Chapter Seven

 

Noah and Gus left the next morning, late. Grace made them eat a good, hearty breakfast before she’d allow them to set out across the windy plains.

“It’s not icy any longer, ma’am,” Gus pointed out. “It’s a lot warmer than when I rode in here yesterday.”

Noah, watching him from over the rim of his coffee cup, could tell the boy enjoyed being fussed over. He was making quite a show of being strong and manly. God, had Noah ever acted like that? He had a vague, shadowy recollection of being young and alive and eager to please once.

“Nonsense,” said Grace, refilling Gus’s cup. The boy stared up at her with worship in his eyes. “I’m not letting either one of you set foot out of this house until it’s at least a couple of degrees warmer out there.”

She knew she had Gus’s puppy love. Noah saw her smile affectionately at the boy, like a mother bestowing a blessing on her son. Her easy, good-natured affection somewhat soothed Noah’s over-strung nerves. At least she didn’t look like she’d be succumbing to the young cowboy’s adoration any time soon.

Not that Noah gave a rap, personally, if the two of them paired up. What he worried about was that Grace might marry one of the men out here, any of whom would probably leap at the chance to have her. Then her land would be lost to Noah forever.

Of course, if Noah married her himself, then the land would be his. He scowled into his coffee cup. Where in the name of holy hell had that notion sprung from?

For some reason, he glanced at Mac. It didn’t surprise him when he found the old man grinning at him as if he could read every single twisted thought in his head.

Lordy, maybe it’d do him some good to get away from these people for a while; maybe a little time off would save him from being seduced into total insanity. Marriage and mind-reading wagon-yard owners. Shoot. He had plenty of problems already without adding those two, thank you.

# # #

“Be careful, Gus. Be careful, Mr. Partridge.”

Grace had made them take a huge bundle of food with them. It was lumpy and bounced against the flank of Gus’s horse. Noah hoped the poor animal wouldn’t get a sore from it. He didn’t say a word.

“Bye-bye, Gus. Bye-bye, Mr. Noah.”

When Maddie’s farewell filtered through the layers of fleece and wool he’d wrapped himself in, Noah had already hunched into his comfortable, keep-the-world-away mode. Her tone of voice, which seemed to expect a response, yanked him out of it momentarily. He didn’t appreciate it. Nevertheless, since he’d never been a cruel man, no matter how crazy he was, he wouldn’t allow himself to disappoint her. He straightened in his saddle, turned his head against the layers of bundling, and looked back at the porch.

And his heart stumbled in his chest. Grace stood there, in a dark skirt and white shirtwaist, that woolen paisley shawl caught around her shoulders to ward off the brisk weather, Maddie in her arms. The cold wind had nipped at her cheeks and nose until they glowed with it, and it whipped her hair out of its carefully knotted bun.

A sudden blind longing struck him. With vivid clarity he recognized that it hadn’t been merely his past that the great conflict and its aftermath had snatched from him. It had taken away his future too. He’d never have a woman like that to wave at him when he left home or to run and greet him when he came back again. He’d never have a sweet little girl like Maddie to call him pa and sit on his lap and kiss his cheeks.

He gave Maddie a brief wave, which she returned with vigor, and glanced at his traveling companion. Those sorts of lives were the provenance of men like Gus Spalding—whole men; men who hadn’t been ruined by a vicious and mercurial fate.

As a rule, Noah didn’t feel sorry for himself. He knew what he was, accepted it, and tried his best to live with the devils that had been set loose inside of him. He knew he wasn’t the only man in whom similar devils had been unleashed during that awful, bloody war.

Today, as he rode behind Gus out through the wagon yard gates, Maddie’s chirpy farewell singing in his ears, his heart ached with a sickening sense of loss.

# # #

“You took your time getting here.”

“Sorry, ma’am. I was froze by the time I got to McMurdo’s place. Mrs. Richardson had to dry my clothes before she’d let me go again.”

“Humph. A likely story.”

Susan Blackworth’s onyx eyes snapped with irritation. Gus shuffled and fidgeted with the hat in his hands.

Noah didn’t say anything. It was nothing to him if this old lady was a shrew. He’d come at her request; he could leave again in his own time if she aggravated him. Peeking at Gus, he knew it would go hard on the boy if he got fed up and left, so he determined to stick it out. External events were nothing to Noah Partridge. He carried his own environment around within him.

