Two years later

Morgan Trask had once believed a full yard meant trouble, with a dozen horses, too many voices, wheels in the dust, children darting where they ought not, women calling instructions, men laughing too loudly, and half the town gathered before his eyes. Once, he would have looked upon such a scene and thought first of what might go wrong. Now, he stood outside the Briarwood schoolhouse, thinking only that the morning was full enough to make a grown man’s heart ache.

The whole town seemed to have come. Parents stood in little groups beneath the pale Wyoming sky, speaking with the restless cheer that came at the start of any new school term. Children clutched slates, copybooks, lunch pails, and one or two unfortunate apples that had already been bruised before lessons began. The schoolhouse door stood open, freshly scrubbed and painted.

There had been a time when that building had been only old timber, rain through the roof, dust in the corners, and Marybeth’s dream standing bravely in the middle of it. Now it had glass windows, a sound roof, proper benches, shelves for books, and a bell that Annie Lou wasn’t permitted to ring without permission, which had only made the bell more interesting to her.

Marybeth stood near the steps with sunlight on her hair. She wore a soft blue dress and a bonnet tied beneath her chin, though one ribbon had already come loose. Dylan had done that. Their son was nearly five months old and had strong opinions about ribbons, buttons, and his father’s collar. A warm, round-cheeked little fellow, he had Morgan’s dark hair and Marybeth’s deep eyes.

Marybeth bent her head and kissed Dylan’s cheek. The baby blinked at her, then gave a small, satisfied sigh. Something in him went quiet every time he saw her with their child in her arms, as if the world had finally set one of its gentlest miracles in the place it belonged.

Meanwhile, Annie Lou, Violet, and Daisy hovered near Marybeth, each clutching a school bag and nearly trembling with excitement.

“I should sit nearest the front,” Annie Lou declared, adjusting the ribbon at the end of her braid. “I know the schoolhouse best.”

Violet turned on her. “That’s not fair,” she protested. “Those of us who know all the answers should sit where Miss Marybeth can hear us properly.”

“You mean where everyone can hear you,” Annie Lou corrected.

Daisy held her slate against her chest and looked up at Marybeth. “I only want to sit where I can see you clearly, Mrs. Trask.”

Morgan saw Marybeth’s face soften. “You may all sit where you can learn best,” she said with a smile. “Which, I’m afraid, only postpones the quarrel until we are inside. But we’ll figure it out.”

Daisy seemed to consider this fair. Violet didn’t, but before she could protest, Rosa Dugan appeared with a basket over one arm and a look of deep suspicion aimed at all three girls.

“Did you eat properly?” Rosa demanded.

“Yes,” Annie Lou said.

Rosa tilted her head. “Are you sure?”

“Mostly,” Annie Lou sighed. “I had a biscuit.”

“With jam,” Violet added helpfully.

Rosa turned toward Daisy. “And you?”

Daisy looked guilty at once. “I ate half,” she whispered.

“Half?”

“The other half fell.”

“It didn’t fall,” Violet said. “Thimble assisted it. He eats more, now that he’s bigger.”

Beside Rosa, Sheriff Thomas Dugan stood with his thumbs tucked in his vest and pride written plainly on his face. He had married Rosa the previous spring. Rosa now wore his ring and still governed the Trask kitchen when she wished, which was often. Dugan claimed he had married her for love but survived by obedience.

“You’re trying to govern the school before it’s even begun,” Dugan told her.

Rosa gave him a look. “Someone must ensure children don’t enter with hollow stomachs and empty heads.”

“The heads are Marybeth’s concern.”

“The stomachs affect the heads,” Rosa scoffed.

To that, Dugan had no reply. Morgan laughed under his breath. Marybeth came to his side and carefully passed the baby from her arms into his, and Dylan tucked himself against Morgan’s chest with the complete confidence of a child who had never once doubted his welcome. His small hand curled around Morgan’s shirtfront, and his head came to rest beneath Morgan’s chin.

Marybeth’s eyes warmed as she adjusted Dylan’s blanket over his back, letting her fingers brush Morgan’s hand for one brief moment.

“He always knows where he belongs,” she said softly. The words went through Morgan with such quiet force that he couldn’t answer right away.

