The crowd was small, but it represented almost all the settlers for a good twenty miles or so. There were few people in these parts; the Indians had only recently been subdued and the land opened for settlers. It was good country, though, and a few hardy, longheaded men could see the potential. The hard work of pioneering called not just for strength but for a willingness to stand by the few neighbors you had, whatever their blemishes. The lady--for this was a polite country already and even women with work-reddened hands were acknowledged as ladies if their behavior warranted it--was only a little known. She'd seemed a little high-strung for this hard life, but a good enough sort, and in a circle this small the loss of even a weak link was a loss to be felt.

The chief mourner was a middle-aged man, his hair grizzled and gray to the point you couldn't be sure what color it had been when he was young. He was a big man, barrel-chested and only just now going a little to fat. He was dressed in a proper suit and topcoat, but he had the air of a man who would turn his hand to physical labor without fuss or strain. At his side was a small boy, his blond hair ruffled by the wind and his eyes tearing a little from the same. He looked only just old enough to put on a pair of long pants, and those long pants were obviously new, perhaps bought just for this occasion. Yes, the wind made his eyes tear a little, but otherwise he was brave about it, and his solemn expression was a copy of the man's. Behind them both stood a black woman, a rarity in these parts. Of all the mourners she was the only one who wept openly.

Before going on to the formal rites, the parson said a few personal words. Among the mourners he'd probably known the lady best, for she had a religious turn and she'd sought out a preacher's guidance on more than one occasion. All the signs were that the lady and her family were good Godly people and prospering accordingly, though the parson had caught the scent that perhaps the lady was more troubled than her outward show let on. But he mentioned none of that. He mentioned the long illness--no one here had ever known her not ill--borne with such Christian spirit, the loving care shown to her only child and any of the other neighbor children who'd passed through her home. God had no finer crown to set on a woman's head than that of maternal warmth and the dear departed had had that in abundance.

Then the proper words were said and a simple hymn sung, though the wind swallowed up the few voices. Two men moved in with shovels and began filling in the hole. No one thought the boy was too young to stand by and hear the clods dropping, too young to see his mother swallowed up by that dark ground. This was a hard world, and it was a rare child who made it to manhood without doing some time by a grave side, of a parent or a brother or sister or playmate. These things had to be accepted, and the sooner the better. Maybe Back East folks were all soft and sentimental about children, but Out Here children had hard rows to hoe, just like everyone else.

Afterwards there was food and some visiting at the house. It was a small house but a real one of stone and wood, just raised a year ago, not a soddy like most other places out here. The wood had to be carted in and the stones gathered one by one. The house, like the man's topcoat, set the little family apart. As far as anyone could see the family had come out here with nothing, just like most of the other settlers, except that black servant. But folks agreed the man was a hard worker and a damned smart one, too. He was already moving ahead of his neighbors.

It was not just the house and the topcoat. The man was a little older than most of the new settlers and he had an intelligence and experience that most of them lacked. He didn't seek out his neighbors but increasingly they sought him as a man whose words were few but useful. They sought him out but didn't make free with him, and even in this setting they were careful to call him Mister Thomson, a formality few others received.

The meal had been laid on by the black woman, but she didn't mix with the visitors, sitting quietly in a corner, still dabbing at her eyes with a snowy white apron. The settlers had looked on her with suspicion at first; they were free soilers, mostly, and worried about the contagion of slavery spoiling this new country. But her situation had been made clear; she was a servant, no more, and the family held no more truck with bondage than anyone else in these parts. Her devotion to the dear departed had been widely known and grudgingly admired. From time to time she left off her silent weeping to search out the boy. In the early hours he'd done his crying on her lap, but she was proud to see that he was acting rightly now, dry-eyed and quiet and polite.

The food was eaten, a few more words of condolence were muttered, and the crowd dispersed. Most of them had long rides and chores waiting at the end. This wasn't a convivial house at the best of times; the folk had kept mostly to themselves. What might have been called standoffishness in better times now seemed proper in a house of mourning.

It was a house of mourning, but even here there were chores. The black woman began clearing the remnants of the funeral victuals, the boy went out to gather cowpats for fuel, and the man went to check on his animals.

