A Cry in the Wilderness
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 13: Building Dreams
The November wind carried the scent of coming snow as Will stood where Tessa used to coordinate the daily work. His breath formed small clouds in the crisp morning air as he surveyed the organized chaos before him. Lumber stacks had grown into towering monuments, and the sound of hammers rang out like a persistent heartbeat across the valley.
Four months had passed since they’d laid Tessa to rest on the hill overlooking the ranch. Four months of learning to carry the weight she’d once shouldered so easily. The grief still hit him at unexpected moments—when he reached for her morning coffee cup, or caught himself turning to ask her opinion on some detail. But the sharp edges of loss had softened into something more manageable, a quiet ache that reminded him daily of what he was building and why.
“Will!” Sarah Jenkins called from the tent area, her voice carrying the authority she’d quietly assumed over domestic operations. “The men will need extra coffee this morning. Temperature dropped considerably overnight.”
He nodded, appreciating how Sarah had stepped into the role without fanfare or drama. Where Tessa had been all efficiency and sharp corners, Sarah brought a nurturing warmth that seemed to wrap around the rough edges of ranch life. She’d organized their tent living into proper familial sections, creating privacy and order where chaos might have reigned. Her influence showed in small ways—cleaner eating areas, mended work clothes, and the way she remembered each man’s preferences for his morning meal.
Cassie Jenkins stayed close to her mother, learning the rhythms of feeding twenty hungry men and keeping supplies organized. At eight years old, she’d developed a quiet competence that reminded Will painfully of Tessa at that age. The girl seemed to understand instinctively what needed doing and did it without being asked.
“Boss,” called Jake Martinez, one of the experienced carpenters he’d hired to winter over. “We’re ready to start the roof sheathing if you want to take a look.”
Will walked toward the house frame, noting how much had changed since summer. The structure rose from its stone foundation like something that had always belonged here. By month’s end, it would be under roof—safe from the snow that would surely come before Christmas.
“Looking good, Jake,” Will said, running his hand along a perfectly fitted joint. “Think we’ll make our deadline?”
“Easy, if the weather holds another two weeks,” Jake replied. “These boys know their trade. Been building in harsh country for years.”
That had been one of Will’s smartest decisions—hiring experienced settlers to stay through the winter rather than trying to rush completion with inexperienced hands. It cost more in wages, but the quality and reliability more than justified the expense. These men understood that prairie winters waited for no one, and they worked with the focused determination of those who’d learned that lesson the hard way.
“Mr. Will!” Tommy Jenkins came running from the horse paddock, his face bright with excitement. “Slim says I’m ready for longer reins today!”
The boy had transformed over these months from a frightened, grieving child into something approaching his natural boyish spirit. Slim’s patient teaching had given Tommy not just riding skills, but a male figure to emulate and learn from. The pinto pony Slim had bought him—a sturdy little paint with a white blaze and intelligent eyes—had become Tommy’s constant companion when not working.
“That so?” Will smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm. “Slim’s a good teacher. You listen to what he tells you.”
Tommy nodded seriously, then ran back toward the paddock where Slim was saddling horses for the day’s work. The relationship between the quiet ranch hand and Sarah’s children had developed naturally, without forced sentiment or awkward declarations. Slim simply stepped into the role of teacher and protector, while Tommy shadowed his every move, absorbing lessons about horses, work, and what it meant to be a man.
Will found Angus sitting on a stump near the main barn construction, whittling and watching the work with the detached interest of someone no longer directly responsible for outcomes. The older man’s health had declined steadily since his recovery from typhoid. Not dramatically—no crisis or emergency—just a gradual diminishing that spoke of a body and spirit ready for rest.
“Morning, Angus,” Will said, settling beside him.
“Aye, morning,” Angus replied without looking up from his whittling. “Good day for raising timbers. The men work well together.”
“They do. You hired good ones.”
Angus nodded slowly. “I did. And you’ve learned to lead them proper. Different from me, but proper.” He paused in his carving. “Your mother would be proud, Will. Proud of the man you’ve become and the way you’ve carried on when everything went sideways.”
The simple statement hit Will harder than expected. Angus rarely spoke of personal things anymore, preferring to watch and observe rather than direct. But his approval meant everything—this man who’d been more father than uncle, who’d guided him from boy to man and now watched him step fully into leadership.
“I’ve been thinking,” Will said carefully, “about the future. About what comes next after we get through winter and start the new year.”
Angus’s hands stilled on his whittling. “Thinking what kind of thoughts?”
