PART 2 — THE WIFE WYATT MERCER UNDERESTIMATED

The young ranch hand was still gasping when I reached the wagon.

“Which ravine?” I demanded.

“North ridge. Near the old cottonwood. Mr. Mercer went down when the steer fell. Hollis thinks his leg is broken.”

“Who else is hurt?”

“Tom Bell has a deep cut on his forehead. Young Samuel can’t put weight on his ankle.”

I grabbed the medicine chest from the kitchen shelf.

“Get me the strongest horse.”

The boy stared at me.

“Ma’am, you can’t possibly drive out there alone.”

I looked at him.

“What’s your name?”

“Eli.”

“Eli, I have spent fifteen years keeping a sick man alive through winters when the nearest doctor was two days away. I can manage three injured cowboys.”

He said nothing.

“Now bring the horse.”

Within ten minutes, the wagon was loaded with blankets, clean cloth, bandages, water, food, and the medicine chest. I added two large pots of beef broth, wrapped in wool to keep them warm.

The sky was growing darker.

The wind had begun pushing dust across the yard.

I climbed onto the wagon seat, gathered the reins, and headed north.

The road was rough, and the wheels struck every stone. My body protested with every jolt, but I kept moving.

When I reached the cottonwood, I found chaos.

Two horses stood trembling near the ravine. A third had broken loose and disappeared into the brush.

Hollis was kneeling beside Tom Bell, pressing a cloth against his forehead.

Samuel sat against a boulder, his ankle swelling beneath his boot.

And Wyatt was on the ground.

A fallen steer had pinned part of his lower leg beneath its weight. His face was pale, and sweat covered his forehead.

When he saw me, his expression changed.

“What are you doing here?”

“Bringing supper.”

“This isn’t a place for you.”

“Then it’s fortunate I brought a wagon full of things that belong here.”

Hollis looked up.

“Mrs. Mercer, we need help.”

I climbed down.

First, I checked Tom’s injury. The bleeding had slowed, but he needed a doctor. I cleaned the wound as carefully as I could and wrapped it with fresh linen.

Then I examined Samuel’s ankle.

“You’re not riding home,” I told him.

“I can manage.”

“You can manage sitting still. That’s what you’ll do.”

He almost smiled.

Wyatt was watching me.

“Can you get this thing off my leg?” he asked.

“Not until we have enough men in position to move it safely.”

His jaw тιԍнтened.

“I don’t need a lecture.”

“And I don’t need a husband who argues while injured.”

Hollis coughed to hide a laugh.

I looked around.

“Eli, bring the wagon closer. Hollis, find two strong fence posts. We need something stable to help lift the animal enough to free Wyatt.”

The men moved immediately.

Wyatt stared at me.

“You’re giving orders now?”

“Yes.”

“On my ranch?”

“Unless you prefer to remain beneath that steer until Christmas.”

He closed his mouth.

The men worked carefully. After several tense minutes, they managed to shift the animal enough for Wyatt to pull his leg free.

He groaned as Hollis helped him sit upright.

I examined the injury.

His leg was badly bruised, but there was no obvious deformity. I wrapped it firmly and instructed him not to put weight on it until a doctor could examine him.

“You’re going to the house,” I said.

“I can ride.”

“You can barely stand.”

“I’ve ridden with worse.”

“And I’ve buried a stubborn man before. I have no intention of repeating the experience.”

For the first time, Wyatt looked at me without irritation.

He looked almost surprised.

The storm broke before we reached the ranch.

Rain struck the wagon roof, turning the dusty trail into a muddy track. I kept the horses moving steadily, stopping twice to check the injured men.

When we finally reached the house, the smell of warm food drifted through the rain.

Hollis looked toward the kitchen.

“Is that beef?”

“Beef and barley soup.”

“There’s bread too?”

“Biscuits.”

The old ranch hand looked as though he might cry.

I helped Samuel inside first, then Tom. Wyatt was the last to enter.

He stopped at the kitchen doorway.

