The bread was rising when Cade came back, his pockets jingling with coins.
He looked pleased with himself until he saw Norah's expression.
"What?" he asked defensively.
"How much did you get?"
"Two dollars. That's good, right?"
"For what did you trade?"
Cade hesitated.
"Old tools. Stuff from the shed Pa never uses."
"Show me what you took."
"I already traded it."
"Then tell me exactly what it was."
Cade's face flushed.
"Why does it matter? I got money. That's what counts."
"It matters because if you traded something your father needs and we have to buy it back later, we're worse off than before. That's not helping. That's making problems."
"I'm trying to help," Cade said, his voice rising. "Everyone else just sits around talking about what we should do, but I actually do something."
"And I appreciate that. But helping without thinking isn't helping. It's just action for action's sake."
"Better than doing nothing."
"Not if the action makes things worse."
Cade threw the coins on the table.
"Fine. You deal with it, then. I'm done trying."
He stormed out before Norah could respond.
Ru watched him go with worried eyes.
"Cade's always angry now."
"He's scared," Norah said. "Anger's easier than admitting you're scared."
"Are you scared?"
Norah looked at this four-year-old who'd been forced to grow up too fast.
Who tried to cook supper on a stool because no one else had time.
Who couldn't remember his mother's face, but remembered the smell of her baking.
"Yes," she said honestly. "I'm scared all the time. But I do things anyway because being scared and being stopped aren't the same thing."
Ru absorbed this with the seriousness of someone much older.
Then he went back to measuring ingredients, and Norah went back to kneading dough.
And they both pretended the conversation hadn't revealed more than either of them meant to share.
That afternoon, a woman showed up at the ranch.
She arrived in a wagon that had seen better decades, pulled by a horse that looked like it was held together by spite and habit.
She was maybe 50.
Maybe 70.
Hard living made age impossible to judge out here.
Her dress was clean but patched.
Her face was lined with sun and smoke.
Her eyes were sharp enough to cut.
"You the new Mrs. Greer?" she asked Norah without preamble.
"I am."
"Name's Charlotte Webb. My husband's got the ranch north of here."
She climbed down from the wagon with surprising agility.
"Heard you're the one got these men talking to each other again."
"I just suggested they try honesty instead of silence."
Charlotte snorted.
"Same thing out here. Most of these fools would rather die quiet than admit they need help."
She pulled a basket from the wagon.
"Brought you preserves. Figured you could use them."
Norah took the basket, surprised.
"That's kind of you."
"Ain't kind. It's practical. Your family starves, mine's one step closer to being next. We look out for each other or we all go down."
Charlotte's eyes swept over the ranch, taking in every broken fence and sagging building.
"Place is worse than I heard."