In response she pulled the quilts over her head in a recalcitrant snit. She would stay in bed until she died. Why get up? James had not returned, and Sheriff Morris had brought her no good news. No news at all, in fact, though the sheriff had said he would send word. She had anxiously awaited the sound of approaching horse hooves while she slogged through her daily chores in the house and around the barn. But none came. How futile ranching seemed without James. What was the point? Together they had built something worthwhile, they were growing a dream. A livelihood. A legacy. A life. But now the onerous and dirty chores that fell to her alone were only motions to be performed, meaningless tasks she must do to fill the time, to keep the animals fed and milked and safe. Even the thought of breaking soil for her annual vegetable garden gave her no joy as it usually did. Her daffodil silk lay untouched. She would lay out the pattern and cut out her new dress—someday.