It was Hannah's custom--the servant's name was Hannah--to sing about her chores. Often the two ladies of the household had sung together. They had included a few popular songs in their repertoire, but they'd generally favored hymns. The memory of those times kept Hannah silent now, for she felt raising her voice in song, even to the Lord, so soon after her friend--for the lady had been her friend, never her master--had passed wouldn't be fitting. It would be far too lonely.

How Miss Leah had longed for a real house! Miss Leah--that had been the lady's name--had been a lady, a real lady, not used to the rough ways Out Here. For five years they had lived in a soddy, with the constant dirt and the damp. Miss Leah had never complained, but every so often, when the master wasn't about, she'd sigh and the two women would reminisce about houses they had known and seen. Mister Thomson had promised them a real house, and whatever else you might say about Mister Thomson, he kept his word. Over the years an impressive pile of stones had grown by the soddy, as he cleared more and more fields, foraged far and wide for more. When the pile was at last big enough he'd sent away for the wood. But by that time the dirt and the damp had done its work on Miss Leah, and she didn't enjoy her new house for long.

Of course the house was still raw and empty-looking. Mister Thomson had made most of the furniture, and he was a good workman, what he built stayed built, but it was plain and not overabundant. It lacked the little touches by which a woman made a house a home. Hannah wondered if there would be a new lady of the house. Mister Thomson would be a catch, with this fine--fine by the standards of Out Here--new house and all those animals. Folks said Mister Thomson would end his days a rich man, and Hannah didn't doubt it. But she doubted if there'd be a new Miss in the house anytime soon. Mister Thomson had been a good enough husband; but he'd be free now to put all his hours into his crops and his animals and Hannah fancied he'd prefer it that way.

That was perhaps mean. Hannah had her doubts about Mister Thomson--had always had them. A man who begins by getting a lady with child and then taking her far from home because he's in trouble with the law--it was not a good beginning. And around here folks had treated them like a married couple, but Hannah knew Miss Leah's secret and shame, that they'd never stood before a preacher and had the proper words said.

Yes, he'd brought Miss Leah Out Here, when she was so frail, and he'd never done the right thing by her. But he'd been good to her. There had always been a roof over their heads, even if it was a dirt one, and food on the table, and warm clothes against these cold winds. And this house. Lately there had been talk of more good things. And it was not just that Mister Thomson was good at putting food on the table. To others he seemed a hard man, but he'd always shown Miss Leah all the kindness and consideration a woman could ask from a man. If he did not show that to anyone else, well, Hannah had no complaint, for it was Miss Leah who mattered.

Yet Hannah had her doubts. They had never spoken of them, but she couldn't help wondering if Miss Leah had had them too. Miss Leah was as innocent as a little child, but she wasn't foolish. They'd run away from Strawberry because Mister Thomson had said he had trouble with the law. Thomson wasn't even his name, it was Miss Leah's, but it was easy to remember and convenient when Miss Leah slipped and called him Tom.

He'd said trouble with the law. But even Out Here the law never came looking for him. And it was hard to believe of Mister Thomson. He was sober and hardworking and Godfearing in his way. To see him hard at work from sunup til sundown, never drinking or swearing or gambling or staying away nights, speaking gently to Miss Leah, a body was hard-put to imagine this man on the wrong side of the law. Perhaps he'd had a wayward youth, but he'd already not been so young when he'd met Miss Leah, and Hannah suspicioned that the man hadn't ever been wayward.

It was full dark now, and Hannah laid on supper, leftovers from this afternoon, for Mister Thomson was a frugal man and you didn't waste good food because it had sad memories for you. Out of habit Hannah laid three places.

The boy came in, carrying an armful, and filled the scuttle. He stood by the fire, stamping his feet and clapping his hands for warmth. The man came in just after him. "Why aren't you wearing your gloves?" the man asked, for the boy's hands were red with cold.

"They're too small."

The man frowned. "I wish you'd mentioned it sooner. I could have gotten you some new ones last month."

"They won't too small then."

"They weren't," the man corrected. "They weren't too small. You must have picked that up at school. You must be more careful. A man is judged by his speech. Get washed up. Supper's getting cold."

