Emma's Choice
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 2
Emma woke to the sound of roosters crowing and pale dawn light filtering through curtains she hadn’t noticed the night before—thin, faded things that barely blocked the sunrise. For a disorienting moment, she couldn’t remember where she was.
Then it all came crashing back—the arranged marriage, the long journey, the hollow house, three grieving children, and a widower who loved a ghost.
Her first morning as Mrs. Caleb Kincaid.
She dressed quickly in one of Sarah’s work dresses—a simple brown calico that fit well enough, though it hung slightly loose in the bodice. The dead woman had been thinner, Emma realized, worn down by ranch life and childbearing and whatever illness had finally claimed her.
Emma braided her hair and pinned it up, studying herself briefly in the small mirror above the washstand. She looked older than nineteen, she thought. The girl who’d left her father’s ranch two days ago was already fading, replaced by this stranger wearing another woman’s clothes.
Downstairs, she found Caleb already in the kitchen, dressed for work and drinking coffee so strong Emma could smell it from the doorway. He looked up when she entered, and something flickered across his face—surprise maybe, or pain, seeing his late wife’s dress on another woman. Emma realized she should have thought of that.
“Good morning,” she said quietly.
“Morning.” His voice was rough with sleep, or emotion, or both. “Coffee’s hot. Cups are in the cabinet above the stove.”
Emma poured herself a cup and took a cautious sip. It was indeed brutally strong, but the warmth was welcome in the cool morning air.
“What time do the children usually wake?” she asked.
“Jimmy’s already up. He’s out doing morning chores with me. Has been since he was five.” There was both pride and regret in Caleb’s tone. “Mary usually wakes around 6:30. June sometime after that, though you never know with her. Some mornings she’s up with the sun, others she sleeps till seven.”
“And breakfast?”
“Seven o’clock. I’m strict about it—keeps the day organized. Usually it’s just porridge or cornmeal mush, maybe eggs if the hens are laying well.”
He drained his coffee cup and stood. “I need to get back out. Tom’s waiting on me—we’re fixing fence in the north pasture. Jimmy knows to come in at 6:30 to wash up for breakfast.”
“I’ll have something ready,” Emma promised.
Caleb nodded and headed for the door, then paused with his hand on the frame. “Emma, about the dress. I should have been clearer. There are newer things in the trunk—Sarah’s Sunday dresses, things she wore before the children came and she ... softened. You don’t have to wear the everyday things if it bothers you.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” Emma lied. “It’s practical.”
That word again. Their talisman against sentiment, against feeling too much.
Caleb nodded once more and left, and Emma was alone in the quiet kitchen with her coffee and her thoughts.
She spent the next hour exploring the kitchen more thoroughly, learning where everything was kept, taking inventory of supplies. Whoever had been helping Caleb maintain the household had done a decent job, but there were signs of neglect everywhere—dust in corners, grime on surfaces that needed deep cleaning, a general air of things being adequate but not cared for. A house going through motions rather than being lived in.
Emma had just started mixing batter for johnnycakes when she heard small footsteps on the stairs. Mary appeared in the kitchen doorway, still in her nightgown, her dark hair tangled from sleep. She stopped when she saw Emma, and for a long moment they just looked at each other.
“Good morning, Mary,” Emma said gently. “Did you sleep well?”
The little girl didn’t answer, just continued her silent observation. Emma had expected this based on what Caleb had told her, but it was still unnerving to be studied so intently by a five-year-old.
“I’m making johnnycakes for breakfast,” Emma continued, keeping her voice soft and non-threatening. “Do you like johnnycakes?”
Still nothing. Mary drifted closer, moving with a ghostly quality that made Emma’s heart ache. This child was haunted by more than grief—there was something deeply wounded in those watchful gray eyes.
“Would you like to help?” Emma offered. “I could use someone to crack the eggs. That’s an important job.”
For a moment she thought Mary might refuse, might turn and flee back upstairs. But then the little girl moved closer to the work table, and Emma realized she’d said yes without speaking.
She pulled over a chair so Mary could reach the counter and handed her two eggs from the basket.
“One at a time,” Emma instructed. “Tap it gently on the edge of the bowl. Not too hard or it’ll shatter everywhere. Yes, just like that. Perfect.”
Mary cracked the first egg with surprising competence, her small fingers carefully separating the shells from the yolk. She looked up at Emma, seeking approval, and Emma smiled warmly.
“Excellent work! You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
A small nod. The first real communication, Emma realized. Progress, however tiny.
They worked together in companionable silence, Mary helping with the eggs and then stirring the batter while Emma heated the griddle. When Jimmy came in from his chores—dusty and already looking tired despite the early hour—he stopped short at the sight of his sister actually participating in kitchen work.
“Mary’s helping?” he said, as though needing to state the obvious. “She doesn’t usually help.”
“Well, she’s an excellent helper,” Emma said. “Go wash up. Breakfast is almost ready. Is your father coming in?”
“He said he’ll eat later. He wants to get the fence repair started.” Jimmy’s voice was carefully neutral, but Emma caught the disappointment underneath. The boy wanted his father’s attention, his presence, but had learned not to ask for it.
“Then it’ll be just us,” Emma said. “Would you mind waking June? She should eat before it gets too late.”
Jimmy nodded and headed upstairs. Emma heard his voice overhead, gentle and coaxing, and then June’s sleepy protest. When they came back down, the toddler was rubbing her eyes and clutching a worn stuffed rabbit that had seen better days.
