By the time the first walls began to rise, Oregon had already changed the shape of your days.

The wagon no longer rolled at dawn. No one shouted for teams to hitch. No wheels groaned into motion. Instead there were new sounds: axes biting timber, hammers striking pegs, men calling measurements, women shaking quilts, children running loose like creatures newly uncaged.

The land itself felt richer than anything you had seen in months.

Dark soil. Tall grass. Trees thick enough to cast honest shade. Air damp with green things and water nearby. Even the wind seemed less cruel.

And in the middle of it all stood Ennis Davey, sleeves rolled, shirt damp at the collar, building your house.

Not dreaming it.

Building it.

He had chosen a rise above the creek where rain would run off clean and the morning sun would strike the front. He’d paced the ground for two days like a man arguing with invisible walls until satisfied. Now logs were notched, beams set, and a rough frame stood against the sky like the skeleton of a promise.

You ought to have been helping more.

That thought followed you all week.

Instead, you sat on an upturned crate beneath a tree with Tansy in your lap, watching him like a fool.

He moved from woodpile to frame, from frame to tools, from tools to roofline, steady as breath. Every time he disappeared behind stacked timber, something in your chest tightened until he stepped back into view again.

Ridiculous.

You knew exactly where he was.

Still.

“Tansy,” you muttered to the baby chewing your apron string, “your father has bewitched us.”

She drooled in agreement.

Eliza Carter approached carrying a basket. One look at you and she sighed.

“You’ve stared at that man for twenty minutes.”

“I have not.”

“You turned your whole head when he walked behind the wagon.”

“I was checking the wheel.”

“He was nowhere near the wheel.”

You frowned. “Why are you policing my neck?”

“Because you look lovesick and pale.”

“I am not pale.”

“You’re green, then.”

As if summoned by accusation, your stomach rolled sharply.

You thrust Tansy toward her grandmother and lunged for the grass.

By the time the sickness passed, Eliza was standing over you with one hand on her hip and Tansy on the other.

“Hm,” she said.

You wiped your mouth with dignity’s corpse. “Do not hm at me.”

She ignored that. “How long?”

“How long what?”

“The morning sickness.”

“It is not morning.”

“A name need not be accurate to be useful.”

“I ate bad bacon.”

“You did not eat bacon.”

“I thought about bacon.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How long have you been queasy?”

You pushed to your feet. “A few days.”

“And the rest?”

“The rest what?”

“You’re eating like a farmhand one hour and refusing stew the next. Your bodices are tight. You cried because your Pa split kindling unevenly.”

“He split it badly.”

“You cried.”

“That is unrelated.”

Eliza’s expression changed—not dramatic, just certain.

Oh no.

“No,” you said immediately.

She handed Tansy back. “Go find your husband.”

“I do not need to find him.”

“You’ve been tracking him like a hound all week.”

Heat flooded your face.

“That is false.”

At that exact moment, Ennis stepped behind the half-built wall and you turned before thinking.

Eliza made a noise of triumph.

“I hate you,” you said.

“You’ll hate me more in a month.”

You stood very still.

Then looked down at Tansy.

Then at the frame of the house.

Then at your own hands.

No.

Maybe.

Surely not.

Across the clearing Ennis saw something in your face and came immediately, dropping the auger where he stood.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly.

“Something happened.”

“Your wife’s dramatic,” Eliza offered.

“Mother.”

He was already in front of you now, eyes scanning your face, then your posture, then the hand pressed unconsciously below your ribs.

“You sick?”

“A little.”

“Since when?”

“Lately.”

“Why didn’t you say?”

Because you hadn’t known what to say. Because Tansy had come to you through grief and grace, not blood.

Eliza spoke for you, naturally.

“She’s with child.”