Emma's Choice
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 3
She climbed the stairs to the lavender-scented room and prepared for bed. Through the wall she could hear Caleb moving around in his own room, the creak of floorboards, the sound of drawers opening and closing. They were so close, just a wall between them, yet they might as well have been on opposite sides of the territory.
As Emma lay in the darkness, she thought about the day. About three children gradually accepting her presence. About a man learning to trust again, however slowly. About a house that was beginning to feel less like a tomb and more like a home.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t romance. It wasn’t anything like what she’d dreamed of as a girl reading novels by lamplight. But it was real. And it was hers. And maybe that would be enough.
Maybe.
The days began to blur together in a rhythm that was both exhausting and oddly comforting. Emma woke before dawn, dressed in Sarah’s clothes that were becoming familiar now, and prepared breakfast for a household that was learning to depend on her. The children grew more comfortable with each passing day, their wariness gradually softening into something that might eventually become trust.
A week passed, then two. Spring deepened into early summer, bringing longer days and warmer weather. The ranch lands exploded with wildflowers—lupines and Indian paintbrush and columbines that turned the meadows into tapestries of purple and red and blue. Emma found herself drawn to the beauty despite everything, taking brief moments on the porch in early morning to watch the sun paint the distant mountains gold.
It was during one of these quiet moments, three weeks after her arrival, that Ruth Brennan appeared again—this time accompanied by two other women. Emma watched them approach in a wagon, their Sunday dresses and elaborate bonnets announcing this as a formal social call rather than a neighborly check-in.
“Brace yourself,” Ruth called out cheerfully as they pulled up. “I brought the Pine Ridge Welcoming Committee. Emma Kincaid, meet Martha Henderson and Louise Crawford. Ladies, the new Mrs. Kincaid.”
Martha Henderson was perhaps forty, with a pinched face and assessing eyes that swept over Emma like she was livestock at auction. Louise Crawford was younger, maybe thirty, pretty in a faded way that suggested hard living had worn down what had once been genuine beauty.
“How lovely to finally meet you,” Martha said, though her tone suggested it was anything but lovely. “We’ve heard so much about the arrangement between you and poor Caleb.”
Poor Caleb. As though Emma had trapped him rather than been sold to him.
Emma straightened her spine and summoned a smile. “How kind of you to visit. Please, come in. I’ll make tea.”
The women settled in the parlor—freshly cleaned and considerably more welcoming than it had been when Emma arrived—while she prepared tea service. Through the doorway, she could hear their conversation, pitched just loud enough to ensure she’d hear every word.
“She’s younger than I expected,” Martha said. “Barely more than a child herself.”
“Nineteen, I heard,” Louise replied. “Her father arranged the whole thing to clear his debts. Traded her like a horse.”
“How mercenary!” Martha clucked. “And poor dear Caleb, so desperate for help with those motherless children that he had to resort to—well, one can hardly blame him, I suppose, but it does seem rather hasty.”
“Sarah’s barely cold in her grave.”
“Three years isn’t barely cold,” Ruth said firmly. “And watch your tongue, Martha. The girl’s had a hard enough time without you making it worse.”
Emma carried in the tea tray with hands that wanted to shake but didn’t. She would not give these women the satisfaction of seeing her rattled. She served with perfect courtesy, poured with steady hands, and settled into her chair with the poise her mother had drilled into her.
“Tell us about yourself, dear,” Martha said, her smile not reaching her eyes. “What was your life like before you came here?”
It was a trap, Emma knew. Anything she said would be dissected, analyzed, and reported back to the entire town.
“My father owns a ranch near the Perkins property. I have two younger brothers. I had hoped to teach, but circumstances changed those plans.”
“Circumstances,” Louise repeated. “Such a delicate way to put it.”
“Louise,” Ruth warned.
“I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” Louise defended herself. “The whole territory is talking about it. A mail-order bride situation right here in Valentine. It’s quite scandalous.”
“I wasn’t ordered through the mail,” Emma said evenly. “And there’s nothing scandalous about a marriage arrangement between two families. It’s been done for centuries.”
“But you didn’t choose this,” Martha pressed. “You were forced into it by your father’s debts. That’s what people are saying.”