He didn’t like the way she bullied Gus, though. “You got tools, ma’am?” His voice fractured from being called upon to work. He and Gus hadn’t spoken a word on their ride out here because they’d been too busy trying to keep from freezing to death. Noah thought it was interesting that he could get out of the habit of talking so quickly. Must be because he hadn’t exercised his vocal chords enough in the short time he’d been at McMurdo’s to make up for his years of silence. For the first nine or ten months, as he’d lain in that hospital bed after he’d been carried out of the prison camp, he hadn’t spoken a solitary word. The mind he’d sent away so that it wouldn’t suffer with his body, had a hard time coming back again.

“You don’t have the tools of your own trade with you?” Mrs. Blackworth barked her question, and pitched it to let Noah know she considered him an idiot at best and a shiftless wastrel at worst to have ridden out here unprepared.

Noah didn’t like her. He lifted his gaze from where it had been idly inspecting the carpet at his feet and eyed her narrowly, keeping his expression blank. “It’s no longer my trade, ma’am. I came out here at your request. You have tools or not?” He wanted her to know without a doubt that he’d be just as happy to go away again without looking at her damned piano. Happier.

He could tell she hadn’t expected him to stand up to her. A wave of contempt dribbled through him. What a harpy.

“Humph. Well, come along. I’ll see what I can find. I used to have the tools my father bought along with the piano.”

He didn’t answer, but followed her into the parlor. As soon as he did, he caught sight of her reed organ again, and he wanted it. Damn, but it was a beautiful old thing. And it was one his grandfather had made with his own two hands. Noah had loved that old man; loved him more than his father, which wasn’t surprising. Noah’d heard it said once that grandparents and grandchildren always got along because they had a common enemy. Not that Noah didn’t respect his father, but he had found it much easier to love his grandfather, who hadn’t had anything to prove with Noah.

But no. He wasn’t here for the organ. His business was with the piano. Fortunately, the piano stood in the opposite corner from the organ, so Noah’s back would be to the organ and he wouldn’t have to see it as he worked.

He brushed right past Susan Blackworth and went over to the piano without looking at her, although he was vaguely aware of her scrutiny of him. To hell with her. Let her look. Noah didn’t care what she thought of him.

Somebody had dusted it. That was something, anyway. And she’d lowered the protector over the keys. By this time, they were probably sticky with dust and worse, but at least she’d done that much. He ran his hands over the finish. It looked like somebody’d taken some wax to it, too.

“How long since it’s been played?” He didn’t look at her.

“Years. I haven’t played since the rheumatism twisted my hands up.”

Noah suspected he ought to feel some compassion for her, but he didn’t. She was such a bossy bit of goods. When he glanced at her again, he caught a look in her eye that made him soften a millimeter. She was gazing at the piano with longing. Maybe she was cantankerous because of her own lost hopes, like he was crazy because of his. Since he didn’t much like her, he decided to wait a while before he changed his poor opinion of her.

“You got a child who wants to play the piano, ma’am?”

She snorted. “None of my sons would be caught dead doing anything so civilized, Mr. Partridge.”

He looked up at that, into her dark, dark eyes. Again, he wondered if her caustic exterior hid a hurt she didn’t want people to see. Lots of folks didn’t like to exhibit their weaknesses to the world, Noah reckoned. He wasn’t the only piece of broken merchandise wandering around loose in the world.

“Well? What do you think?” She folded her arms across her chest. Her posture seemed to challenge him, as did her tone.

Noah shrugged. “Can’t tell until I open her up and poke around for a while, ma’am.”

“What about the organ?”

His head jerked up of its own accord. “The organ, ma’am?”

“Yes. What if I decide to have the organ fixed. Can you do it?” Her voice was hard, challenging.

Noah swallowed, trying to tamp down the surge of hope in his chest. “Again, I’d have to open it up and look at it. If nothing’s broken, and if the reeds are whole, I expect I can tune it. You might have to order pads and replacement reeds from back east.”

“Oh? And just where does one get replacement reeds, Mr. Partridge, if your business has been burned to the ground?”

She asked the question as though she suspected Noah of trifling with her. He cocked his head and studied her for a few moments. She glared right back at him, unflinching. A tough old bird, Susan Blackworth. A reluctant appreciation of her grit began to steal through him.

