The giant cowboy.
His frame blocked the lamplight behind him as he passed, dragging two long cedar logs by a rope slung across his chest. When he glanced at her, it was only once, but it felt like the air changed shape. His eyes were dark and unreadable. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… present, in a way the town hadn’t been.
He didn’t stop.
But Silas did.
The baby went still, wide-eyed, gaze locked onto the man’s retreating form. Sarah felt his body loosen, as if some tight knot inside him had unclenched. When the cowboy turned the corner, Silas let out a soft, surprised coo and curled against Sarah’s chest like he recognized a safety he couldn’t name.
A woman passing by muttered, “They say he don’t talk. Not since his brother died.”
Sarah didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice.
That night she curled into the back pew of the chapel with Silas tucked into her skirts and prayed for warmth. Prayed for something solid to hold onto. The chapel smelled of old hymnbooks and cold stone. Her breath ghosted in front of her mouth. Silas’s fever made him hot as a stove, and still his hands were cold.
She watched the moonlight crawl along the floorboards like a slow animal and tried to make plans, but every plan turned into a wall.
When dawn came, gray and bitter, she opened the chapel door.