“People say a lot of things,” Emma replied. “Very few of them are accurate, and even fewer are kind.” She met Martha’s eyes directly. “I married Mr. Kincaid of my own free will. Whatever circumstances led to that decision are between my family and his.”
Martha sat back, clearly disappointed that Emma wasn’t going to provide more ammunition for gossip. “Well ... I suppose that’s admirable. Making the best of an unfortunate situation.”
“There’s nothing unfortunate about it,” Emma said, surprised to find she almost meant it. “Mr. Kincaid is a good man. His children are delightful. This is a beautiful ranch. I consider myself quite fortunate.”
It was a lie—or at least a significant stretching of truth—but Emma would be damned if she’d give these vultures anything to pick at. She smiled sweetly and sipped her tea while the women exchanged glances.
The visit dragged on for another hour, filled with thinly veiled criticisms disguised as concern and probing questions about her relationship with Caleb, her management of the household, her ability to handle three children. Emma answered everything with careful neutrality, revealing nothing of substance.
By the time the women finally left, she felt as though she’d fought a battle and barely survived.
“Don’t let them get to you,” Ruth said, lingering after the others had departed. “Martha Henderson is the biggest gossip in three counties, and Louise has been bitter ever since her husband left her. They’re just jealous.”
“Jealous?” Emma asked incredulously. “Of what?”
“Of you, honey. You’re young and pretty, and you landed one of the most eligible widowers in the territory. Caleb Kincaid is a good man with a prosperous ranch. Half the widows and spinsters in Valentine have been circling him like vultures since Sarah died. The fact that he chose a nineteen-year-old stranger instead of one of them is a bitter pill.”
“He didn’t choose me,” Emma said. “It was arranged.”
“Details.” Ruth waved a hand dismissively. “The point is, you’re here and they’re not. They’ll make your life difficult if they can, so don’t give them ammunition. Keep your chin up, your house clean, and your husband satisfied, and eventually they’ll move on to fresher scandal.”
After Ruth left, Emma stood on the porch and watched the wagon disappear down the road. Keep your husband satisfied. The words echoed uncomfortably. She and Caleb maintained their careful distance, their polite formality. He slept in his room, she in hers. They worked together to manage the household but never touched beyond accidental brushes of hands.
It was a partnership, not a marriage, despite what the law and the town believed. But people were watching, judging, waiting for them to fail or succeed or provide some entertainment to break up the monotony of frontier life. The pressure of those expectations settled on Emma’s shoulders like a yoke.
That evening at supper, she mentioned the visit. Caleb’s expression darkened as she described the women’s veiled hostility.
“Martha Henderson is a vicious gossip,” he said flatly. “And Louise Crawford has been trying to get her hooks into me since six months after Sarah died. I’m sorry they came here. Sorry you had to deal with that.”
“I managed,” Emma said. “But I thought you should know what’s being said in town.”
“I don’t care what’s said in town,” Caleb replied. “Let them talk. We know the truth of our arrangement.”
“Do we?” The question escaped before Emma could stop it. “Because I’m not sure I know what this is anymore. Are we business partners? Housemates? Strangers pretending to be married?”
The children, sensing tension, had gone very quiet. Jimmy stared at his plate. Mary’s eyes were wide. June, mercifully, was too young to understand and continued eating her potatoes with single-minded focus.
“We’re whatever we need to be,” Caleb said carefully. “For the children. For the ranch. For survival.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.” His voice was rough with something Emma couldn’t identify. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Emma. I’m doing the best I can here.”
“I know you are,” Emma said, her anger deflating. “I just ... sometimes I wish we could be honest about what this is instead of pretending it’s something it’s not.”
“We are being honest. I told you from the beginning what I could and couldn’t offer.”
“You did,” Emma agreed. “And I accepted it. I just didn’t realize how hard it would be to live in this limbo. Not quite married, not quite not. Not quite a family, but not quite strangers either.”
Caleb was quiet for a long moment, his food forgotten. Finally, he said, “What do you need from me, Emma? Tell me. And if I can give it, I will.”
It was such a simple question, but Emma had no simple answer. What did she need? Affection? Companionship? Love? She couldn’t ask for those things—they weren’t part of their agreement. But the loneliness of her position was beginning to wear on her in ways she hadn’t anticipated.
