May 26, 1875

It’s been a busy week so far in the Valley.

Over the weekend, some workers Brigs hired out of El Paso came and built a crypt near the cliffs closer to the house than the barn. There’s a marker now — it reads Elle Pinkerton, the name she was denied in life but now bears in death. Brigs had it commissioned that way. Quietly, respectfully, with no fanfare.

I took the boys down with me and they “helped” while I planted sunflowers. They were Elle’s favorite. The ground was dry and stubborn, but we got them in. The boys were solemn for once, helping me press the seeds in and cover them up with their little hands. Xavier asked if sunflowers go to Heaven when they die. I told him, I think maybe they just bloom again in a better place.

Then — some brighter news. Evelyn, who first joined our wagon train back in Colorado but never truly settled, has finally decided to put down roots here in the Valley. Over this past year and a half, she’s become like family to us. I call her Ima — Hebrew for mother — and she’s taken to letting the children call her Oma.

She spoke to Brigs and asked if she could stay close, especially for the sake of the little ones. Brigs didn’t hesitate. He fixed her up with a small house just beside the gates of the ranch. As the last boards were nailed in place, he turned to me with a grin and said, “Well, I guess your mother did find us out here after all.”

I’ve been busy as ever in the shop, working on dresses for the girls. Every spare moment finds me behind the machine or bent over a hem. Brigs has taken to fetching me home when he returns from the range, teasing that he needs to check my mouth for pins before he dares kiss me.

And Monday — now there was a storm if ever there was one.

It came thundering down from the mountains in the dead of night, rolling over the Valley like the wrath of Sinai. The thunder shook the rafters; the wind rattled the shutters like they meant to fly clear off. I woke straight out of sleep, heart pounding.

Brigs saddled up and rode out before first light to check the herd and run the fence line. With sleep gone, I made my way down to the kitchen. When rest won’t come, I cook — or sew. And with that storm still growling, I longed for comfort. So I peeled and shredded potatoes by lantern light and made latkes.

By sunrise, the worst had passed. The clouds hung low, and the morning was heavy with damp. Joseph toddled in rubbing his eyes, curls wild, and I half expected his brothers to come clomping in behind him. I laid out slices of beef bacon, hoping the smell would draw them like usual — but no sign.

I asked Joseph where his brothers were. He just grinned that wicked little grin of his and said, “Scorpin no talk.”

Curse Brigs and his outlaw stories.

I left Jazmine with Joseph and went hunting. Their room was empty, window still latched, but the back door hung open. Outside, muddy little boot prints led across the yard and down toward the livestock pens.

I found them crouched behind the goat shelter, soaked through and caked in mud, shivering but smiling proud. I asked what they were doing.

Xavier — all three-and-a-half years of him — stood up tall and declared, “Billy and Petunia were scared for their babies in the storm… so we come.”

I swallowed hard, trying not to laugh or cry. I told them they were real ranchers now — that their daddy had ridden out in the same storm to check the cattle. I praised them for going together, reminded them you never head out in weather like that alone. But I said next time, they had to tell someone where they were headed. That’s how you survive out here.

Jadon looked up at me serious as a preacher and said, “But if we tell, you stop us. You say not safe.”

He wasn’t wrong.

So I told him, “Sometimes Mama says not safe. But then we work together to find a way to do it safely.”

He nodded, and I marched them home for warm baths and dry clothes.

Later that afternoon, I was in the shop when Brigs came in, sunburned and smiling. He kissed me, and I told him the whole tale.

When I got to the part about Xavier and Jadon sneaking out to guard the goats, he grinned like a boy himself and said, “Sounds good to me.”

When I mentioned Jadon’s cheeky “you’d just say it’s not safe,” he nearly burst. “I AM SO PROUD,” he said, beaming like they’d won a war.

Then I told him what Joseph had said — “Scorpins no tell.” That undid him.

“They’ve listened and learned,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “I couldn’t be prouder.”

Still, I admitted softly that sometimes I worry the boys see me as the one who always says no. That they’ll remember me as the warden, not the warmth.

Brigs pulled me close and said, “They know you love them. But they also need to learn how to survive in this godforsaken land. They don’t see you as the bad guy. They see you as a mother who loves them.”

I leaned into him and let those words settle in. Then we went to hear the boys’ version — which, naturally, involved wild beasts, heroism, and valor of the highest order.

I hope they remember that morning — not the fear or the storm or the scolding, but the courage and the way they stood together.

Oh — one more note.

I was in the café clearing out some of Elle’s old things when I saw a new girl — dressed in far less than polite society would approve. She said she’d just come in on the stage. When I raised an eyebrow, she assured me she hadn’t been dressed like that when she boarded.

I told her plainly the stage driver wouldn’t have let her on if she had.

I don’t begrudge them. Not one of them. I know Brigs would never consort with those girls — and in truth, I feel sorry for most. The world hasn’t been kind, and a girl has to do what she must to survive. If any of them want dresses, I’ll make them. I won’t ask how they got their coin.

Well, back to the shop. These dresses won’t stitch themselves.

— Miryam Pinkerton