It was funny how some people, when faced with hardships, developed a hide. Others, like Grace Richardson, remained vulnerable. Noah guessed it had something to do with their basic natures, and wondered if either reaction to adversity was better than the other. Maybe Susan Blackworth was better off than Grace. She had more money, at least.

None of that mattered. “The Estey Organ Works is still in business, ma’am. I expect you can write to them if you need to replace stops or reeds or anything.”

Her eyes squinted up, as if she still didn’t believe a word he said. He found her skepticism extremely irritating. “And where might this Estey Organ Works be located, young man?”

“Name’s Partridge, ma’am,” Noah said dryly. “Noah Partridge. And Estey’s in Brattleboro, Vermont.”

“Vermont! Why, that’s at the ends of the earth!”

He shrugged again. What the hell did she expect from him, anyway?

“How long would it take to get parts from them, Mr. Partridge?” Evidently recognizing his growing impatience, she made her tone not quite so sharp.

“I wouldn’t know.” He glanced back at the organ. Sadness welled up inside him. “You should have taken better care of it, ma’am. It’s a fine old instrument and deserves care.”

“Don’t you presume to lecture me, young man.”

Noah sighed, and decided that wasn’t even worth a response. He patted the piano. “Listen, Mrs. Blackworth, do you want me to take a look at this thing or not?”

“Well, of course, I do! Why do you think I called you out here?”

“I wouldn’t know. All I’m telling you is that your instruments have been neglected. As for the organ, it may need parts or tools that I don’t have. You can get replacement parts in Brattleboro, Vermont. Now, do you want me to look at this piano or not?”

“Yes!” Her eyes were as hard as flint. “But don’t you go thinking I’m made of money, young man, because I’m not. My husband has seen to that.”

Hmmm. Was that her problem? Did she think he was going to soak her for repair bills? Noah shook his head. “I won’t overcharge you, Mrs. Blackworth.” He licked his lips, suddenly frightened, and blurted out before he could stop himself, “Do you want me to look at the organ while I’m here too? I’ve been hoping I could get my hands on that thing, ma’am. I haven’t worked on an organ for years.”

Tilting her head to one side, she studied him, as if gauging the veracity of his confession. Her lips pinched up as tight as the knot on a noose, and wrinkles radiated from them. He wondered if she was as old as she looked, or if her acerbity had dried her out and shrunk her up and sapped the juice out of her. Noah wondered if Grace Richardson might look like Susan Blackworth in a few years, and rejected the notion immediately.

Grace didn’t have Susan’s acidity. Noah had a feeling that if Grace went through hell, she’d be more apt to end up like Noah himself. Grace didn’t seem to possess the natural internal defenses against the slings and arrows life flung at her that this old woman did.

At last she said, “Humph. Well, take a look at the piano and tell me what it needs. Then you can look at the organ and do the same thing. I’ll have to decide whether or not I can afford to have you finish the organ repairs. I want the piano fixed.” She eyed him keenly for another second or two. “Don’t worry, Mr. Partridge. I’ll pay you for your time.”

It sounded as though she expected him to protest, although the notion hadn’t even occurred to him. Hell, if he told the truth, he’d work on this thing for free. Music—pianos and organs—used to be his life. He could hardly wait for her blathering to cease so that he could begin work. He nodded.

Without another word, she turned and rustled away from him. Because the job in front of him was so intensely personal to him, he waited until she’d left the room before he turned and gazed at the piano again. He’d do this job first. Then, if he still had an ounce of sanity left in him, he’d tackle the organ. Because he couldn’t help it, he turned and gazed across the room at it.

Lordy, it was a beauty. One of his grandfather’s first and finest. A feeling of reverence the likes of which he hadn’t experienced in years settled over Noah, and when he at last approached the piano, he did so with gratitude and respect.

# # #

Grace grabbed her daughter around the waist and laughed. “Don’t bounce too hard, Maddie, or you’ll fall right out of the wagon.”

Maddie giggled at her mother’s dire warning and calmed down. She crawled up onto Grace’s lap and snuggled against her. The weather had warmed up some in the three days Noah had been gone from the wagon yard, but the winter wind felt as if Mother Nature were trying to blow them all away from her plains, as if she were trying to rid the land of usurpers. The wind was cold, too, and harsh, and Grace had to keep checking the bed of the wagon to make sure it hadn’t dislodged anything. She’d baked several pies for the Blackworths, set them into a wooden crate, and covered the crate with a blanket. Even though she’d snugged the edges of the blanket under the crate, the ride was bumpy, and she feared the crate would slide and allow that pesky wind to whip under the edges of the blanket and coat her crusts with grit.