“I need to know you don’t regret this,” she said finally. “That you don’t resent me for not being her.”
The confession hung in the air between them. Jimmy’s head came up, his young face troubled. Mary had stopped eating entirely. Even June had gone still, sensing the weight of adult emotion.
“I don’t resent you,” Caleb said, and his voice was gentler than Emma had ever heard it. “You’re not Sarah, and I’m not asking you to be. You’re Emma—your own person. And you’ve done more for this family in three weeks than I managed in three years. If anything, I’m grateful. Even if I’m bad at showing it.”
Something tight in Emma’s chest loosened slightly. “Thank you for saying that.”
“I should say it more often.” Caleb glanced at his children. “All of you should hear it. Emma came here to help us, and she’s done nothing but work hard and be kind. We owe her our gratitude and our respect.”
“Thank you, Emma,” Jimmy said dutifully, and Mary nodded in silent agreement.
“Emma nice,” June added, which made everyone smile despite the lingering tension.
The moment passed, and they finished supper in more comfortable silence. But something had shifted between Emma and Caleb—a small crack in the careful walls they’d both constructed. Not intimacy, exactly, but acknowledgment. Recognition. A step toward something more honest than what they’d had before.
Later that night, after the children were in bed, Caleb found Emma on the porch where she’d gone to escape the close confines of the house. She was sitting on the steps, looking up at a sky so thick with stars it seemed impossible.
“My mother used to say the stars were holes in the floor of heaven,” Emma said without looking at him. “Places where the light leaked through.”
“That’s a nice thought,” Caleb said, settling beside her. Not too close, but closer than he’d ever been voluntarily. “Sarah believed they were other suns, other worlds. She liked the scientific explanations.”
“You talk about her more easily now,” Emma observed. “When you first mentioned her, you could barely get the words out.”
“Time helps. And having you here helps, strangely enough. It’s easier to remember the good things when I’m not drowning in the day-to-day struggle of keeping everything together.” He paused. “I loved her, Emma. I want you to know that. What we had was real and good, and I’ll never stop loving her memory.”
“I know.”
“But,” Caleb continued, his voice rough with effort, “that doesn’t mean there’s no room for anything else. Different doesn’t mean less. It just means ... different.”
Emma turned to look at him—at this complicated man who was trying so hard to be fair in an inherently unfair situation.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that maybe we could try. To be friends, at least. To build something real instead of just going through motions. Not romance—I can’t offer you that. But maybe something better than this careful distance we’ve been maintaining.”
“Friends?” Emma repeated, testing the word. It was such a small thing, friendship. Most wives would weep at the offer. But for Emma, in her situation, it felt like a lifeline. “I think I’d like that.”
“Good.” Caleb stood, offering his hand to help her up. For the first time, she took it without hesitation, feeling the calluses and strength in his grip. “Then tomorrow, if you’re willing, I’d like to show you the ranch properly. The full extent of it—what we raise, how everything works. If you’re going to be part of this operation, you should understand it.”
“I’d like that very much.”
He squeezed her hand once before releasing it, then headed inside. Emma stayed on the porch a few minutes longer, watching the stars and thinking about small victories.
Friendship wasn’t love, but it was something. A foundation they could build on, if they were both willing to try.
The next morning dawned clear and bright—perfect for riding. Caleb saddled two horses: a gentle mare named Rosie for Emma, and his own gelding, a sturdy bay called Jack. Jimmy begged to come along, but Caleb was firm.
“You’re needed here to watch your sisters,” he told the boy. “This is important work—keeping June out of trouble and making sure Mary has company. Can you handle that responsibility?”
Jimmy straightened, visibly pleased at being trusted. “Yes, sir. I won’t let you down.”
They rode out across lands that seemed to stretch forever, Caleb pointing out landmarks and explaining the ranch’s operations. He showed her the north pasture where the main herd grazed, the creek that provided year-round water, the line shacks where hands would stay during roundup season. He talked about breeding stock and market prices, about the delicate balance of weather and luck that determined a rancher’s fortune.
Emma listened, asked questions, and tried to absorb it all. She’d grown up on a ranch, but she’d never been taught the business side of it. That was men’s work, her father had always said. Now she was grateful for Caleb’s willingness to share this knowledge, to treat her as a partner rather than just a housekeeper.