The boy went to wash his hands, but when he came back he just stood at the table, not moving.

"Well?" Mister Thomson said. "Sit down." But then he realized the boy was looking at the third plate. It was on the tip of his tongue to rebuke the boy for being weak, but he stopped. He was only six, and he had been close to his mother. For a time Mister Thomson had worried about that, worried that the boy would grow up soft and weak. Apparently it had done him no harm. The boy had been gentle and sweet to his mother, but he was handy with his chores, and around other boys he seemed as rough and eager as any six-year-old. Mister Thomson thought his boy had behaved very well today. He hadn't begrudged the boy his tears this morning. It was a hard loss for them all, even if not unexpected. But the boy had done him proud today, straight and quiet at the funeral and polite to the visitors afterwards.

Mister Thomson got up himself and took away the extra place setting. When Hannah realized what she'd done she turned away, her eyes full of tears. He went back to the boy, whose lip was trembling. "I miss her," the boy said.

Hugging and kissing and comforting had been Leah's province. He had tended to treat the boy like a little adult; he knew no other way. He knew little about what the boy thought or felt, if he had any particular hopes or ambitions. Yet this child had changed the whole course of his life.

His love for Leah Thomson had caught him unawares, and he had behaved badly. He had always admitted that if sin had been committed it had been his. He had never told Leah the truth; he had hoped he would never have to. But then Leah was with child, this child, and he was left with an agonizing choice. Back in Stockton he had left a wife and two children. But he'd also left a fine nest egg, and Victoria was a woman capable of facing down just about anything. She could manage the farm and the boys on her own. Leah--Leah was fragile and gentle and innocent. Left on her own, left with an illegitimate child to raise, she would falter. And the child--what would happen to the child?

He had never resented or blamed the child. Still, he'd been more comfortable leaving the boy to Leah. And the boy brought such joy to Leah. He was the only child; no others came after him. Whatever else Leah had to bear--the uncertainty, the early fear that the law would take her man away, the terrible hardships of life Out Here--the child had made all those burdens light. She had been a good wife, if one unsuited to the place he brought her, but she had been a wonderful mother. The joy and the comfort mother and child took and gave to each other was enough to restore even a jaded man's sentiment.

This child, then, was the pivot on which his whole life had turned. He might be a prosperous rancher and businessman in Stockton, owner of a gold mine, father of two fine boys and who knew how many more? Instead he was an anonymous Mister Thomson, making his fortune all over again in Nebraska. After nearly seven years he still did not see how he could have done anything differently.

But there was the boy to be dealt with. He realized he would have to be mother and father both to the boy; he was young yet. He said, simply, truthfully, "I miss her too."

"Is she in Heaven, Father?"

"Yes, of course," he said. Was she? Leah had not known she was an adulterer. Or had she? In all those years, had she ever wondered, ever doubted? She was not a stupid woman. He knew any parson would say Leah was damned, and he was, and the child, too, because he had a wife and children elsewhere. Leah, damned? This boy, who had his own blue eyes and his mother's generous nature, damned? He refused to believe it. No wonder folks who had too much truck with religion ended up weak-headed. He certainly didn't want the boy to spend his time worrying about such things. "Of course she is," he said firmly.

The boy was accustomed to taking his father's word as Gospel, because that was how his mother took it, and he was old enough to feel the solid intelligence behind his father's word. The certainty comforted him now, but he was six, and his mother was dead, and it was not enough. Mama or Hannah had always been the one to pet him, soothe him, comfort him. Now, though, he went to his father and threw his arms around him.

The boy had grown this winter, he was as lanky and leggy as a newborn foal. Mister Thomson patted the boy's thin shoulder, even brushed back the bright hair as he'd seen Leah do. Then, when the boy seemed quieter, he said, "Now, Heath, it's time for supper."

The boy nodded, smiled his mother's shy smile because Father had not shooed him away. Losing Mama was the worst thing he could imagine, but he did not feel so alone. Obediently he took his place at the table at his father's right hand.

Mister Thomson--in another country and another life his name had been Thomas Barkley--said a brief blessing over the supper over of leftovers, and he and his son Heath ate them.