By the third day, she sat outside Harland’s store with her basket of unused cooking tools and let herself feel the weight of disappointment. A horse’s slow approach broke her reverie. She looked up. Stone McCra was riding in, massive and silent, his black horse stirring small clouds of dust. He dismounted with unhurried grace and moved to load supplies from Harland. He said nothing, his face unreadable. But when his eyes swept the porch and landed on her, they didn’t flick away like the others had. They lingered—steady, cool, not cruel.
Loretta swallowed hard. Her pulse drummed. Before she could stop herself, she rose. “Sir,” she said, voice trembling despite her effort. “I can cook. You won’t have to look at me much if you don’t like the sight.”
Harland froze mid-step, a sack of flour in his hands. A hush seemed to fall over the small space between them. Stone’s gaze held hers—quiet, measuring. The air smelled of dust and leather, and the faint sweetness of hay. Finally, he spoke, his voice low, roughened by years and loss.
“Come Monday, if you’re as good as you say,” he said. That was all. No smile, no softening. Yet something shifted in the air. A door cracked open where she’d thought there was only stone. Loretta’s breath hitched. She nodded once, clutching her basket to her chest. Behind her, Harland gave a small, startled cough, as though even he hadn’t expected Stone to answer.
The great rancher turned back to his horse, the conversation already over for him. But for Loretta, the world felt changed, the horizon just a shade wider. She watched him ride away into the pale light, the mist rising around his horse’s hooves. For the first time since stepping into Dry Creek, hope—fragile and trembling—dared to press against the edges of her shame.
