Caleb Morgan's ranch house had never been intended for a child.
Phoebe decided that before she had been inside five minutes.
There were no curtains with flowers.
No little shoes near the door.
No wooden toys scattered beneath chairs.
No pie cooling on the counter.
The walls were plain. The furniture was heavy. One rifle hung above the mantel. A row of horseshoes had been nailed near the door, and Caleb's boots stood in an orderly line beside the stove.
Phoebe stood in the center of the room holding Miss Prine.
“Where do little girls sleep?”
Caleb froze.
That problem had somehow escaped him.
He had one bedroom.
One bed.
There was an old storage room behind the kitchen, but it contained saddles, seed sacks, broken harness, a cracked washstand, and enough dust to bury Nebraska.
“You can have my room.”
“Where do you sleep?”
“Here.”
He nodded toward the sofa.
Phoebe examined it.
“Your feet won't fit.”
“I'll manage.”
She studied him suspiciously.
“Papa said grown men say ‘I'll manage’ when they don't have a plan.”
Caleb stared.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
The sound surprised both of them.
Phoebe smiled a little.
They ate beans, bread, and fried potatoes.
Caleb cooked two eggs.
Phoebe watched intensely as he slid them onto her plate.
“Cooked eggs taste different.”
“Better?”
She took a bite.
Her eyes widened.
“Much.”
That nearly broke his heart all over again.
Later, Caleb heated water for a bath and placed a wooden tub in his bedroom.
When he mentioned washing Phoebe's hair, she looked alarmed.
“Are you doing it?”
Caleb looked equally alarmed.
“No.”
He rode to the Turner homestead and returned with May.
May washed Phoebe, combed the knots from her brown hair, and found one of her older daughter's nightgowns.
While May worked, Caleb transformed the storage room.
He hauled everything outside.
Swept twice.
Moved an unused narrow bed from the loft.
Found an old blue blanket.
He was hanging a lantern when May appeared.
“You've done more in an hour than most bachelors do in ten years.”
“Don't start.”
May smiled.
“You remember Margaret talking about wanting children?”
Caleb's shoulders stiffened.
“Don't.”
“All right.”
May respected the warning.
But before leaving, she said, “That girl looks at you like you're the first solid thing she's found since her world fell apart.”
“That isn't good.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm temporary.”
May gave him a long look.
“Children don't understand temporary the way adults do.”
That night Phoebe could not sleep.
Caleb found her sitting in the hallway.
“You need something?”
“I heard Papa.”
Caleb's chest tightened.
“What did you hear?”
“He said my name.”
Caleb sat against the wall.
“Dream?”
“I wasn't asleep.”
He did not argue.
Grief had voices.
He knew that.
For years after Margaret died, Caleb had awakened certain he had heard her moving in the kitchen.
Phoebe leaned against the wall beside him.
“Do dead people get lonely?”
“I don't know.”
“Is Mama with Papa?”
“I hope so.”
“Then maybe he's not lonely.”
“No.”
She considered that.
“Are you lonely?”
Caleb looked straight ahead.
“Sometimes.”
“Why don't you get a wife?”
He almost choked.
“That's enough questions for tonight.”
“Did you have one?”
Silence.
Phoebe immediately sensed she had touched pain.
“You don't have to tell.”
Caleb looked at the child.
“Yes. I did.”
“Where is she?”
“She died.”
“Oh.”
“And our baby.”
Phoebe moved closer.
“Both?”
“Both.”
“How long ago?”
“Seven years.”
Phoebe thought hard.
“That's longer than I've been alive.”
“Yes.”
She lifted Miss Prine.
“You can hold her if you're sad.”
Caleb stared at the doll.
“No offense to Miss Prine, but I'll survive.”
Phoebe placed Miss Prine in his lap anyway.
“There.”
Caleb looked down at the crooked cloth face.
Something inside him gave way.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Three days became a week.
Sheriff Holloway found no living close relatives.
The Missouri aunt named in old letters had died two winters earlier.
Another possible relative had moved west and left no address.
Phoebe remained with Caleb.
And slowly, his life changed.
There was now a child's cup beside his tin one.
A little red dress hung beside his coats.
Wildflowers appeared in jars.
Miss Prine regularly disappeared only to be found in places Caleb considered unreasonable, including inside a grain bin and beneath Jasper's saddle blanket.
Phoebe followed him everywhere.
He taught her to brush Jasper.
She taught him that a five-year-old could ask approximately two hundred questions before breakfast.
“Why does Jasper sleep standing?”
“Sometimes horses do.”
“Why?”
“They can.”
“Can you?”
“No.”
“Did you try?”
“Phoebe.”
