My Momma
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 2: Settling In
Rebecca woke before dawn on her first Sunday at the ranch, disoriented by the unfamiliar sounds. No guests moving through hallways. No city noises drifting through the windows. Just the whisper of wind through prairie grass and the distant lowing of cattle.
She dressed quickly in the gray light and made her way downstairs. The kitchen was cold, the fire in the stove burned down to ash. She built it up again, moving quietly, and started breakfast.
By the time Silas came in from the morning chores, the smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air.
“You didn’t have to get up so early,” he said, hanging his hat by the door. “It’s Sunday.”
“I wanted to.” Rebecca set a plate in front of him. “Besides, I’m used to early mornings. My parents ran a boarding house. The guests expected breakfast at six sharp, seven days a week.”
It was the first personal detail she’d shared, and Silas paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Your parents. They passed recently?”
“Last winter. Both of them, within three weeks of each other. Influenza.”
“I’m sorry.”
Rebecca turned back to the stove, not wanting him to see her face. “They left the boarding house to me, but I couldn’t manage the mortgage on my own. The bank...” She stopped, swallowed. “Well. That’s how I ended up answering advertisements for cook positions.”
“Their loss is my gain,” Silas said quietly. “If that’s not too forward to say.”
“It’s not forward. It’s kind.”
Tessa appeared then, still in her nightgown, her dark hair a wild tangle. “Is it Sunday? Do we have to dress up?”
“Yes and yes,” Silas said. “Go wash your face and put on your church dress. We’ll have services after breakfast.”
The little girl groaned but obeyed, trudging back upstairs. Silas watched her go with a mixture of affection and exasperation.
“She’s not fond of sitting still,” he explained. “Catherine used to bribe her with peppermints to get through a full sermon.”
It was the first time he’d mentioned his late wife by name, and Rebecca heard the careful control in his voice—a man who’d learned to speak of painful things without breaking.
After breakfast, Rebecca assumed she’d have the morning to herself while father and daughter attended services in town. But when she mentioned it, Silas shook his head.
“We don’t go to town much. I hold Sunday services here. Just us.” He seemed embarrassed. “Can’t leave the ranch unattended all day, and I’m not comfortable leaving Tessa with anyone else after...” He stopped abruptly.
“After what?” Rebecca asked gently.
Silas’s expression shuttered. “Nothing. Just prefer to keep her close.”
But Tessa, appearing in the doorway in a faded blue dress that was already too small for her, piped up with a child’s inability to keep secrets. “After Widow Brennan tried to marry Papa and was mean to me when he wasn’t looking.”
“Tessa!” Silas’s voice was sharp.
Rebecca’s hands stilled in the dishwater. So there had been other women. Women who’d tried to catch the widowed rancher. And Tessa had been hurt by it.
“I’m sorry,” Silas said stiffly. “Tessa shouldn’t have—”
“It’s quite all right,” Rebecca said firmly. “And for what it’s worth, Mr. Jacobs, I’m here to cook and keep house. Nothing more. You’ve made that very clear, and I respect it completely.”
She meant it. Or at least, she tried to. But even as she said the words, she felt the weight of Tessa’s hopeful gaze and knew she was lying to herself.
That afternoon, they gathered in the parlor for services. It was a simple room, made comfortable by worn furniture and the soft light filtering through lace curtains. Silas read from the Bible—his deep voice stumbling occasionally over the more complex passages—while Tessa sat close to his side and Rebecca perched on the edge of the settee.
There was something intimate about it. Something that felt like family in a way that made Rebecca’s chest ache. When Silas read the twenty-third psalm, his voice roughened on certain lines: He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Rebecca wondered if he was thinking of Catherine. If these words had once been a comfort and were now just a reminder of everything he’d lost.
Afterward, Tessa insisted on showing Rebecca the garden—what was left of it as autumn advanced. They walked among the dying flowers while Silas disappeared back into the barn.
“Mama planted all of these,” Tessa said, touching a browning rose with gentle fingers. “Papa wanted to dig them up after she died. Said it hurt too much to look at them. But I wouldn’t let him. I said Mama would be sad if we killed her flowers.”
“That was very brave of you.”
“Papa cried.” Tessa’s voice was matter-of-fact. “I heard him at night, after he thought I was asleep. He cried for a long time. But then he stopped, and he got quiet instead. And I think the quiet was worse.”
Rebecca crouched down beside the child. “People grieve in different ways, sweetheart. Your papa’s quiet because he’s trying to be strong for you.”
“I know. That’s why I have to be strong for him.” Tessa looked up at Rebecca with those impossibly old eyes. “That’s why I picked you. You make him less quiet.”
The days fell into a rhythm that felt both foreign and familiar. Rebecca rose before dawn to start breakfast. She cooked and cleaned and mended and slowly brought order to a household that had been surviving rather than thriving. And through it all, Tessa was her constant shadow—chattering, helping, watching with those intense brown eyes that seemed to catalog every moment.
On the third day, Tessa announced: “Mama used to sing when she cooked. Do you sing?”
Rebecca was rolling out pie dough, her hands dusted with flour. “Not very well.”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind. Mama wasn’t good at singing either, but Papa said it made the house feel alive.”
Rebecca’s hands stilled. The weight of that statement—made the house feel alive—settled over her like a mantle. “Would you like me to sing?”
Tessa nodded vigorously.
So Rebecca sang. Old hymns her mother had taught her, folk songs she remembered from childhood. Her voice was soft and slightly off-key, but she filled the kitchen with sound while Tessa beamed as if she’d been given the greatest gift imaginable.
“Shall we gather at the river, where bright angel feet have trod...”
She didn’t notice Silas standing in the doorway until she turned to check the oven. He was leaning against the frame, his expression unreadable, and Rebecca felt heat flood her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”
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