PART 4

THE WIFE WHO DROVE INTO THE STORM

The young ranch hand had barely finished speaking when I reached for the wagon keys.

“Which ravine?” I asked.

“North ridge. Near the old cattle crossing. The ground collapsed beneath the herd.”

“How many men?”

“Three injured. Mr. Mercer is still down there. The steer fell across his leg.”

I did not ask whether Wyatt was alive.

I could not afford to ask.

Instead, I went to the pantry, gathered blankets, clean linen, whiskey for cleaning wounds, and the small medicine chest my father had left me. I packed bread, smoked meat, and a kettle of H๏τ broth into wooden crates.

The ranch hand watched me.

“Mrs. Mercer, that wagon has not been driven in years.”

“Then today it will remember.”

The sky had darkened to a strange copper color. Wind pushed across the yard, lifting dust into twisting columns. I climbed onto the wagon seat and took the reins.

My body ached from the morning’s work. My knees were stiff, and the heat pressed against my chest.

But none of those things mattered.

I had spent fifteen years watching my father struggle to survive on land that other men wanted. I knew what happened when people waited for help instead of moving toward it.

The wagon lurched forward.

Behind me, the young ranch hand climbed onto the seat.

“Mrs. Mercer,” he said nervously, “Mr. Wyatt told us never to take the north road during a storm.”

“Your employer also told me I would never survive a Texas summer.”

The boy said nothing after that.

The road narrowed as we climbed. Loose stones rattled beneath the wheels. Twice, the horses balked at the wind, and twice I steadied them with a voice I hoped sounded stronger than I felt.

Then we heard the shouting.

Three men stood beside the ravine, their hats whipping in the wind. One had a bloodied arm. Another was holding a strip of cloth against his forehead.

Wyatt was below them.

A mᴀssive steer lay on its side across his lower leg. He was conscious, but his face had turned pale beneath the dust.

“Wyatt!”

His head snapped toward the sound of my voice.

For a moment, he looked as though he had seen a ghost.

“Eleanor?” he shouted. “What are you doing here?”

“Bringing supper.”

The words came out sharper than I intended.

The injured men almost laughed, but the sound died when the steer groaned and shifted.

Wyatt clenched his jaw.

“Get back to the house. The ground is unstable.”

I looked at the broken earth, the injured men, and the animal trapped against the rocks.

“No.”

“Eleanor!”

“You can argue with me after I get you out.”

I climbed down from the wagon.

The first man had a deep cut above his eyebrow. I cleaned it while the ranch hands secured the horses away from the edge. The second man’s shoulder was badly bruised, but he could move his fingers. The third had a twisted ankle.

I wrapped the injuries as quickly as I could.

Then I turned to Wyatt.

His eyes followed every movement.

“You should not be lifting anything,” he said.

“I am not planning to lift the steer.”

“Then what are you planning?”

I studied the ground.

The animal had fallen into a shallow depression. Its weight pressed against Wyatt’s leg, but the earth beneath its hindquarters was beginning to crumble.

We needed leverage.

I sent two men for the wagon’s long timber poles. Another brought the heavy rope used for pulling cattle from muddy ground.

The storm was getting closer.

Thunder rolled across the valley.

“Mrs. Mercer,” one of the men said, “we may have to leave him until the ground settles.”

Wyatt heard him.

“Do it,” he said.

I turned.

“No.”

His expression hardened.

“Eleanor, this is not a kitchen.”

“And this is not a decision you get to make alone.”

I knelt beside him.

“Can you feel your toes?”

“Yes.”

“Can you move them?”

A small movement pᴀssed through his boot.

“Good. Then we have time, but not much.”

I placed the timber poles beneath the rope, using the wagon’s iron tools to create a crude lifting arrangement. The men worked together, following my instructions.

The first attempt failed.

The steer barely moved.

The second attempt sent a shower of dirt sliding down the ravine.

Wyatt gripped my wrist.

“Stop.”

I looked at him.

“Do not waste your strength arguing with me.”

Something changed in his eyes.

He released my wrist.

We tried again.

The rope тιԍнтened. The timber groaned. The men leaned backward, and the animal shifted just enough for Wyatt to drag his leg free.

A sharp cry escaped him.

But he was out.

The ranch hands pulled him toward solid ground while I held the rope steady.

Then the earth collapsed.

The steer slid deeper into the ravine, taking the timber poles with it.

One of the men shouted.

We scrambled away from the edge as rocks tumbled into the darkness.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Wyatt looked at me.

His face was covered in dust. His breathing was uneven. His injured leg trembled.

“You came all this way,” he whispered.

“I came because you were hurt.”

“Why?”

I stared at him.

“Because I am your wife.”

The words seemed to strike him harder than the fall.

We loaded the injured men into the wagon. Wyatt lay across the back beneath the blankets, refusing to complain as the wheels began their slow journey home.

Halfway down the ridge, the rain arrived.

It came in thick, violent sheets.

The horses struggled through the mud. The wagon rocked dangerously on the narrow road, and the wind tore at my hat.

Wyatt reached for my hand.

I looked down.

His fingers were trembling.

“Eleanor,” he said quietly.

“Yes?”

“I thought you would be a burden.”

The rain struck the wagon roof so loudly that I almost missed his next words.

“I was wrong.”

I did not answer.

Not because I had nothing to say.

But because those three words had arrived eight days too late.

By the time we reached the ranch, the storm had swallowed the horizon.

I sent the injured men to the bunkhouse and ordered Hollis to fetch the doctor from the nearest settlement.

Wyatt was carried into the main bedroom.

I removed his muddy boots, checked the swelling around his leg, and helped him settle against the pillows.

He watched me work.

“You know more about this than I expected.”

“My father was ill for fifteen years. I learned what I needed to learn.”

“Your father never told me.”

“You never asked.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortable.

I brought him broth from the kitchen.

He stared at the steaming bowl.

“Did you make this?”

“Yes.”

He took a spoonful.

His eyes closed briefly.

For the first time since our wedding, Wyatt ate something I had prepared without making a single comment.

When he finished, he looked toward the doorway.

“Eleanor?”

I paused.

“Thank you.”

I nodded and returned to the kitchen.

The stove was still warm. The bread had risen beautifully, and the beans simmered in a thick pot of broth.

I stood there for a long time, listening to the rain.

Then I noticed something strange.

The pantry door was open.

I knew I had closed it.

A muddy footprint crossed the clean floorboards.

Someone had entered the house while we were gone.

And beside the old flour barrel lay a small piece of paper.

It had been torn from a surveyor’s notebook.

Three words were written across it in black ink.

THE VALLEY IS OURS.

I stared at the message.

Then I heard Wyatt calling from the bedroom.

“Eleanor?”

I folded the paper into my apron.

“Coming.”

But I knew the storm had brought something far more dangerous than rain.

Someone wanted Willow Creek Valley.

And they had already entered my home.