“Yes?”
“Brush the horse.”
One afternoon, Caleb found her sitting outside the barn, crying silently.
“What happened?”
She held out Miss Prine.
The doll's arm had torn loose.
Caleb knelt.
“We can fix that.”
“You can sew?”
“Enough to mend shirts.”
“Miss Prine isn't a shirt.”
“I noticed.”
They sat at the kitchen table while Caleb threaded a needle.
Phoebe watched every stitch.
“My mama made her.”
“I know.”
“Papa said Mama was good at sewing.”
Caleb carefully reinforced the doll's shoulder.
“He was probably right.”
“What was your wife good at?”
Caleb paused.
“Margaret could make bread.”
“Better than you?”
“Much better.”
“What else?”
“She sang.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Very.”
Phoebe's voice softened.
“Did you love her?”
Caleb tied off the thread.
“Yes.”
“Do you still?”
Caleb handed back the doll.
“Love doesn't stop just because somebody dies.”
Phoebe looked at Miss Prine.
“Then I can love Papa forever?”
“Yes.”
That answer seemed important.
She hugged the repaired doll.
“And I can love other people too?”
Caleb met her eyes.
“Yes, Phoebe.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
By the third week, trouble arrived.
A black carriage rolled into Caleb's yard carrying Horace Pike, the county's appointed guardian administrator, and a stern woman named Mrs. Eugenia Bell.
Caleb recognized trouble immediately.
Pike entered without removing his hat.
“I've received word concerning the Lund child.”
Caleb crossed his arms.
“From whom?”
“County board.”
Phoebe was in her room.
Caleb hoped she couldn't hear.
Pike continued, “A single traveling cattleman is not an appropriate permanent guardian for a young girl.”
“I never said permanent.”
“Precisely.”
Mrs. Bell cleared her throat.
“I operate a children's home in Lincoln.”
Caleb's stomach tightened.
“Lincoln?”
“She would receive structure, schooling, companionship.”
“She's five.”
“Which is exactly why stability matters.”
Caleb stepped closer.
“She watched her father die without understanding what happened and survived alone for three days. She finally sleeps through most nights. You're proposing hauling her two hundred miles away from everybody she recognizes.”
Mrs. Bell remained composed.
“You are not family.”
The words landed harder than Caleb expected.
“I know.”
Pike unfolded a paper.
“Unless a qualified blood relative appears or someone petitions for guardianship under acceptable household conditions, Phoebe Lund will be transferred next Wednesday.”
From the hallway came a tiny sound.
Caleb turned.
Phoebe stood there.
She had heard everything.
“Transferred means sent away?”
Mrs. Bell smiled.
“It means going somewhere with other children.”
Phoebe looked at Caleb.
“Are you coming?”
No one answered.
Her face changed.
“You promised.”
Caleb crossed the room.
“Phoebe—”
“You promised I wouldn't be alone!”
“You won't be.”
“You won't be there!”
She ran to her room.
The door slammed.
Mrs. Bell sighed.
“Attachment is precisely what complicates informal arrangements.”
Caleb turned so sharply Pike stepped backward.
“Get out.”
Pike frowned.
“Morgan—”
“Both of you.”
After they left, Caleb sat outside Phoebe's door.
He did not knock.
For nearly an hour, neither spoke.
Finally a tiny voice came through the wood.
“Did Papa know they'd send me away?”
“No.”
“Would he let them?”
“No.”
“Will you?”
Caleb closed his eyes.
“I don't know how to stop them.”
Silence.
Then the door opened.
Phoebe's eyes were swollen.
“Then learn.”
Caleb stared at her.
Something about the simplicity of those two words changed everything.
Then learn.
Caleb had learned to break horses.
Learned cattle.
Learned how to rebuild after drought.
Learned how to live after burying the woman he loved.
Surely he could learn this.
He stood.
“All right.”
Phoebe blinked.
“All right what?”
“I'll learn.”
The next morning Caleb rode to Deshler and walked into attorney George Whitcomb's office.
Whitcomb listened quietly.
“You want guardianship?”
“I want her not sent to Lincoln.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
Caleb said nothing.
Whitcomb leaned back.
“The court will ask whether you intend to provide a permanent home.”
Caleb thought of Phoebe asleep with Miss Prine beneath her chin.
He thought of the flowers on his table.
The extra cup.
The laughter that now existed inside rooms silent for seven years.
Finally he answered.
“Yes.”
Whitcomb studied him.
“You understand what permanent means?”
“I do now.”
But convincing the court would not be easy.
Because somebody else had just learned that Anders Lund was dead.
And that somebody was already headed toward Nebraska with a very different plan for Phoebe.