The stove was glowing.

The table was covered with bowls, bread, ʙuттer, and plates of roasted vegetables.

The house that had once seemed abandoned now felt alive.

“Sit,” I told him.

Wyatt lowered himself into the chair.

I placed a bowl of broth before him.

He stared at it.

“You made all this today?”

“Some of it yesterday.”

“For twelve men?”

“And a few unexpected guests.”

Hollis was already eating.

“Mrs. Mercer, if this is what you’ve been hiding in that kitchen, I owe you an apology.”

“You owe the hog an apology. He had the first serving of your cooking.”

The men laughed.

Even Wyatt’s mouth twitched.

For several minutes, nobody spoke except to ask for more bread.

Then Wyatt put down his spoon.

“Why did you come?”

I looked at him.

“Because you were hurt.”

“You could have been injured yourself.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t know what you’d find.”

“No.”

“Then why?”

I thought about my father.

About the years I had spent bringing him broth when his hands were too weak to hold a cup.

About the way he had always thanked me, even when all I could offer was a bowl of soup.

“Because people don’t stop deserving care just because they’re difficult to live with.”

Wyatt lowered his eyes.

Something in his expression shifted.

Later that evening, the men settled into the bunkhouse. Tom’s wound had been cleaned again, and Samuel was resting with his ankle supported.

Wyatt remained at the kitchen table.

I was washing the last pot when he spoke.

“My mother used to cook like this.”

I turned.

“She did?”

“Every Sunday. There were always biscuits and something simmering on the stove.”

He looked toward the fire.

“She died when I was fourteen. After that, my father hired a cook, but nothing tasted the same.”

I dried my hands.

“Food tastes different when nobody is making it with love.”

Wyatt nodded.

Then he said something I hadn’t expected.

“I shouldn’t have let Hollis feed you that pork.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“I didn’t know what he was giving you.”

“You didn’t ask.”

He looked at me.

“I suppose I didn’t ask much of anything.”

That was the closest thing to an apology I had received from him.

But it was not enough.

“Wyatt, I need you to understand something.”

He straightened.

“I didn’t marry you to become a servant in your house. I know how to cook, but I also know how to manage land, keep accounts, and recognize when someone is trying to cheat me.”

He looked surprised.

“My father taught me.”

“Your father?”

“He trusted me with Willow Creek for a reason.”

Wyatt was silent.

I continued.

“I will help make this ranch prosperous. I will feed your men and keep this house standing. But I will not spend the rest of my life being treated like an inconvenient piece of property.”

Wyatt looked down at his hands.

Then he slowly nodded.

“Fair enough.”

That night, he asked if he could sleep in the bedroom instead of the narrow room beside the office.

I told him the bed was large enough for two people, provided he respected the space between us.

He agreed.

For the first time since our wedding, we slept beneath the same roof without the feeling that we were strangers sharing a contract.

But the following morning brought a different kind of trouble.

I was sorting the pantry when I heard Wyatt speaking sharply to someone outside.

“Who authorized this?”

A stranger answered.

“Your ranch hands said the delivery was expected.”

I stepped onto the porch.

A man in a black coat stood beside a wagon loaded with barrels and wooden crates.

He held a paper in his hand.

“Mrs. Mercer,” he said politely. “I believe this belongs to you.”

He handed me a document.

I recognized the signature at the bottom.

It was my father’s.

The paper described an agreement granting Wyatt Mercer access to Willow Creek Valley for the purpose of watering his cattle.

But beneath the original terms, someone had added another paragraph.

A paragraph stating that the valley would become Wyatt’s permanent property if his marriage to me ended for any reason.

I read it twice.

Then I looked at my husband.

“Did you know about this?”

Wyatt’s face changed.

He looked at the document.

And for the first time since I had arrived at his ranch, he seemed genuinely frightened.

Because the signature was real.

But the paragraph beneath it was not.

Someone had altered my father’s agreement.

And whoever had done it was counting on me never noticing.