PART 2 — SEVEN REASONS NOT TO TRUST A PROMISE… AND THE FIRST TIME THEY LET HER STAY
Thomas Bell’s words settled over the supper table like the first snowfall of winter.

“I was going to ask whether she’d consider staying.”

Caleb remained standing.

His face had gone pale beneath his freckles.

Mercy held the stew pot so tightly that its iron handle pressed into her fingers. Nathan glanced between his father and the woman who had arrived only six hours earlier.

“You mean she’s not leaving tomorrow?” he asked.

“That depends on Miss Calloway,” Thomas replied.

Seven pairs of eyes turned toward Mercy.

She felt the weight of their hope.

It frightened her more than their suspicion had.

Suspicion could be answered with patience.

Hope demanded something harder.

It demanded honesty.

Mercy set down the pot.

“I came here to see whether we might suit one another,” she said. “I haven’t decided that yet.”

Caleb’s expression tightened.

“There. See?”

Mercy faced him.

“But I haven’t decided to leave, either.”

He said nothing.

“I’ll stay through the winter, if your father agrees. We’ll see whether this arrangement works for everyone.”

Thomas nodded immediately.

“That would be agreeable.”

Mercy looked at him.

“And we’ll discuss wages and household expenses before any talk of marriage.”

Peter frowned.

“Wages?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you supposed to marry Pa?”

“Perhaps. But I don’t intend to marry a man merely because his kitchen needs washing.”

Joshua snorted.

Thomas looked down at his plate, hiding what might have been a smile.

Mercy continued.

“Nor should your father marry a woman merely because she can bake bread.”

For the first time that evening, Caleb looked genuinely uncertain.

Mercy turned toward the stove.

“Now, whose turn is it to wash dishes?”

Seven boys suddenly found their bowls fascinating.

Thomas cleared his throat.

“I believe that’s a question we’ve been avoiding for some time.”

Mercy folded her arms.

“Then tonight seems an excellent time to begin answering it.”

By the end of supper, Caleb and Nathan were carrying water. Peter and Joshua were washing dishes. Eli dried them, Benjamin stacked the bowls, and Samuel was entrusted with collecting the spoons.

He performed the task with the seriousness of a railway conductor.

Thomas watched from the doorway.

“You’ve accomplished something I haven’t managed in three years.”

Mercy handed him a dishcloth.

“Then perhaps you ought to help.”

He stared at the cloth.

She stared back.

Finally, Thomas took it and washed the last pot.

That night, Mercy unpacked only enough clothing for a few days.

Her room was small but clean after she swept it. A narrow bed stood beneath the window, beside a washstand, a wooden chair, and a wardrobe missing one handle.

Outside, the wind rattled bare branches against the house.

Mercy sat on the edge of the bed and removed a small photograph from her trunk.

Daniel Mercer smiled at her from the faded paper. He had been twenty-six when the photograph was taken, his eyes almost mischievous.

She touched the corner.

“I’ve come a long way,” she whispered.

Then she placed the photograph inside her Bible.

She didn’t cry.

Not because she was incapable of it, but because exhaustion had finally overtaken grief.

The next morning, Mercy discovered that the Bell household operated according to no schedule known to civilized society.

Peter had misplaced one boot.

Joshua claimed Nathan had stolen his gloves.

Benjamin refused breakfast because Eli had called him a baby.

Samuel was crying because the dog had eaten half his biscuit.

And Caleb had already gone to the barn without speaking to anyone.

Thomas stood in the kitchen holding a broken harness buckle.

“Morning,” he said.

Mercy surveyed the chaos.

“Is it always like this?”

“Not always.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Sometimes it’s worse.”

Mercy sighed.

“Then we have work to do.”

She began with breakfast.

Afterward, she wrote a list of chores on a sheet of brown wrapping paper and pinned it beside the kitchen door. Each boy received responsibilities suited to his age.

Thomas was included.

He examined the list.

“You’ve assigned me wood for the stove.”

“Unless you’d prefer to cook over a cold one.”

He nodded.

“Wood it is.”

For three days, the arrangement worked remarkably well.

Then Caleb decided to test her.

Mercy discovered a bucket of muddy water overturned across the freshly scrubbed kitchen floor. Beside it lay a pair of boots belonging to Caleb.

He stood in the doorway, watching.

“Accident?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“Could be.”

She studied him.

Then she fetched a mop and handed it to him.

Caleb stared.

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Clean the floor.”

“I’ve got ranch work.”

“And I have supper to prepare.”

He glared at her.

She waited.

Finally, he snatched the mop.

“You’re not my mother.”

The words struck her, but she kept her voice steady.

“No, Caleb. I’m not.”

He looked almost disappointed that she hadn’t argued.

“And I won’t pretend to be.”

For a moment, something changed in his expression.

Then he bent to clean the floor.

That evening, Thomas found Mercy mending a shirt beside the stove.

“Caleb told me what happened.”

Mercy kept sewing.

