June arrived hot and dry.
By the second week, the creek narrowed.
By the third, every farmer in the valley watched the sky.
Rain clouds formed above the mountains each afternoon and disappeared before reaching Willow Creek.
Eleanor’s corn began curling at the edges.
Her beans survived because she carried water from the pump each evening.
The wheat field she had planted experimentally turned pale.
She refused to panic.
Benjamin found her digging an irrigation trench at sunrise.
“You’ve been out here since when?”
“Before daylight.”
“You’ll drop from the heat.”
“Then I’ll fall conveniently beside the ditch.”
Benjamin did not smile.
“Eleanor.”
She pushed the shovel into the soil.
“I have one season to establish enough food and income to survive winter.”
“You can buy supplies.”
“With what?”
“I can lend—”
“No.”
Benjamin rubbed the back of his neck.
They had reached this argument several times.
Eleanor accepted labor traded for meals.
She accepted advice.
She even accepted leftover materials when Benjamin constructed an explanation absurd enough to protect her pride.
Money was different.
She would not owe her independence to him.
Benjamin understood.
He did not always like it.
“Then sell me something,” he said.
“What?”
“Vegetables.”
“My vegetables are barely producing.”
“When they do.”
“You have a garden.”
“My cook grows potatoes and resentment.”
Eleanor laughed.
Benjamin smiled.
“Sell produce to the Double C. You’ll get cash. I’ll stop eating potatoes.”
“That sounds suspiciously beneficial to you.”
“I’m a selfish man.”
“No one in Willow Creek would believe that.”
Benjamin’s smile faded slightly.
“People in Willow Creek don’t know everything about me.”
Eleanor wondered what he meant.
Before she could ask, Samuel came running from the house.
“Miss Whitmore!”
Eleanor turned.
Smoke rose beyond the northern fence.
Her stomach dropped.
“Fire.”
The dry grass caught quickly.
Wind pushed flames southeast toward Eleanor’s field.
Benjamin mounted his horse.
“Get water.”
Eleanor ran.
Samuel rang the metal bell beside the house, the same bell Eleanor had repaired two weeks earlier.
Neighbors heard.
Within twenty minutes, six men arrived.
Then ten.
Then fifteen.
They formed a line from the pump.
Eleanor beat burning grass with a wet blanket until smoke blinded her.
Benjamin rode along the advancing edge, cutting a firebreak with two Double C hands.
Flames reached the north fence.
Posts burned.
Eleanor watched months of work disappear.
“Back!” Benjamin shouted.
The wind changed.
Fire jumped the break.
A burning tumbleweed rolled toward the new barn.
Eleanor ran after it.
“Eleanor!”
She kicked it aside.
Her skirt caught a spark.
She slapped it out.
Benjamin reached her and grabbed both shoulders.
“Are you trying to die?”
“My barn—”
“Is wood!”
“So is yours!”
“That isn’t the point.”
“What is?”
“You are!”
The words stopped both of them.
For one suspended second, the fire, shouting, and smoke seemed distant.
Benjamin’s hands remained on her shoulders.
His face was blackened with soot.
Fear showed plainly in his eyes.
Not fear for property.
For her.
Then someone shouted that the flames were turning.
Benjamin released her.
They returned to fighting.
The fire burned two acres before they contained it.
Eleanor lost part of the north fence and one corner of her cornfield.
The house survived.
The barn survived.
So did she.
That night, neighbors gathered in her yard.
Mrs. Dalton brought stew.
Mrs. Peabody brought bread.
Men who had once bet on Eleanor’s failure repaired fence posts by lantern light.
Even Mr. Dawson appeared carrying wire.
Eleanor stood on the porch watching them.
Benjamin approached.
“You all right?”
She nodded.
“Ask me tomorrow.”
He stood beside her.
“They came.”
“I noticed.”
“People respect work.”
Eleanor looked at the group.
“They laughed at me two months ago.”
“Some still do.”
“Comforting.”
Benjamin smiled.
“But fewer.”
Samuel walked past carrying a bucket too large for him.
Eleanor called, “Slow down.”
“I’m fine!”
He immediately tripped.
Water soaked his boots.
Everyone laughed.