Mac, who was driving the team along a path only he could discern, chuckled.

“But, Mommy, I never heard a piano before!”

Grace’s heart gave a sharp spasm. That’s right. Born and reared out here in the middle of nowhere, Maddie’s life had been circumscribed in ways Grace no longer even thought about half the time.

But it was true. Not only had she never heard n piano, but she’d never been to Sunday school, she’d never met a grandparent, she’d never eaten ice cream, and she’d never had a friend her own age. Oh, Grace let her play with the children of settlers who stopped in the wagon yard on their way through Rio Hondo to points west, but Maddie hadn’t had a single friend that lasted more than a week or two.

Not for the first time Grace wondered if she should give up Frank’s dream and move back to Chicago. Her parents would be thrilled if she did. Maybe she was only being selfish, keeping Maddie here. Maybe she was foolish to want to build something for the two of them on the land she and Frank had loved. She sighed, and then told herself to snap out of it.

If Maddie’s life did have to be different from other little children’s, the least Grace could do for her was give her a happy mother. “Well, you’ll get to hear one today. Gus said that Mr. Partridge fixed it up perfectly, and it sounds like a choir singing.”

“What’s a choir, Mommy?”

A momentary feeling of despair rendered Grace speechless. She shook off the mood, and said calmly, “A choir is a group of people who sing holy songs in church on Sundays, Maddie.”

“Oh.”

Grace and Mac exchanged a look over the little girl’s head.

“We don’t got us a church, do we, Mommy?”

“No, sweetheart.” Grace hugged her. “But we will one of these days, I expect. When Rio Hondo attracts more people. More families.”

“It don’t take long for civilization to spread once it gets a toehold, Maddie-lass. You’ll see. Pretty soon ye’ll be longin’ for the good old days.” He chuckled and clicked to the mules.

Smiling, Grace said, “Well, maybe. I think I’ll be just as happy as Maddie when a few more people decide to settle out here and raise families. It’s—” She sucked in a breath, a stabbing pain having robbed her of words. “It’s difficult, feeling so alone. I didn’t mind so much when Frank was alive.” She looked away from her companions quickly, so they wouldn’t see the easy tears that had sprung to her eyes.

Grace often wished she was tougher. Like Susan Blackworth, who reminded Grace of a badger. Nothing soft and sentimental about her. Susan Blackworth didn’t allow problems to sneak up on her; she attacked them head-on. But Grace had never learned to build defenses against the cruelties life flung at her—or to anticipate them. They invariably took her by surprise, and they always hurt.

“Ah, lass, life will get easier out here one of these days. And more folks will settle. And little Maddie will have friends her own age to play with.” Mac gave Maddie a wink.

“I’d like a friend.” Maddie sounded wistful.

Feeling guiltier by the second, Grace said, “Well, you’ll get to see Gus again today. Maybe he’ll let you ride on his pony.”

“And Mr. Noah,” Maddie said thoughtfully.

“Yes,” said her mother. “And Mr. Noah Partridge.”

Mac didn’t speak again, but Grace took note of his rather sly smile.

# # #

They heard the music before they went inside. Grace’s heart, which had been feeling lumpy and low with guilt and loss, lifted like a bird on the wing.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Listen to that.”

Maddie’s eyes opened wide, and she looked up into the sky as if she expected to see a host of angels singing. “It’s music!”

Mac chuckled. “It’s music, all right, Maddie-lass. Pretty music.”

It was lovely music. It wasn’t a simple popular tune, either. Grace had to listen hard for a moment before she could place it. Then she recognized the tune as a lilting passage from Beethoven’s sixth symphony. My goodness. She wondered who was playing the instrument. The “Pastorale” seemed too gentle, somehow, to have been selected by Susan Blackworth. Her conclusion made her smile. As little as she could imagine Susan Blackworth playing such a gorgeous piece of music, still less could she imagine the hard, cold, withdrawn Mr. Noah Partridge playing it. But it had to be he.

“Sounds like he got the thing to tuned up pretty well,” Mac observed.

“Indeed, it does.”