“Don’t want to get up,” June complained. “Want to sleep more.”
“I know, sweetheart, but it’s time for breakfast,” Emma said. “Look, Mary helped make johnnycakes. Don’t they smell good?”
June’s nose wrinkled as she considered this. “With honey?”
“If we have honey, then yes, with honey.”
“We do,” Jimmy volunteered. “Mrs. Brennan brought some last week. It’s in the cabinet by the preserves.”
They settled at the table—the three children in their established places and Emma in what she realized must have been Sarah’s seat. It felt presumptuous, intrusive, but there was nowhere else to sit.
She served the johnnycakes with butter and honey, and for a few moments there was only the sound of eating. June dove into her food with toddler enthusiasm, getting honey on her face and hands. Mary ate slowly, methodically, still watching Emma between bites. Jimmy wolfed his food down as though fueling himself for another day of work.
“Jimmy,” Emma said carefully, “what lessons do you have planned for today?”
“Reading from the McGuffey Reader and arithmetic problems from the slate. Mama—” he stopped, swallowed hard, “before, I had regular lessons. Now I just do what I can from her books.”
“Would you like me to teach you?” Emma offered. “I was planning to become a teacher before ... well. I’d enjoy having lessons with you again. And Mary too, if she’d like.”
Jimmy considered this seriously. “What about your work? Running the house and taking care of June and everything?”
“I think I can manage both,” Emma said. “Education is important. Your mother clearly thought so, given the books she left for you.”
Something shifted in Jimmy’s expression—not quite trust, but perhaps the beginning of it. “That would be ... that would be good. Thank you, ma’am.”
“Emma,” she corrected gently. “You can call me Emma. All of you can.”
“Papa said we should call you ma’am,” Jimmy said, “as a sign of respect.”
“Then Papa and I will need to discuss it,” Emma said. “But when it’s just us, Emma is fine.”
June, who’d been listening while destroying her johnnycakes, suddenly announced, “I call you Emma!”
“That’s perfect,” Emma assured her. “Emma is just fine.”
After breakfast, Emma set the children to small tasks. Jimmy had his chores and then his lessons. Mary helped clear the table with Emma’s guidance. June was instructed to play quietly in the corner with her toys—a small collection of carved wooden animals and the stuffed rabbit.
Emma washed dishes, then began the process of truly cleaning the kitchen—scrubbing surfaces that hadn’t seen proper attention in far too long. She was elbow-deep in soapy water, attacking the grime behind the stove, when an older woman appeared in the doorway.
She was perhaps fifty, with iron-gray hair and a weathered face that spoke of a lifetime in harsh country. She carried a basket covered with a cloth and wore an expression of open curiosity.
“Well now,” the woman said, “you must be the new Mrs. Kincaid. I’m Ruth Brennan. My husband owns the ranch three miles east. I’ve been checking in on Caleb and the children since Sarah passed.”
Emma dried her hands on her apron and extended one. “Emma Kincaid. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Brennan.”
Ruth’s handshake was firm, her assessment frank. “You’re younger than I expected. And prettier. That’ll cause talk in town.”
“I imagine our entire arrangement is causing talk,” Emma said evenly.
“Oh, honey, you have no idea.” Ruth set her basket on the table. “I brought some bread and a jar of my apple butter. Figured you’d be settling in, might not have time to bake yet.” Her eyes swept the kitchen, noting the cleaning in progress. “Looks like you’re getting after it, though. This place has needed a woman’s touch.”
“Thank you for the bread. And for helping Mr. Kincaid while he was alone.”
“Caleb’s a proud man—wouldn’t ask for help if he was drowning. But those babies needed someone.” Ruth’s expression softened. “How are they doing with the change?”
Emma glanced toward the parlor where the children were occupied. “It’s early yet. June seems adaptable. Jimmy is ... coping. Mary hasn’t spoken to me.”
“Mary hasn’t spoken to anyone since about three months after Sarah died,” Ruth said quietly. “Broke all our hearts. She used to be the most talkative little thing—questions about everything, stories about nothing, just constant chatter. Now...” She shook her head. “Well, maybe having another woman in the house will help.”
“I hope so.” Emma hesitated, then asked, “What was she like? Sarah?”
Ruth studied her for a long moment before answering. “You sure you want to know? Most second wives prefer to pretend the first one never existed.”
“I’m wearing her dresses and sleeping in her room,” Emma said. “Pretending seems pointless.”
“Fair enough.” Ruth settled into a chair as though preparing for a long story. “Sarah Montgomery—that was her maiden name—she was a beauty. Dark hair, gray eyes like Mary’s, and a laugh that could light up a room. She and Caleb grew up together, married young. She was seventeen, he was nineteen. Everyone said they were perfect for each other.”
Emma felt something twist in her chest but kept her expression neutral.
“They built this place together,” Ruth continued. “Started with just a small cabin and grew it into a real ranch. Sarah was a worker, I’ll give her that. She could birth a calf, can a hundred jars of preserves, and teach her children their letters all in the same day. But the pregnancies took a toll. Three babies in six years, and she was never quite the same after June came. She seemed tired, worn down.”
“What killed her?” Emma asked. “Caleb said fever, but...”
“Childbed fever, specifically,” Ruth said bluntly. “June was a hard birth—took two days. Sarah seemed to recover at first, but then the fever came on. Three days later, she was gone. Dr. Marsh from Springview did what he could, but once that fever sets in...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Caleb blamed himself. Still does, I expect. He was the one who got her with child, after all.”
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