April 1st, 1880

A couple of hours later, we arrived at our ranch. Chavez got out of the wagon first, scooped me up in his arms, and gently lowered me to the ground. He unhitched the horse and took the reins in his hands, leading her to the barn and out of sight. Cy slowly clambered down from the wagon, his arms laden with my purchases.

"It's nice of you to offer, but I can take my things in later," I said. "Let's go take a look at that eye."

I walked Cy into the parlor and stood him in front of the ornate wall mirror. I carefully slid his spectacles off his face, laying them on a table for safekeeping, then I leaned toward him to get a better look. The injury was nastier than I'd originally thought; only a small portion of his eyebrow was completely intact and the cut was deep. I moved to a nearby cabinet and collected my sewing basket and a bottle of whiskey. I decided to patch Cy up on the porch, where I would have an easier time seeing. Poor little Cy was blind as a bat without his glasses, so I had to shepherd him outside. I sat him down on an old barrel and uncorked the whiskey.

"Keep your eyes closed," I instructed. I knew the stuff would probably burn his eyes if it got in them and so I rinsed the cut with great care. Then I threaded the needle. "This is probably going to hurt," I warned him. "But whatever you do, don't move."

I put a hand on top of his head to keep him in place and put the needle to his skin. Cy's behavior as I worked was eerie; he didn't wince when the needle went in or cry out when I started to sew. He sat like a statue, just taking everything. After what seemed to be hours of painstaking effort, the gash was closed, and because I'd used brown thread, you could hardly tell the stitches were there at all.

I took Cy back to the mirror, wiped the streak of blood off his glasses, and replaced them on his nose. Cy gaped at his reflection, apparently stunned by my handiwork. I dipped my hand into one of the brown paper bags from the store, producing a toffee wrapped in sticky paper. I presented it to Cy as a reward for his endurance of pain.

"Thank you, Mrs. Chavez," he said, toying uncertainly with the candy's wrapping.

"You're not hurt anywhere else, are you?" I asked, just to double-check.

Cy shook his head. "No, ma'am."

"Well, since you hit your head, I think it'd be a good idea for you to rest." I said. "Just lay down on that sofa out there and yell if you need me."

Cy obediently left the kitchen. I went back to the wagon to collect the food I'd purchased, only to discover Chavez had already unloaded everything and brought it to the pantry. I returned to the kitchen, made the dough for the dumplings, then started to core and peel a bushel of apples. I was concentrating so intensely that I jumped a mile when Chavez's face appeared in the kitchen window.

"Querida," he said. "Where do you want me to put this?" He held up a freshly dressed sage hen.

"Get a fire going and put it on the spit, I guess," I replied. "Think I should start some potatoes, rice, corn, and bread?"

"No sense in doing that much cooking for three people."

"Yeah, but Cy looks like he hasn't eaten in a while," I pointed out. "What if the sage hen isn't enough?"

"Cross that river when you get to it, Querida." he said, walking away toward the fire pit.

I looked up at the sky, which was starting to turn orange. If we were going to have milk with our supper, I'd have to make a trip to the barn quickly. I dreaded going out there. I got on fine with most animals, but I hated our milk cow. She was downright mean and ornery. Almost every time I milked her, no matter how gentle I was, she'd try to kick. As I dragged my stool and bucket toward her, she mooed nastily, like she always did.

"Don't make this any harder than it has to be," I said, pointing my finger at that cow.

She lost interest in me and started to eat some hay. I grasped her udder and tugged. Milk poured into the bucket, and the cow kept eating. I tried to hurry along before she finished the hay. Even though she bucked and stomped a little, I managed to keep most of the milk in the bucket. Proud of myself, I carried the bucket to the house and emptied it into a pitcher. I mashed some potatoes and put the dumplings in the oven. Once the table was set, I poked my head into the parlor to check up on Cy. He was resting comfortably on the sofa, busily reading the five-cent book he'd been so absorbed in at the train station.

"Are you doing all right in here, Cy?" I asked. He nodded. "Can I get you anything?" He shook his head. I glanced at the table beside him and noticed the toffee I'd given him was sitting there, still in its wrapper.

That was definitely odd. Most children I knew would have eaten the toffee immediately, then begged for a second piece. But maybe the kid just wasn't hungry. I shrugged it off and settled myself in an easy chair with one of John's massive leatherbound books. Reading was always a good way to pass the time when I had to wait for things to finish cooking...

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"Is something burning?" Cy's voice jerked me out of a trance.

I dashed into the kitchen and yanked the pan of dumplings out of the oven. I let out a discouraged sigh; they were darker than I ordinarily liked them to be. I let them cool a while, then decided to sample a dumpling to make sure they would taste all right. I took a bite of one. A little crispy, but still delicious.

"That smells wonderful," said Cy wistfully, leaning in the kitchen doorway.

"Have a taste then," I said. "I bet you're starved."

"No. I mean, yes. I mean...I am hungry, but...I really couldn't," Cy stammered. "I-I'd spoil my supper."

And I thought Dick Brewer had been uptight. I held the tray out to Cy and gave him a cheery wink. "I won't tell if you won't."

Hesitantly, Cy reached toward the tray. He picked up one of the dumplings and took a tiny bite off the corner. He must have thought it was good because he shoved the rest of it in his mouth at once. "These are good," he declared through his mouthful. His expression turned sheepish and he swallowed. "Sorry."

"Don't be," I said through the rest of my own dumpling.

Chavez came inside a few minutes later, bearing the sage hen. He too grabbed a dumpling from the tray. After another two dumplings each, the three of us sat down to eat the rest of our meal. Cy fell asleep almost immediately after cleaning his plate; it must have been a long time since he'd had a meal and actually felt full. Chavez and I tucked him into John's old bed, then went next door to our room.