Beaner jumped gracefully to the ground, though he’d been riding for hours, and started talking to the horses in a soothing Spanish murmur.

Unconscious of the men around her, Sarah held tight to the door for support and gazed on her only child. He was slender and pale and perfectly formed. There was little childish softness to his solemn face, and his young body was firm and well defined. Margaret had dressed him in short pants and a jacket of black broadcloth. Both were rumpled and dirty from the long journey. Beside him on the seat, a large bundle of letters tied up with twine served as an armrest.

“Matthew,” Sarah whispered, her hand out in a gentle unfinished gesture.

“I’m to ask for Mrs. Ebbitt,” the child said, and pulled the lapel of his jacket forward to show Sarah the note pinned there. “Gramma T. said to give this to Mrs. Ebbitt.” At the mention of his grandmother the little boy started to sniffle.

Liam grunted. “Boy’s right as rain for umpteen hours. Show him a petticoat and he goes watery at the knees.” Karl nodded absently, his attention fixed on the odd little drama.

Sarah leaned into the coach to unpin the note, her hands trembling as she lay her fingers on the curve of the child’s cheek for an instant before grappling with the pin. She brought it out into the light where she could read it:

Sarah, this is Matthew. I’ve done the best I knew how and he’s a good boy. I saved all the letters you wrote him but I never read any to him. I felt I was doing wrong to read them, as Sam told Mattie you were dead and Sam would’ve been against it. Things turning out as they did I don’t know that I did right but it’s done. I sent the letters with Mattie.

Love, Mam

Sarah read the note again and handed it wordlessly to Karl.

The sober little face stared at her expectantly from behind the stack of letters, years of her heart drawn into lines on paper-her relationship with her son, sealed and tied up with string. She put out her hand and he took it politely.

“I’m Mrs. Ebbitt,” she said.

“After Papa died, Gramma T. said Mrs. Ebbitt was my mother and that’s why she had the same name as me.” Matthew eyed her suspiciously.

“God bless Mam,” Sarah said.

“Papa said my mother was dead.”

“Come on out now, we’ll talk later,” Sarah said. He clutched his packet of letters as she lifted him down from the coach. “You’re quite a big boy.” She held him a moment longer, then released him. “You hungry?” He nodded. “Let’s see about getting you something to eat.”

Karl followed them with his eyes, the woman and the child, walking slightly apart, neither of them talking.

“For an old bachelor you’re quite a family man,” Liam teased.

“It’s beginning to look that way, isn’t it?”

Sarah tucked the covers around Matthew’s chin. Supper was over and the sun was setting. He squirmed from under them; the evening was too hot for covers. Sarah reached for them again, nervously, but stopped herself and folded her hands in her lap. A mosquito whined somewhere in the room.

“Can we talk now?” Matthew asked.

“We can talk now.”

“Papa said my mother was dead.” It was a challenge.

“She’s not. I’m not. I had to go away when you were a baby. But I didn’t die.”

“Why did you go away?”

“I was-I was very sick,” Sarah said slowly.

“And Papa thought you died.”

“Maybe he did.”

“Papa died.”

“I know, honey.” Sarah’s voice broke and she smiled tenderly at the small face on the pillow. Her hand strayed to smooth an errant lock from his temple. “Do you miss him a lot?”

“Sometimes. I live with Gramma T. I miss Gramma and Aunt Gracie and Lizbeth.”

“I do too. Gramma T. is my mam, my mother.”

“She’s Aunt Gracie’s mother.” Suspicion clouded his eyes.

“And Aunt Lizbeth’s and Walter’s and mine. We’re all brothers and sisters.”

He thought that over for a while. “You’re my mother.”

“That’s right.”

“You were never at our house.”

Sarah looked through swimming eyes and bit her underlip until her teeth made a white crescent in the ruddy flesh. “I wrote you.” It was difficult to speak around the lump in her throat. “I wrote you a little every day because I missed you so much I was afraid I would go crazy. Imogene was afraid.”

“Who’s Imogene?”

“A friend. She died.” The tears spilled over her lashes and down the side of her nose. “Once a week I sent you the letters. Every week since I-since I got sick and had to go away. Your grandma saved the letters for you so you would know me and know I loved you. Love you.”

She was quiet for a long time, crying.

“Mrs. Ebbitt, you can read me from the letters if you want to,” he said at last.

Sarah smiled and touched his hair. “I’d like that.”

She read him two letters, the first two she had sent. One was in Imogene’s bold hand and Imogene’s straightforward sentences. The other was in such a shaky, spidery hand that she stumbled in the reading. Matthew listened, quiet and solemn-eyed.

Finished, she smoothed the dark fringe from his forehead. “I’m your mother, Matthew. I love you very much. Good night.” She kissed him lightly, resting her cheek against his.

“Good night, Mrs. Ebbitt.”

Sarah closed the door to his room and stayed leaning against it, the strength drained out of her. Through the wood she could hear the smothered weeping of a homesick child.

Karl was by a window, the sash thrown open to let in the night breeze. He wore reading spectacles and was poring over an old book of sonnets by the light of a lamp. Sarah heaved a sigh and dropped into the chair opposite. He closed the book and took off his glasses.

Sarah smiled. “I read him the first two letters I wrote, and I told him I’d written every day. Then he said, ‘Good night, Mrs. Ebbitt.’ ”

“It will take a while.”

“I know. I want to hug him. I feel like I could just crush him into me. His little face is so dear.”

Karl levered himself out of his chair. “Driving the wagon stiffens me up,” he groaned. They walked to the porch and stood together, watching the moon rise over the mountains. Floating on the horizon, it seemed to take up most of the sky.

Sarah threaded her arm through Karl’s and rested her head on his shoulder. He started to pull away. “Liam and Beaner are playing cards upstairs,” Sarah said. “They won’t be down again tonight.”

He let her stay. “You’re shaking.” He put his hand over hers. “Anyone would think you had gone up against a bobcat, not a little boy.”

Sarah laughed and pressed his hand to her heart. “My heart’s jumping like a rabbit’s. Feel.”

He pulled her to him, kissing her upturned face, her forehead, her nose, her parted lips. Her breath escaped in a sigh and he held her close.

“I want you with me tonight,” Sarah said.

“I want to stay, but we have guests. No eyes for a hundred miles, remember. Dizable & Denning could cancel the lease on moral grounds if they wanted to-the widow Ebbitt living in sin with the hired man.”

“Damn them!” Sarah muttered.

“Who?”

“Everybody.”

He kissed Sarah again, and suddenly it was Karl who was trembling. He held her away from him. “I’d best go to the barn before I forget I’m a gentleman.” Sarah put out her hand but he was already down the steps.