He looked down at Dylan, at the dark lashes resting against the baby’s cheeks, at the small hand curled so trustingly in his shirt. His son slept on, warm and certain against him, while the schoolyard stirred with voices, laughter, and the rustle of children waiting for the bell. For one blessed moment, Morgan let himself stand inside it all without reaching for worry.

Marybeth’s hand brushed his once more, light as a promise. Only then did Dugan step nearer, his gaze moving from Marybeth and the girls to the edge of the crowd. His voice lowered enough that it wouldn’t carry past Morgan.

“Got word from Cheyenne yesterday,” the sheriff said.

Morgan looked at him. “About Bledsoe?”

Dugan nodded. “Bledsoe and the rest remain where they ought to be. Appeals denied. Boone has taken to religion, if the prison chaplain is to be believed.”

Dugan’s expression darkened slightly as he went on. “As for Clay McGraw, he was transferred east last month. State prison at Charlestown, near Boston. Stronger walls and less friendly ears.”

Morgan looked toward the schoolhouse, where the girls had resumed discussing seats with the seriousness of politicians dividing a territory.

“Will he stay there?” he asked.

“Likely, for the rest of his natural life.” Dugan’s mouth set in a grim line. “Between the kidnapping, the conspiracy, the old Colton matter, and Mercer turning state’s evidence to save his own hide, McGraw buried himself deeper than any judge needed help digging.”

Morgan let out a slow breath. He didn’t like thinking of Clay McGraw, especially not today. But justice mattered. Marybeth had needed the truth spoken plainly and so had the dead.

“And the property?” Morgan asked after a pause.

“All settled, as of the last papers.” Dugan glanced toward Marybeth. “The Colton holdings, what could be restored, at least, are hers. The funds traced through McGraw’s companies too. Not everything, mind you. Greed spends what it steals. But there’s enough, I’ll tell you that.”

Morgan followed Dugan’s gaze. Marybeth had never cared for wealth in the grasping way Clay had expected. When the Colton property was legally returned, she had wept, quietly, with Beatrice’s old letters in her lap. Then she had asked how much could be used to supply the school for children whose parents couldn’t pay. After that, she had insisted part be set aside for the girls’ futures, part for the ranch, and part for a scholarship fund under her parents’ names.

Nathaniel and Amelia Colton had lost their land to greed. But thanks to their only daughter, their names stood on the brass plate beside the schoolhouse door: In memory of Nathaniel and Amelia Colton, who believed in the West.

“She did turn loss into something useful,” Dugan said, as if reading his mind.

“She always does,” Morgan agreed with a smile.

“And you?”

Morgan glanced at him. “What about me?”

“Are you letting yourself be happy yet?”

Morgan looked back at Marybeth. She was laughing at something Daisy had said. Annie Lou had one hand on her hip. Violet was attempting to explain, with great authority, why her seating arrangement made the most sense.

“I reckon I am,” Morgan said at last. “Or, at least, I’m learning.”

“You’re one slow pupil, Trask.” Dugan’s mouth twitched.

Morgan laughed despite himself. Near the edge of the yard, a wagon came rattling up from town. Mr. Abbott climbed down with a crate of primers, looking important and winded.

Marybeth turned toward Morgan. “I should begin soon,” she said quietly.

Before Morgan could wish her good luck, a boy from the telegraph office hurried through the crowd with an envelope in hand.

“Mrs. Trask?” he called.

Marybeth turned. The boy handed her the letter, then touched his cap and darted away with the relief of someone who had performed a public errand without falling over.

Marybeth looked at the handwriting. “Beatrice,” she said softly.

The girls quieted almost as quickly as if Reverend Cole himself had raised a hand. Even Rosa turned from her basket.

“Open it,” Morgan said, and Marybeth broke the seal.

The paper unfolded with a faint crackle. She drew a breath and read aloud.

“My dearest Marybeth,

If this letter has arrived on time, which would surprise me greatly, then you are standing upon the threshold of another school year. I hope the children are clean, the room orderly, and the ink under strict supervision.”

Marybeth’s smile deepened as she continued.