They stopped at midday by a small pond fed by the creek, letting the horses drink while they shared the lunch Emma had packed. It was peaceful here, away from the house and its ghosts—just two people in a vast landscape of grass and sky.
“This is beautiful,” Emma said, meaning it. “I can see why you love it.”
“Sarah and I used to come here,” Caleb said, “when we were courting, before we married. We’d ride out and spend whole afternoons just talking, making plans for the future.” He smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. “She wanted to build a bigger house, have six children, plant an orchard. So many dreams.”
“You could still do those things,” Emma said carefully. “The orchard, at least. Maybe the bigger house eventually.”
“Maybe.” He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “What were your dreams? Before all this?”
Emma considered lying, saying something safe and expected. But they’d agreed to try friendship, and friendship required honesty.
“I wanted to teach. I wanted to help children learn to read, to open their minds to possibilities beyond just survival. I wanted to make a difference, however small.”
“You are teaching,” Caleb pointed out. “Jimmy’s progressed more in three weeks with you than in six months on his own.”
“It’s not the same as having my own schoolhouse, my own students.” She plucked at the grass. “But you’re right. It’s something. More than I might have had otherwise.”
“Do you regret it?” he asked. “Coming here? Agreeing to this arrangement?”
Emma thought about it honestly. Did she regret it? She missed her family, her old life, the future she’d imagined. But she couldn’t truthfully say she regretted her choice, because it hadn’t really been a choice—and regret was wasted on inevitability.
“No,” she said finally. “I don’t regret it. I hate how it came about, hate that I didn’t have a choice. But the life I’m building here—with the children, with the ranch, even with you—it’s not what I imagined. But it’s real. It matters. That’s more than many people can say.”
Caleb studied her with an intensity that made Emma self-conscious. “You’re remarkable, you know that? Most women in your position would be bitter, resentful. But you just adapt, endure, make the best of things.”
“What else can I do?” Emma asked. “Rail against reality? Weep over what I’ve lost? That won’t change anything. This is my life now. I can either make it bearable or make it miserable. I choose bearable.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” Caleb said simply. “I know I don’t say it enough, but I am. The children are better. The house is better. I’m better—or at least less of a mess. You’ve brought light back into a very dark place.”
The compliment made Emma’s throat tight. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”
They rode back in companionable silence, and when they reached the house, Emma felt something had fundamentally shifted. They weren’t just occupants of the same space anymore. They were allies, partners working toward the same goals.
It wasn’t romance, but it was connection. And that was its own kind of gift.
The following weeks brought a deepening of that connection. Caleb began coming in for dinner instead of eating alone in the barn. He stayed after the children went to bed, and he and Emma would talk about everything and nothing—ranch business, childhood memories, books they’d read, dreams they’d abandoned.
Slowly, carefully, they were building something neither had expected.
The children thrived in this new atmosphere. Jimmy began to laugh more, his shoulders losing some of their constant tension. June was her usual sunny self but seemed to sense the improved mood in the household. And Mary, miraculously, began to speak again.
It started small. One morning at breakfast, she whispered, “Please,” when Emma offered her more porridge. Emma nearly dropped the pot in shock but managed to keep her expression neutral and simply served the child, not making a fuss that might scare her back into silence.
That evening, Mary said “thank you” when Emma helped her into her nightgown. And the next day, she asked “Where?” when she couldn’t find her favorite hair ribbon.
Single words, carefully chosen, but words nonetheless.
Caleb wept when Emma told him. Actually wept—standing in the kitchen with tears running down his weathered face while Emma awkwardly patted his shoulder and assured him it was going to be all right.
“I thought I’d lost her,” he said roughly. “I thought whatever was broken couldn’t be fixed. But you fixed it. You brought her back.”
“She brought herself back,” Emma corrected. “She just needed time. And to feel safe again.”
“Because of you. Because you made this house feel safe.” He wiped his eyes, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually—”
“It’s all right,” Emma assured him. “She’s your daughter. You’re allowed to have feelings about her healing.”
Something in Caleb’s expression shifted, became more intense. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Emma’s ear, his touch gentle and deliberate.
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