the garden lay silver beneath the rising moon. Molly went past them with Mary’s small hand in hers, keeping careful pace with the little girl as they followed Scout between the trees.

Susannah stopped beside the fence and turned to Silas. “There’s something else I meant to tell you tonight.”

Silas frowned. “What is it?”

She silently took his free hand and laid it low against her belly.

His eyes widened. “Really?”

She nodded, smiling through the sudden warmth behind her eyes. “In the spring, I think.”

He drew her close with such care that Caleb scarcely stirred. Susannah rested against him, her cheek beside their son’s, and felt Silas bow his head over them both.

“Even in a dream,” he whispered, his lips touching her temple, “I never thought to ask for so much.”

She closed her eyes. There had been a time when she had scarcely dared call the future hers at all, when the utmost happiness she could conceive was a little room whose door she might close against the world, honest labor for her hands, and enough distance between herself and Orson Vail that no hoofbeat on the road need make her heart tremble. She had found all those things here, and more than she had ever possessed the courage to imagine.

“Are you happy?” she asked softly.

He drew back enough for her to see his face. “More than I know how to tell you.”

His hand remained over hers against her belly. Susannah closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of his shirt, while their son slept between them and the music carried across the grass.

All of a sudden, the fiddle stopped.

Susannah lifted her head. Lydia stood upon the porch with one hand braced against the doorframe and the other spread over her swollen belly. A dark patch widened upon the boards beneath her skirt.

Susannah stepped away from the fence. “Lydia?”

Her friend looked toward her, startled and a little breathless. “I believe the baby means to come.”

“So I see,” Margaret said, taking her arm. “Come along, dear. Let’s get you comfortable.”

Samuel reached for his wife’s other hand. Eleanor hurried ahead to open the bedroom, while Rosalie rose from the table and asked where the clean linen was kept.

Susannah caught his free hand, pressed it once more against her belly, and kissed him gently.

“Wait for me,” she whispered, then bent to kiss Caleb’s soft hair. He stirred against his father’s shoulder, his mouth opening in a small, contented sigh.

At the steps, she found Molly standing anxiously beside Violet.

“The baby’s ready to come,” Susannah told her. “I’m going in to help your mama.”

Molly looked toward the open door, her small face pinched with worry and her brows drawn tightly together.

“You may sit with me while you wait,” Violet offered. “And when there’s something to tell us, your aunt will come.”

The girl slipped her hand into Violet’s. Susannah met the other woman’s eyes and smiled approvingly before crossing the threshold.

Inside, Lydia sat upon the edge of the bed with Samuel kneeling before her. Eleanor had drawn back the coverlet, and Margaret was bringing warm water from the kitchen. Through the open window came a murmur of voices, Mary asking for her father, and, after a little while, the tentative return of the fiddle.

“I hoped to let you finish the celebration,” Lydia said as Susannah came to her.

“Don’t worry.” Susannah reached out and smoothed a loose strand of hair from the woman’s brow. “We’ve had our cake.”

Lydia laughed, though soon she reached for her hand as another pain caught her.

Susannah sat beside her and held on. “I’m here,” Susannah whispered.

She listened as Lydia’s breathing eased. The music rose a little, joined by the sound of children laughing in the yard, and Susannah felt a deep, abiding gratitude for all that waited beyond this room, and all that needed her within it.

This was the life she had chosen. She held Lydia’s hand, ready to welcome another child into it.

THE END