“I have thought often of the girl who once sat beside the nursery fire at Holloway, mending dolls and correcting copybooks, dreaming of the West. You were always meant to guide children toward hope.

“Do not be afraid of the work before you. You have already done harder things. So open the door, my dear. Ring the bell. Teach them letters, sums, scripture, and whatever kindness can be fitted between. The world is made less cruel whenever a child is taught that his mind matters, and his future is not already decided.”

Dylan stirred against Morgan, and Morgan placed one hand over the baby’s back. Marybeth paused, pressing her lips together.

Rosa had turned away slightly, though her shoulders gave her away, as Dugan offered her a handkerchief without comment. She accepted it, which said everything.

Marybeth read the last lines more softly.

“I expect to visit next summer. Kiss the girls for me, as well as the baby, if he permits it. Give my regards to Mr. Trask and tell him I trust he continues to deserve you.”

Morgan’s brows rose.

Marybeth looked at him over the page, eyes bright. “She wrote that,” she said. A smile touched her mouth before she returned to the letter.

“As for you, Marybeth, take this old woman’s blessing, since it is given with more affection than elegance. You were loved before you knew how to name it, and you are loved now. May this schoolhouse, this marriage, and this family be the western path your heart was brave enough to seek.

Yours faithfully and fondly,

Beatrice Holloway.”

The schoolyard, so full of noise only minutes before, seemed to hold itself still around Marybeth.

She lowered the letter. Morgan saw the tears standing in her eyes and stepped to her. With Dylan asleep between them, he bent and kissed her gently, not caring in the least that half the town watched. He had spent too many years hiding the best parts of his heart. He was done making that mistake.

Marybeth leaned into him, one hand still holding Beatrice’s letter, the other coming to rest against Dylan’s back.

“She’ll come,” Marybeth whispered.

“Of course she will,” Morgan said. “Who else will inspect Wyoming and find it wanting?”

Marybeth laughed through her tears. He drew her into a careful embrace, mindful of Dylan nestled between them. Their son slept on, warm against Morgan’s chest. Around them, life resumed its noise.

“If Miss Holloway visits, should we curtsy every morning?” Annie Lou asked.

“I shall, if she grades my curtsy,” Daisy replied.

Marybeth smiled and folded Beatrice’s letter carefully, holding it against her heart. Then she turned toward the open schoolhouse door.

Morgan watched her as Annie Lou ran to take her place near the door. Violet followed with her chin high and her school bag thumping against her side. Daisy paused beside Marybeth and slipped her small hand into hers.

Marybeth looked down. Daisy whispered something Morgan couldn’t hear and went inside with the others. Whatever it was, Marybeth’s face softened so completely that Morgan felt the sight lodge beneath his ribs.

Dugan leaned toward Morgan. “Your wife looks ready to march those children straight into new knowledge.”

Just then, Marybeth had lifted her chin, the morning light bright around her, Beatrice’s letter held in one hand and the other resting briefly against the doorframe.

“She does,” he said softly. “She looks like she’s finally found her path.”

Marybeth turned at the sound of his voice, though he hadn’t spoken loudly enough for most to hear.

Their eyes met, and there it was again, that quiet undoing he had never learned to defend himself against. Her smile came more readily now than it once had, brightening her face before she could think to hide it. Her hair had grown longer, pinned back loosely beneath her bonnet, with soft strands the wind kept teasing free. Motherhood had changed her too, adding some deeper grace to the gentleness already there. Morgan looked at her and felt himself fall in love with her all over again, no longer knowing how to imagine a life without her in it.

Then the bell rang. No one admitted who pulled the rope, though Annie Lou appeared suspiciously innocent in the doorway.

Morgan glanced down at Dylan, still sleeping against his chest. “Your sister,” he murmured, “is a menace.”

The baby slept on. Marybeth laughed, clear and bright, and the sound moved through the yard like a blessing. She turned toward the open door and paused on the threshold, taking in the moment before it became memory. Then she slowly stepped inside to begin the new school year as a woman who had, indeed, found her place in Briarwood, and Morgan stood outside beneath the wide Wyoming sky, holding their sleeping son and knowing, with a gratitude too deep for words, that her western path had led her home to him.