“Did he?”

“He said you made him mop.”

“He was very accomplished by the time he finished.”

Thomas sat opposite her.

“He’s angry.”

“I noticed.”

“He wasn’t always.”

Mercy waited.

Thomas rubbed his hands together.

“Before Eleanor died, Caleb was the gentlest of the boys. He helped her with the younger ones. He used to sing Samuel to sleep.”

“What happened?”

Thomas looked toward the darkened staircase.

“I happened.”

Mercy stopped sewing.

He continued quietly.

“After the funeral, I didn’t know what to do. The ranch still needed tending. The cattle still needed feeding. Bills came whether I was grieving or not.”

“So Caleb helped.”

“He did more than help.”

Thomas’s voice grew rough.

“He became the man of the house whenever I couldn’t bear to be one.”

Mercy set down the shirt.

“He was thirteen.”

“I know.”

“He’s still a boy.”

Thomas stared into the fire.

“I know that too.”

Mercy watched him for a long moment.

“Then perhaps it’s time you told him.”

Thomas shook his head.

“He won’t listen.”

“Have you tried?”

The question hung between them.

Thomas did not answer.

During the following week, Mercy learned the boys’ habits.

Nathan loved books and hid them beneath his mattress because his father believed reading should wait until chores were finished.

Peter could repair almost anything if someone gave him enough wire and patience.

Joshua asked questions faster than anyone could answer them.

Eli was quiet and observant.

Benjamin was tenderhearted beneath his stubbornness.

Samuel carried his mother’s rag doll everywhere when he believed nobody was watching.

And Caleb worked until his hands blistered.

He rose before dawn, returned after dark, and spoke little. When Mercy asked him to rest, he accused her of interfering. When Thomas praised him, Caleb looked away.

One afternoon, Mercy found him in the barn struggling to lift a heavy feed sack.

His face was strained.

“Put that down,” she said.

“I’ve got it.”

“Caleb.”

“I said I’ve got it!”

He tried to lift it higher.

The sack slipped.

Grain spilled across the floor.

Caleb kicked the wooden wall.

“Damn it!”

Mercy did not scold him.

She knelt and began gathering the grain.

After a moment, he joined her.

They worked in silence.

Then Caleb spoke.

“Mrs. Wilkins stayed eleven days.”

Mercy looked up.

“She was the first woman Pa brought here after Mama died.”

He scooped grain into the sack.

“She said we were wild animals.”

Mercy listened.

“Mrs. Avery stayed three weeks. She told Ben he cried too much.”

His hands slowed.

“The last one stayed until Samuel started calling her Mama.”

Mercy’s heart tightened.

“What happened then?”

Caleb looked at the floor.

“She left the next morning.”

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Mercy said, “I won’t ask Samuel to call me anything he doesn’t want to.”

Caleb swallowed.

“And I won’t ask you to trust me before you’re ready.”

He finally looked at her.

“Then why are you here?”

Mercy considered the question carefully.

“Because I needed somewhere to begin again.”

Caleb frowned.

“You needed us?”

“I thought I might.”

He studied her.

“And now?”

Mercy glanced toward the farmhouse.

“Now I think perhaps we all need a little help.”

Caleb said nothing.

But when they finished gathering the grain, he carried the sack without another angry word.

That night, Mercy heard footsteps outside her bedroom.

She opened the door.

Samuel stood there holding his rag doll. His eyes were wet.

“I had a bad dream.”

Mercy knelt.

“Would you like me to sit with you?”

He nodded.

She followed him to his room.

For nearly an hour, she sat beside his bed while the winter wind rattled the windows. Samuel eventually fell asleep clutching the doll.

As Mercy rose to leave, she noticed Thomas standing in the hallway.

He had seen everything.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Mercy looked toward the sleeping child.

“He needed someone.”

Thomas’s eyes shone in the dim light.

“Yes,” he said. “He did.”

Then he added something that made Mercy pause.

“So did I.”

She looked at him.

For the first time, she saw beyond the tired rancher who struggled to manage seven sons. She saw a man who had spent three years trying to keep a family together while quietly losing pieces of himself.

But Mercy knew better than to mistake one honest moment for a promise.

She had learned that promises could be broken.

That affection could disappear.

And that people sometimes left just when children began to believe they might stay.

So she gave Thomas no grand answer.

She simply nodded toward the staircase.

“Then perhaps tomorrow, you should sit with Samuel when he wakes.”

Thomas looked surprised.

Then he nodded.

“I will.”

Mercy returned to her room.

Outside, the wind continued moving across the Wyoming hills. Inside the farmhouse, seven boys slept beneath worn quilts, their mother’s doll resting beside the youngest.

Nothing had been settled.

Mercy had agreed only to stay through the winter. Thomas had not yet asked her to marry him, and she had not promised that she would.

But that night, for the first time in three years, the Bell farmhouse felt a little less empty.

And for seven boys who had learned not to trust a promise, that small change was already something worth protecting.