The land stretched wide and endless—rolling hills, dry grass shifting in the wind, and a sky so vast it seemed almost overwhelming.
“It’s… different,” Rebecca said quietly.
“Yes,” Harrison replied. “But it’s honest.”
She glanced at him, and something about that word steadied her.
By the time they reached the ranch, the sun was sinking low. The house was simple but sturdy—solid wood walls, a stone chimney, a modest porch facing the open land. There was a small corral to one side and a narrow creek beyond.
“It’s beautiful,” Martha whispered, though she was clearly exhausted.
Inside, the home was clean and plain: a heavy wooden table, three chairs, an iron stove, one main bedroom, and a smaller room Harrison had used for storage.
“The smaller room will be yours, Mrs. Sullivan,” Harrison said without hesitation. “It’s warmer and closer to the stove.”