“I can’t wait to see it!” Maddie had taken to jumping up and down on the wagon seat again. Laughing, Grace restrained her gently.

The front door opened, and the music swelled in the air around them. Grace looked over to see Susan Blackworth standing there. She could hardly believe it when a smile creased those weathered cheeks, which she’d more often seen bent into a frown.

So it was Noah Partridge playing the beautiful music, as Grace had suspected. How perfectly astonishing. She called out a bright greeting. “Good morning, Susan! Cold today, isn’t it?”

“Freezing,” the older woman acknowledged in her rusty voice.

“Is that our Noah playin’ so fair in there?” Mac climbed down from the wagon and stretched his old bones out before he walked to the other side to help Grace and Maddie.

“It is,” said Susan, moving forward to greet them. She walked stiffly, as if every step pained her.

Grace’s easy sympathy stirred. It must be hard for Susan, living out here. Grace understood she’d come from a wealthy and privileged family back east. In the territory, wealth could provide a certain small measure of comfort, but no luxuries; certainly nothing akin to what she must have been accustomed to. With an internal giggle, Grace guessed she was fortunate to have come from a plain, middle-class family with no pretensions to riches. She hadn’t had so far to fall.

“I haven’t heard any Beethoven pieces for years,” she said, smiling.

“Don’t expect you have,” Susan acknowledged, her voice as tart as a crabapple. Of course, Susan Blackworth’s voice was always tart.

“So our lad did a good job tunin’ the old piano, did he?”

“I suppose he did.”

Susan held out her arms, and Maddie went up and hugged her. It was a duty hug. Maddie was afraid of the wrinkled old woman who always dressed in black, smelled of the camphor she used to repel moths, and whose tongue could flay the hide from the toughest of cowboys. Grace was proud of her daughter.

She and Mac wrestled the crate full of pies to the back of the wagon. Over her shoulder, Grace asked, “Have you played it since he fixed it, Susan?”

The old woman opened and closed her hands a couple of times. “I tried.” Her words were clipped.

Again, Grace’s tender feelings stirred. “Rheumatism?” she asked sympathetically.

The older women held up her hands. The knuckles were swollen, and her fingers gnarled. “It’s hell getting old, Grace, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Grace shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She hoped Susan’s arthritic fate didn’t await her. She flexed her fingers experimentally. It would be difficult enough rearing her daughter and performing the tasks of a mother and father even if her health remained perfect. What would become of them both if nature played her a bad turn, as it had Susan Blackworth?

Well, she couldn’t worry about that now. She could only do her best to fulfill Frank’s dream. If she failed, she failed. The mere thought of failure made her heart ache. She feared the reality of such a prospect might kill her.

Grace, Mac, and Maddie, who clung like a vine to her mother’s hand and dragged her feet a little, followed Susan Blackworth into the house. She led them past the tiled entryway and into the parlor, where they all stopped to watch and listen. The music flowed around them, filling the atmosphere with sound and beauty. Grace heard Maddie gasp and smiled down at her.

Her eyes as big and round as pie plates, Maddie whispered, “It’s so loud.”

Grace laughed. “Yes, sweetie, it is loud. It’s pretty, though, isn’t it?”

Maddie nodded solemnly. “It’s beautiful.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes.” Maddie gazed up at her mother. “Is this how Sunday school sounds?”

Grace knelt beside her daughter so she wouldn’t have to shout. “Usually people play pianos or organs during church services, dear. Sunday school is when little boys and girls learn lessons from the Bible.”

“I want a church,” Maddie announced, and nodded decisively. “With a piano.”

“That would be nice,” Grace concurred, and sighed. When would the rough-and-tumble community of Rio Hondo ever have itself a church? Not until there were a lot more women out here. Right now, the tough men who struggled to gain a foothold in this inhospitable land cared about almost anything more than they did churches or pianos and organs.

When she glanced up, she saw Noah Partridge’s back, slightly bent as he concentrated on his fingering. She’d never in a million years have guessed that such a difficult, troubled man could have such magic in his fingers as he was creating now, on Susan Blackworth’s piano. She shook her head, wondering if the war had changed him from a man with music in his soul into the cold, emotionally crippled being he was today. How sad. How stupid of men to think they could solve their problems by fighting over them.

“He’s got a gift.”

