My Momma
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 5: The Engagement
The morning after Silas proposed, Rebecca woke to find Tessa sitting at the foot of her bed, staring at her with an intensity that was unnerving before coffee.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Rebecca said, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Is everything all right?”
“Are you really going to marry Papa? You’re not going to change your mind?”
Rebecca sat up and reached for the child’s hand. “I’m really going to marry him. I promise.”
“Good.” Tessa’s shoulders relaxed. “Because I already started planning the wedding in my head and it would be very inconvenient if you changed your mind now.”
Rebecca laughed. “Heaven forbid we inconvenience your plans.”
“Exactly.” Tessa was completely serious. “I think you should wear Mama’s green dress. The good one from the storage room. It would fit you if we took it in a little. And we should have the wedding here, not in town, because this is our home. And I should scatter flower petals—dried ones from Mama’s garden. That way Mama can be part of it too.”
Rebecca’s throat tightened. “That sounds perfect.”
“I know.” Tessa beamed. “I’m very good at planning. Papa says I get it from Mama, but I think I’m even BETTER because I’m more patient.”
Over breakfast, Silas announced his intentions. “I’m riding into Helena today to talk to Reverend Morrison about posting the banns. I was thinking late November for the wedding—gives us about five weeks to prepare. That seem reasonable?”
“Five weeks!” Tessa’s fork clattered to her plate. “Papa, that’s FOREVER!”
“That’s proper,” Silas said mildly. “Gives people time to prepare, make arrangements—”
“What arrangements? We just need Reverend Morrison and some pie!”
Rebecca hid her smile behind her coffee cup. “Five weeks is fine, Tessa. It’ll give me time to alter your mama’s dress, and we’ll need to plan at least a small reception—”
“Can we have lots of pie? And can I invite the Hendersons even though Mrs. Henderson has mean eyes? Because their daughter Mary is my friend and she should see me get a new mama.”
“We can have pie,” Rebecca confirmed. “And yes, we’ll invite the Hendersons.”
After Silas left for town, Tessa dragged Rebecca up to the storage room to retrieve Catherine’s green dress. It was beautiful—a deep forest green with delicate buttons down the back and lace at the collar and cuffs. Simple, but elegant.
“Mama wore this to church on special Sundays,” Tessa said, her small fingers tracing the fabric. “She said green made her feel like springtime.”
Rebecca held the dress up to herself, studying it in the dusty light. “Are you sure you want me to wear this, sweetheart? It was your mama’s. You might want to save it for yourself someday.”
“Mama would want you to wear it. I know she would.” Tessa looked up with those impossibly wise eyes. “She wrote in one of my letters—I peeked at the one for my wedding day, just a tiny peek—she wrote that whoever helped raise me should be honored. And wearing her dress would be an honor. Right?”
“Right,” Rebecca whispered, overwhelmed by this child’s generosity.
That afternoon, Rebecca was pinning the dress to fit her frame when she heard horses approaching. Through the window, she saw Silas returning from town—but not alone. A wagon followed him, and she recognized the driver as Samuel Henderson from the neighboring ranch.
Rebecca hurried downstairs, suddenly aware she was wearing her work dress with her hair coming loose from its bun. But when she stepped onto the porch, the look Silas gave her made her forget about appearances.
“Rebecca.” He dismounted and took her hand in front of everyone—a public claim that made her heart skip. “I’ve brought Sam Henderson and his wife Clara to meet you properly. And to invite them to the wedding.”
Clara Henderson climbed down from the wagon, a robust woman in her forties with sharp eyes that took in everything. This must be the woman with “mean eyes” that Tessa had rejected. But when she smiled at Rebecca, the expression seemed genuine enough.
“So you’re the one who finally tamed this place,” Clara said, looking around at the well-kept yard, the tidy porch. “Took someone with more backbone than the rest of us to manage these two.”
“I don’t know about taming,” Rebecca said. “Mostly just cooking and cleaning.”
“And making Silas smile again,” Sam Henderson added, shaking her hand with a grip that tested her bones. “Haven’t seen that in two years. You’re good for him, Miss Milford.”
“It’s Rebecca. Just Rebecca. And thank you.”
