July 27, 1875

What a week this has been.

Brigs, as usual, has been working himself to the bone making sure the ranch is in fine form. He’s been working the cattle and looking toward a drive this fall. I know last year he took them west to El Paso, but he ended up staying a couple of weeks trying to get a decent price. This year, we’d talked about maybe heading toward the San Antonio/Stockdale area to see if he might have better luck there.

It’s a gamble every time he rounds up the herd and heads out. There’s no guarantee he’ll get a fair price, and the dangers along the trail are considerable.

Last year’s drive was the first—and it came right on the heels of having the twins. At that time, it was just the twins and Jadon. I would sit in the rocker, nursing one child, rocking the crib with the other using my foot, while Jadon played on the floor nearby. And all the while, I whispered prayers for their father.

The words that came to mind were from my own childhood: Shomer Yisrael, shemor she’erit Yisrael—Guardian of Israel, guard the remnant of Israel. I know Brigs would laugh if he knew what I prayed. He’d probably ask me who I was calling a “remnant,” and then add that he felt like one by the time he got back to the Valley.

The children are all in fine form. When I think back to before we adopted Xavier, Joseph, and Ember, it feels like another life—though they’ve only been with us full-time since this past winter. Was it January when Elle first asked us to look after them? And to think, this time last year, Elle had not yet even adopted Ember. Granted, the boys—Xavier and Joseph—spent as much time here as they did with their mother, but Elle was trying not to lean on us so heavily during those last months of my pregnancy.

I went into town yesterday and stopped by the stage station to see if any riders had brought letters. I was happy to find one from Dr. Kani, inquiring after the children. She must’ve written it the moment she got back to Stockdale and sent it out with the first rider she could find. I walked right over to the café and wrote her back on the spot, to go out with the next rider.

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Sent by rider from West Texas, through San Antonio, to Stockdale, Texas.

Dear Dr. Kani,

I want to thank you once again for making the arduous journey out to Scorpion Valley. I know the coach ride could not have been easy, yet you bore it with such grace that one would hardly have known the toll it took. I was — and remain — suitably impressed.

I’m writing now to give you an update on the children.

Jadon’s ears seem much improved. He’s no longer tugging at them, which is a blessing. It was a bit of a trial getting him to sit still for the ear drops — I confess I resorted to bribery, that most reliable weapon in a mother’s arsenal. I promised him he could help raise the next kid our nanny goat, Petunia, brings into the world. That was enough to get him to sit still as anything — so still, in fact, I nearly checked his forehead to see if he had a fever from behaving so well.

Joseph and Xavier are both doing nicely, though I suspect Xavier may have developed a small crush. He keeps asking when “the Miss Doctor” will return, and when we pass through town, he always peers into the clinic window, looking for you.

The twins are thriving. They still sleep curled up together as they did in their cradle, which is sweet to see — though I would be grateful for any advice on how to begin weaning them apart. I fear if I move David to the boys’ room too suddenly, it may be too great a shock for him.

And now, to the main purpose of this letter: our Ember Joy.

I’ve made a point to spend time playing with her each day, and then turning to the twins, so that everything appears natural and no child feels singled out — least of all Ember. She seems to hear well. She turns toward me when I speak, and often tries to answer back with her baby sounds. There’s a fair bit of babbling, and now and then I catch something that almost resembles the sounds I’ve just made. It may be wishful thinking, but it feels as though she is truly trying.

Her hands are nimble — once she’s managed to get hold of a toy, she’ll turn it over, tap it, try to stack it, or, G‑d bless her, put it straight in her mouth. I’ve also begun placing toys just out of reach, as you suggested. The concern that troubles me is this: she doesn’t always seem to see the toy, or at least, not well enough to know just where it is. Often she’ll reach beside it or pat the blanket near it. If it’s a dull-colored toy, and even just a little distance away, she sometimes acts as though it’s vanished altogether.

It pains me to say it, but I find myself wondering whether she sees as she ought. My husband says I’m fussing — and perhaps I am — but I cannot shake the feeling. I don’t know what can be done in a child so young, or whether there is even a way to find out. Still, I thought it right to tell you what I’ve noticed.

Please do let us know if you plan a return visit to the Valley. You are more than welcome to stay longer than a night if you wish — though I’m sure your patients in Stockdale miss you sorely when you’re away.

Thank you again for your kind attention to all the children.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs. Miryam Pinkerton

Scorpion Valley, Texas

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There was also a telegram waiting from Pinkerton Detective Bart Olbers—sent all the way from South America.

Mr. Olbers is an interesting one. He works for Brigs’ father, which keeps things tense at times. He first came to the Valley trying to convince Brigs to return to Chicago and take over the Pinkerton Agency. Brigs was emphatic that would never happen. He told Mr. Olbers, and I quote, that history would remember William and Robert as Allan Pinkerton’s only sons.

And yet, for reasons known only to him, Bart stayed. He bought a little house down by the river and set up a small Pinkerton office in town. He still travels often—back to Chicago or off to undisclosed places—but he always finds his way back here.

Whenever he does go to Chicago, he brings back letters from Brigs’ mother. The most recent was one she dictated to Mr. Olbers:

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Dear Brigs and Miryam,

Mr. Olbers was kind enough to take down this letter at my dictation, as I am not doing well. My eyesight has grown poor, and the arthritis makes it difficult to write.

It seems each day brings some new little ailment. Your father is busy with the Agency and has little time for me now.

I have yet to meet my grandchildren, or my daughter-in-law. Mr. Olbers suggested I consider coming to Texas. I would very much like to—though I confess, I’m anxious about the journey. He assures me it is quite manageable by rail, and has even offered to accompany me.

So I have decided to come. The next time Mr. Olbers is in Chicago for a meeting, he will take me to Texas.

With love,

Your mother

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When Brigs heard his mother might be coming to Texas, his first thought was that we might need a bigger house. His second was how on earth to explain the crypt he built for Elle. “It would kill her,” he said, “to know her husband stepped out on her.” Part of me believes she already knew who her husband truly is. But I agreed with Brigs—we don’t need to put it in her face.

When Bart brought that letter, Brigs hired him to find out what he could about what happened to Elle. Bart started drafting a formal contract, but Brigs stopped him cold. He said nothing was to be in writing. He was afraid that if his father ever caught wind of Elle’s existence, he’d do something drastic to erase what he might see as a stain on his reputation. Brigs paid him five thousand coin, in cash, and swore him to secrecy.

This week, we got a telegram:

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

MONTEVIDEO POST OFFICE

DATE: 12 JULY 1875

SENDER: BART OLBERS

RECEIVER: PINKERTON FAMILY, SCORPION VALLEY, TX

MESSAGE:

ARRIVED AT MONTEVIDEO - STOP - WILL INTERVIEW CREW AND CAPTAIN SHIP - STOP - RESULTS WILL FOLLOW - MESSAGE ENDS -

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

When I showed it to Brigs after he came in from the range, he grew solemn and said only, “She’s gone. I can’t feel her anymore.” It’s a strange way to put it, but I understood.

And all I can say to that—just as I always do when I think of her—is the blessing I was taught to say when there are no answers:

Baruch Dayan HaEmet.

May the Judge of Truth hold her gently, wherever she is.

The next couple of weeks will keep us busy, no doubt. The heat of August is settling in, and with it comes all the work that needs doing before fall. The children are growing like weeds, the animals don’t know the meaning of rest, and Brigs is already talking about preparations for the drive. I can feel the rhythm of the Valley shifting, pressing us forward even when we’re still catching our breath from the last thing. But that’s the way of it out here—and somehow, we keep up.