Grace looked up to see Susan Blackworth staring at Noah’s back too. A tear dripped down her cheek, and she wiped it away impatiently. Grace wasn’t sure if Susan’s tear astonished her more than Noah’s playing or the other way around. Either way, this was a day full of surprises.

“Yes, he certainly seems to have a gift, all right.” She rose and wondered what to do now.

Mac took the problem out of her hands. “What d’ye want me to do with these pies of Grace’s, Susan?”

It seemed to Grace as if Susan gave herself a little shake. “Set ‘em in the kitchen, Mac. Thanks, Grace. I don’t make pies any longer. Juanita Valdez has been cooking for the lot of us for a couple of years, but she couldn’t make a decent crust if her life depended on it.” Again, she bent and straightened her crooked fingers as if trying to will them back into piano-playing shape.

Mac turned with the carton in his hands and headed out of the parlor.

“I hope you enjoy them.”

“I’m sure we will. The boys like anything sweet.”

Grace wondered if that was supposed to be a compliment, and then decided it didn’t matter. She smiled at Mac when he returned, sans carton of pies, to the parlor.

All at once the music stopped. The silence sounded like thunder in the house for several seconds. Noah Partridge stared down at his hands, as if amazed that they still worked, and then glanced over his shoulder. When he saw her standing there, he turned abruptly back to the piano. Grace saw him open and close his fingers as Susan Blackworth had just done. It looked to her as if he were testing them, as if they weren’t used to the exercise they’d just been called upon to do. He didn’t speak.

It was Maddie who broke the spell that seemed to have woven itself around Noah and his observers. She pulled her hand away from her mother’s and ran up to the piano bench.

She stopped short of hugging Noah, although Grace noticed that he appeared to brace himself for an attack. Instead Maddie clasped her hands in front of her, and said, “Mr. Noah, that was the prettiest music in the whole world. It was the prettiest music I ever heard. Ever.” She gazed at him in awe, as though she considered him some sort of magician.

Grace saw him swallow. “Thank you, Miss Maddie.” His voice sounded funny, as if he had to force it past an ache in his throat.

Suddenly Maddie turned toward her mother. “Can you play the piano as good as Mr. Noah, Mommy?”

“Can I play as well as Mr. Noah Partridge?” Grace said, automatically correcting her daughter’s grammar. She shook her head and smiled. “I’m afraid not, dear. Mr. Partridge is—he’s a real musician. A gifted musician. I’m not nearly as good as he is.”

Noah turned back to the piano and seemed to be studying its keys. Grace saw his hands—hard hands, callused, tanned—skim over them, almost caressing them. “I used to be.” His voice still sounded funny.

“I’d say you still are, young man.” Susan Blackworth’s voice was as harsh and imperious as ever. “And that instrument sounds as good as it ever did.”

Grace heard Noah clear his throat. “It’s a fine instrument, Mrs. Blackworth. It just needed a little care and a few felts is all.”

“My father bought me that piano from Partridge’s in ‘twenty-seven. I’ve had it ever since. Used to play it too. As well as Mr. Partridge there.”

She sounded bitter. Grace wasn’t surprised about that, although the information she imparted surprised her. “My goodness.”

Noah stood abruptly, making Maddie jump. He glanced down at her. “Sorry, Miss Maddie.”

She gave him one of her sunniest smiles, and he averted his face.

“Come here, Maddie,” Grace said softly. She wasn’t sure what was going on inside Noah Partridge, but she sensed it was powerful, and it was disturbing, and she didn’t want her daughter anywhere near it.

Because she wanted to purge the odd atmosphere, she said brightly, “It sounds as if your grandfather’s skill has been passed down to you, Mr. Partridge. That piece was beautiful.”

She saw his back rise and fall as if he were taking and releasing a huge breath. When he turned to face her, his eyes looked as bleak as the weather. “Thanks,” he said, and Grace felt like crying.

They took dinner with Susan Blackworth. Neither Susan’s husband nor any of her sons were there to dine with them. Grace wasn’t sorry. They were a hard lot, the Blackworth men. She doubted if any one of them had a musical gift.

She wasn’t sorry, either, when Noah elected not to ride in the wagon with them. He rode Fargo alongside the wagon when Mac drove it back to Rio Hondo. He didn’t speak a word the whole way, and Grace got the feeling he wasn’t really there except in the flesh. His spirit seemed to be visiting elsewhere, and his expression was as far away as summer.