“About finding a woman. Someone to share this with.” Will gestured toward the bustling construction. “Someone who understands what we’re building and wants to be part of it.”
“Aye,” Angus said quietly. “That’s right thinking. A man needs a partner for the long haul. And this ranch...” He looked around at the growing structures, the organized work, the sense of permanence settling over everything. “This place deserves a woman’s touch. Deserves children running around and life being lived proper.”
They sat in comfortable silence, watching Jake Martinez and his crew maneuver a heavy beam into position. The work progressed with the steady rhythm of experienced hands, each man knowing his role and executing it without wasted motion.
“White Horse!” Will called to the Lakota who was overseeing the paddock fencing. “You still planning that mustang roundup this week?”
White Horse looked up from the post he was setting. “Weather holds, yes. Canyon’s ready. Gates built strong.” He straightened, wiping sweat despite the cool air. “Good time now. Horses fat from summer grass, not yet scattered by winter storms.”
“I’d like to ride along. Learn the process.”
White Horse nodded approvingly. “Good. Boss should understand horse work. Different from cattle. Different from building. Need different thinking.”
The mustang roundup had been White Horse’s suggestion—a way to add twenty quality horses to their stock without the expense of purchasing trained animals. He’d scouted a three-sided canyon near the Platte River, a natural trap that needed only the addition of swing gates to create a perfect corral for wild horses.
“When do we leave?” Will asked.
“Dawn, two days from now. Six men, good horses, long day’s work.” White Horse smiled slightly. “You watch, you learn, you stay out of the way when horses running wild.”
Will laughed. “Fair enough. I’m there to learn, not to get in anyone’s way.”
That evening, the entire camp gathered around the communal fire pit Sarah had insisted they maintain despite the cold. She’d discovered that the shared meal and conversation time helped knit the diverse group of workers into something approaching a family. Cowboys, carpenters, the Jenkins family, even Angus when his energy allowed—all gathering as darkness fell to share food and stories.
“House should be under roof by Thanksgiving,” Jake Martinez reported, accepting a second helping of Sarah’s venison stew. “Main barn’s ready except for the big doors, and the paddock fencing’s nearly complete.”
“What about the other barns?” Will asked.
“Foundation’s poured for the first one,” replied Pete Kowalski, another of the experienced builders. “Should have it framed before Christmas, closed in by New Year’s. Second barn depends on weather, but we’ll get it done before spring work starts.”
Sarah refilled coffee cups, moving around the circle with the quiet efficiency that had become her trademark. “What about the white fencing for the front perimeter? That seems like a big job.”
“Aye, it is,” said Slim, speaking around a mouthful of cornbread. “But worth doing right. Makes a statement about what kind of place this is.”
Will nodded. The white painted fence around the main compound area had been Tessa’s idea originally—a way to create a civilized, welcoming entrance that spoke of prosperity and permanence. Practical barbed wire would handle the pastures and perimeter, but the front of the ranch deserved something that showed pride in what they’d built.
“We’ll start on it next week,” Will decided. “Soon as the house roof is secure.”
Two days later, Will found himself in the saddle before dawn, riding alongside White Horse and five other experienced horsemen toward the canyon near the Platte River. His breath and his mount’s formed clouds in the frigid air as they moved through the pre-dawn darkness, the only sounds the creak of leather and the soft thud of hooves on frozen ground.
“Remember,” White Horse said quietly as they approached the canyon area, “mustangs are not like ranch horses. They think different, move different, trust nothing. We use their habits against them.”
The canyon White Horse had chosen was perfect for their purpose—a narrow opening that widened into a circular area perhaps two hundred yards across, surrounded by steep rock walls on three sides. The fourth side, where they’d built their gates, could be closed off once horses were driven inside.
“Gates are key,” White Horse explained as they positioned themselves. “Tom and Jake, you stay hidden there. When we drive horses through, you close fast and hold tight. Horses panic when they realize trap, but too late then.”
Will watched as the other men spread out in a wide arc, each taking a position that would allow them to funnel wild horses toward the canyon entrance. The strategy was elegant in its simplicity—locate the mustang herd, drive them at controlled speed toward the trap, then close the gates before they could escape.
“There,” White Horse pointed toward a distant group of dark shapes moving across the grassland. “Twenty, maybe twenty-five. Good size herd, good horses.”
The roundup began slowly, almost gently. The riders approached the mustang herd from multiple angles, not charging or creating panic, but applying steady pressure that encouraged the horses to move in the desired direction. Will marveled at the patience required—any sudden movement or loud noise could scatter the herd and end their chances.
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