A Single Dad Asked for a Job… She Said, ‘I Want a Daughter.’ What Happened Next Left Him in Shock.

Chapter 4

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, someone was knocking on the tack room door.

I jerked awake, disoriented, heart pounding. For a confused moment I didn’t know where I was—thought I was still on the trail, thought May was still burning with fever against my back.

“Supper,” Clara’s voice came through the door. Calm. Matter-of-fact.

I sat up, running a hand through my damp hair. “Be right there.”

When I opened the door, Clara was already walking back toward the house. I followed, my stomach growling at the thought of food. Real food. Not the hardtack and jerky that had sustained us for weeks.

The kitchen was small but efficient. A cast-iron stove, a wooden table with two chairs, shelves lined with jars of preserved vegetables and fruits. Clara ladled stew into a bowl and set it in front of me without ceremony.

“Eat.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. The stew was rich and hearty—beef, potatoes, carrots, onions, all swimming in thick gravy. The first bite was so good it almost hurt. I forced myself to eat slowly, to not shovel it down like an animal, but it was hard. My body screamed for more, more, more.

Clara sat across from me with her own bowl, eating in silence. I wanted to ask about May, but I was afraid of the answer.

Finally, she spoke.

“The fever’s still high, but it hasn’t gotten worse. I’ve been giving her willow bark tea and keeping cool cloths on her forehead. She’s sleeping now.”

Relief flooded through me. “Thank you.”

Clara shrugged. “Don’t thank me yet. The next twenty-four hours will tell.”

She finished her stew and stood, collecting the bowls. I started to help, but she waved me off.

“You need rest. Real rest. Go back to the barn and sleep. I’ll sit with her tonight.”

“I should—”

“You should do what I tell you,” Clara interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. “You’ve been running on nothing but will for God knows how long. If you collapse, you’re no good to her. Sleep. I’ll wake you if anything changes.”

I wanted to argue, but she was right. I was swaying on my feet, exhaustion pulling at me like a riptide.

“All right,” I conceded. “But if she asks for me—”

“I’ll come get you.”

I walked back to the barn as the last light faded from the sky. The stars were coming out—brilliant and countless, the way they only looked out here in the middle of nowhere. I thought about Sarah again, wondered if she could see those same stars from wherever she was now.

The cot felt like heaven. I lay down fully clothed, too tired to care, and was asleep before I could form another coherent thought.

I dreamed of Nebraska. Of our little farm before the locusts came. Of Sarah laughing in the kitchen, flour dusting her nose. Of May as a baby, tiny and perfect in my arms. I dreamed of everything we’d lost, and I woke with tears on my face.

The barn was still dark. I had no idea what time it was—only that it was deep night, the kind of darkness that felt absolute. I lay there listening to the wind whisper through the eaves, to the distant sound of a coyote howling.

And I wondered what I’d done.

Morning came with rooster crow and golden light streaming through the gaps in the barn boards.

I woke stiff and sore, every muscle protesting. The walk from Nebraska had taken its toll. I’d pushed my body past its limits and then kept pushing. Now it was demanding payment.

I limped to the pump and splashed cold water on my face, trying to shock myself awake. The ranch was quiet. Peaceful. I could hear birds singing, could smell sage on the morning breeze.

I walked to the main house, my heart thumping with fear and hope in equal measure.

What would I find? Had May made it through the night? Or had the fever—

No. I couldn’t think like that.

I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again, harder.

“Come in,” Clara’s voice finally called, muffled and tired.

I pushed open the door and followed the sound to May’s room.

Clara sat in a chair beside the bed, her hair loose around her shoulders, her dress rumpled. She looked exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, skin pale. She’d been up all night.

And May—

My daughter was sleeping peacefully. Her breathing was even, not labored. And when I touched her forehead, her skin was cool. Not burning. Cool.

“The fever broke around three this morning,” Clara said quietly. “She’s been sleeping soundly since.”

I sank to my knees beside the bed, overwhelmed. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you, Clara. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. She’s weak. She needs rest and food and time. But she’ll live.”

I looked up at Clara, at this stranger who’d saved my daughter’s life, and felt something shift inside me. Gratitude, yes. But more than that. Something deeper. Something that scared me.

“You should rest,” I said. “You’ve been up all night.”

Clara shook her head. “Work doesn’t stop for exhaustion. Neither does survival.” She stood, smoothing her dress. “You’ll find tools in the shed out back. The north fence was trampled by cattle last month—wild strays from a failed ranch up the valley. Start there. Work until noon, then come in for dinner. We eat at noon and supper at sunset. Don’t be late.”

It was a command, not a request.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She paused in the doorway, looking back at me. “And Silas? She called me Mama last night. When she was half-awake with fever. She called me Mama and asked me to sing.”

My chest tightened.

“Did you?”

“Yes.” Clara’s expression was unreadable. “I sang her the songs I used to sing to Rose.”

Then she was gone, leaving me alone with my sleeping daughter and a weight in my heart I didn’t know how to carry.