They stayed for coffee and cake—Rebecca’s cinnamon cake that had become Silas’s favorite. Tessa sat close to Rebecca’s side, watchful and protective, clearly ready to defend her choice if Mrs. Henderson said anything critical.
But Clara Henderson surprised them all.
“I want to apologize,” she said, setting down her cup. “When Silas hired me back after Catherine died, I thought ... well, I thought maybe this could be a practical arrangement. Combining properties, resources. I wasn’t thinking about what Tessa needed. What this family needed.” She looked at Rebecca with something like respect. “You’re not here for the ranch or the land. You’re here for them. That makes all the difference.”
“I’m here because this is home,” Rebecca said simply.
After the Hendersons left, promising to spread word of the upcoming wedding, Silas pulled Rebecca into his study and kissed her thoroughly.
“That went well,” he said when they came up for air.
“Mrs. Henderson was kinder than I expected. Tessa said she had mean eyes.”
Silas laughed. “Tessa was six years old and terrified of anyone replacing her mother. Clara’s eyes are just fine. They’re just not yours.”
He kissed her again, and Rebecca marveled at how natural it had become—this affection, this easy intimacy between them.
The following week brought a new challenge.
“I want to teach you to ride properly,” Silas announced at breakfast. “You can’t live on a ranch and only know how to perch on old Daisy like a sack of flour.”
Rebecca set down her coffee cup with more force than necessary. “I ride perfectly well, thank you.”
“You sit on a horse. That’s not the same as riding.”
“I haven’t fallen off.”
“Only because Daisy’s too lazy to move faster than a walk.”
Tessa giggled into her oatmeal. “Papa’s right. You ride like you’re scared.”
“I am scared. Horses are large and have minds of their own.”
“Which is why you need proper lessons.” Silas stood and offered his hand. “Come on. Before you lose your nerve entirely.”
The riding lessons became a daily ritual. Each afternoon, after the midday meal, Silas would saddle two horses—his big gelding, Scout, and a smaller mare named Clover who had more spirit than gentle Daisy but was still manageable for a beginner.
The first day, Rebecca was tense and awkward, gripping the reins too tight and sitting too stiff.
“Relax,” Silas said, riding alongside her. “The horse can feel your tension. She thinks something’s wrong.”
“Something IS wrong. I’m five feet off the ground on an animal that outweighs me by a thousand pounds.”
“Trust her. Trust yourself.” He reached over and loosened her death grip on the reins. “Feel how she moves. Move with her, not against her.”
It took three days before Rebecca stopped fighting the horse’s rhythm. But on the fourth day, something clicked. She felt Clover’s gait, the gentle roll and sway, and suddenly she wasn’t perched on top of the horse—she was part of the movement.
“There!” Silas’s voice was triumphant. “You’re riding. Actually riding.”
Rebecca laughed, exhilarated and terrified at once. “Don’t let me fall!”
“You’re not going to fall. You’re doing perfectly.” He guided Scout closer. “Want to try a trot?”
“Absolutely not.”
But by the end of the week, she was trotting. And by the end of the second week, she could canter without certain fear of death.
“I can’t believe it,” she said one afternoon, breathless and windblown after a ride around the north pasture. “I’m actually doing this.”
Silas helped her dismount, his hands lingering on her waist. “You’re doing more than that. You’re becoming part of this place. Part of this life.”
“Is it always this beautiful?” She gestured at the landscape—golden grass rolling toward purple mountains, the sky impossibly blue overhead.
“It can be harsh too. Winter here is brutal. Spring is mud and calving season with no sleep. Summer is drought and praying for rain.” He pulled her close. “But yes. It’s beautiful. And it’s ours.”
Ours. Rebecca tested the word silently, feeling how it fit.
The days passed in a golden haze of preparation and anticipation. Rebecca altered Catherine’s dress, taking it in at the waist and letting out the hem slightly. She baked practice pies, perfecting her crusts. Tessa gathered and dried the last flowers from the garden, carefully pressing them between the pages of heavy books.
Word spread through the small community. Neighbors Rebecca had never met stopped by with congratulations and curious looks. Most were kind. A few were clearly skeptical—a spinster from Billings marrying a wealthy rancher after only six weeks seemed suspicious to those inclined toward gossip.
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