Her father had opened the door, at first happy to see Sam and Meg. His, “What a nice surprise,” had faded quickly, though, as Meg rushed past him, into her old bedroom and slammed the door behind her. She had no idea what Sam and her father had talked about, nor did she want to know.
As she unpinned her hair, she could no longer hold back the tears. It had been several hours since Sam had made his wishes known, and it had taken everything in her power to hold her emotions in check but now, in her old bedroom, the sense of comfort and the photograph of her mother on her bedside table made it impossible to keep it in.
Time stopped as she sobbed, and she didn’t know how long she’d cried—it had felt like a year—and she was down to sniffles now with a stuffy nose and a headache, her eyes swollen and red, when she heard a faint knock on the door.
“Who is it?” She blew her nose in her handkerchief as she sat up on the side of the bed, her hair tumbling down around her.
“Nutmeg?” Her father opened the door and peered in, poking his head in very little as he frowned. “May I come in?”
Meg’s lip trembled as she nodded, her hands wringing the wet handkerchief.
Her father sat down beside her on the bed and slowly wrapped his arm around his daughter, sighing as her head fell onto his shoulder.
“Oh, Papa,” she wailed. “He doesn’t want me.” Her face fell into her hands and the tears came once more.
“There, there, Nutmeg,” he said as he stroked her hair. “I don’t think he knew quite what else to do. He’s a man of honor, and as he explained to me, he felt this was the best way to honor you, to not ruin your life.”
“Ruin my life? He could only ruin my life by sending me away. I love him, and I told him so. He still didn’t want me. Now, he is ruining my life. I’ll never be happy again.”
“That doesn’t quite make any sense to me, darling,” he said, laughing until Meg turned her swollen eyes to him when he stopped abruptly.
“I’m sorry. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been young and in love, and it becomes more of a mystery to me by the moment.”
“What do you mean, Papa?”
“Well, if someone were to ask me, I’d say that he loves you, too. No one could miss his reaction when he heard you sing. But if he says you need to be home, and he doesn’t want to dishonor you, I don’t know what to do but welcome you with open arms. I know it’s not where you want to be, Meg, but you know we love you and your sisters, while not happy that your heart is broken, will be glad to see you, as well.”
Meg fell back onto the bed, her arm covering her eyes. “I don’t think I can ever leave this room, Papa. Thank you for having me home. I’m sorry for the trouble. I sincerely thought I was doing the right thing.”
Her father patted her hand and stood, his eyes landing on the picture of his wife. He picked up the frame and ran his hand over his wife’s photo, his eyes softening.
Meg uncovered her eyes at his silence, her heart tugging as she saw him with her mother’s photo. She sat up, resting her hand on his arm.
Her father seemed startled, lost in his memories, but he patted Meg’s hand and set the photograph down.
“Meg, I don’t quite know what to say to make anything better. I do, however, know that no one dies from a broken heart. I am living proof.”
Meg wiped a tear away with her mother’s handkerchief and her father smiled. “I see that your mother is here with you as well—at least her handkerchief is. I’m glad of that.”
Meg laughed despite herself and stood, resting her head on her father’s shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her, appreciating what comfort she could get.
Mr. Archer gave Meg one more pat on the cheek. “Meg, you are a fine, fine woman—and yes, I mean woman. You’re not a little girl anymore, especially not after this. I respect your decision to have done it, and I will support you in every way I can now that it’s over.”
Over? The word alone made her want to throw herself back on her bed and cry. But what good would that do. It was done. Over. Even her father had said so.
* * *
The hole in Meg’s heart didn’t keep her from resuming her duties on the ranch, although it had kept her from sleep for the past two nights. She’d done her best not to think about anything—particularly Sam Allen—and returning to milking cows and gathering eggs had helped. She hadn’t, however, been able to face taking them in to the mercantile. She wasn’t sure when she’d be ready to face any of their—her—friends.
She’d finished milking another cow and stood, pushing some stray hair into the ribbon she wore to keep it back and out of her eyes when she was working. She moved her stool over to the next cow, grabbed an empty pail and sat down, ready to start milking another one.