For the first time since arriving, Eleanor felt something unexpected.
She belonged here.
Not because Thomas had given her a deed.
Not because Benjamin helped her.
Because she had worked beside these people.
Struggled beside them.
And when fire came, they had crossed her fence without being asked.
That mattered.
The following morning, Eleanor discovered the fire had not been accidental.
Samuel found a burned rag near the road.
It smelled strongly of kerosene.
Benjamin examined it.
His expression changed.
“That didn’t come from a cooking fire.”
Eleanor’s stomach tightened.
“You think someone started it?”
“I think somebody helped it.”
“Who?”
Benjamin looked toward town.
Neither said Robert Ames’s name.
There was no proof.
And accusing a respected merchant without evidence would create more trouble.
Eleanor folded the rag and placed it in a jar.
“Then we keep it.”
Benjamin nodded.
Over the next two weeks, the drought worsened.
Yet Eleanor’s irrigation trench worked.
Water from the creek reached the lower vegetable beds.
Her tomatoes survived.
The squash flourished.
She began selling produce to the Double C.
Then Mrs. Peabody asked for tomatoes.
Then the hotel cook ordered beans.
Then the restaurant in Willow Creek bought nearly everything Eleanor could spare.
For the first time since leaving Thomas’s home, coins began accumulating rather than disappearing.
Eleanor kept them in a small iron box.
Every evening she recorded expenses.
Seeds.
Nails.
Flour.
Lamp oil.
Feed.
Income.
Tomatoes.
Beans.
Eggs.
Butter from milk purchased and churned.
Benjamin watched her write one evening at the kitchen table.
“You keep better records than my foreman.”
“Your foreman probably never had to explain every penny he spent.”
“No.”
Eleanor looked up.
“Women learn accounting when people assume we cannot understand money.”
Benjamin leaned back.
“My mother ran the Double C accounts.”
Eleanor blinked.
“I thought your father founded the ranch.”
“He did.”
Benjamin smiled.
“My mother made sure he didn’t lose it.”
That explained something.
“Was she like you?”
He considered.
“No.”
Eleanor waited.
“She was louder.”
Eleanor laughed.
Benjamin’s gaze lingered.
She felt that familiar warmth again.
Then he looked away.
“Tomorrow’s July first.”
“Yes.”
“One month left.”
“The wager.”
He nodded.
Eleanor smiled.
“How much is in the pool now?”
“Twenty-three dollars.”
“You’ve been checking?”
“I have an investment to protect.”
“Suppose I leave July thirty-first?”
“I’ll drag you back.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow.
Benjamin flushed.
“Figuratively.”
“Of course.”
Silence settled comfortably between them.
Outside, thunder rolled.
Both turned toward the window.
Clouds gathered above the western ridge.
Real clouds.
Dark clouds.
Within minutes rain began.
Eleanor rushed outside.
Benjamin followed.
She stood in the yard as water struck the dust.
The smell of wet earth rose around them.
After weeks of heat, the rain felt miraculous.
Eleanor tilted her face upward.
She laughed.
Benjamin watched her.
“What?”
She pushed wet hair from her cheeks.
“You’re staring.”
“Yes.”
The honesty of the answer silenced her.
Rain ran down Benjamin’s face.
He stepped closer.
Eleanor’s heartbeat changed.
She could have stepped away.
She did not.
Benjamin lifted one hand slowly.
His fingertips brushed a wet strand of hair from her cheek.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
Eleanor looked into his eyes.
“I haven’t yet.”
He leaned toward her.
Then a horse galloped into the yard.
They jumped apart.
Samuel came riding bareback on an old mare, shouting.
“Miss Whitmore!”
Eleanor covered her face briefly.
Benjamin muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse.
Samuel slid down.
“Your brother’s here.”
Eleanor looked toward the road.
A carriage approached.
Thomas Whitmore sat inside.
Beside him was Catherine.
And across from them sat Robert Ames.
The happiness left Eleanor’s face.
Benjamin saw it.
“So much for the rain.”
Eleanor straightened her shoulders.
“Let them come.”
This was her land.
Her house.
Her life.
Whatever her brother wanted, he would discover something immediately.
The woman he had sent away in April no longer existed.
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