Four months on the trail had a way of changing what you thought “small” meant.

Small used to mean fragile. Breakable. Temporary.

Tansy Carter had corrected that idea thoroughly.

She now filled out your arms in a way that surprised strangers when they first saw her—round-cheeked, sturdy, warm with the kind of thriving that felt almost defiant out here. Her hair had come in dark and soft, already unruly enough that Eliza muttered about “cowlicks inherited from the devil or luck, depending on your faith.”

She ate like she had something to prove.

And maybe she did.

The morning light was still pale when you sat on the wagon step with a tin bowl balanced carefully in your lap. Eliza had mashed softened oats with milk until it was barely more than a warm, thick porridge—her latest experiment in “you cannot raise a child on milk alone and stubbornness.”

Tansy was already offended that you weren’t feeding her fast enough.

Her small fists pumped the air with impatient fury. Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again as if the world had personally insulted her by delaying breakfast.

“You’d think she’s been starved three days,” Thomas muttered, passing by with a water skin.

“Don’t encourage her,” you said.

Tansy immediately grabbed for the spoon.

Not a tentative grab.

A committed, furious, full-hand attempt.

She missed.

Then tried again.

And again.

Eliza, sitting nearby with her sewing, didn’t even look up. “She’s strong,” she observed. “That’s good.”

“That’s inconvenient,” you corrected, scooping a portion before she could launch another attack.

Tansy accepted it with triumphant rage.

A smear of oats ended up on her cheek.

Then your sleeve.

Then, somehow, your dignity.

“You’re raising a bandit,” Thomas said.

“She’s four months old.”

“That’s how it starts.”

You shifted her upright and she immediately latched onto your fingers instead of the spoon, chewing them with single-minded determination.

Eliza finally glanced over. “She’s ready for more texture.”

“Like what?” you asked.

“Oats with less apology in them.”

You blinked. “That’s not a measurement.”

“It is if you’ve raised children.”

From the edge of camp came the sound of hooves and easy movement through settled routine.

Ennis Davey appeared a moment later like he had been part of the landscape all along and only decided to move when needed. He swung down from his horse, dust on his sleeves, eyes already tracking the wagon before anything else.

Tansy saw him and made a sound that was halfway between recognition and demand.

You didn’t miss the way his posture softened at it.

“Well,” he said, stepping closer, “she looks like she’s planning to rob a bank.”

“She is planning to rob my breakfast,” you replied.

He crouched beside you, forearms resting loosely on his knees. “That serious?”

“She tries to take the spoon from my hand like it’s a personal insult.”

“Smart girl,” he said.

“She’s chaotic.”

“Same thing in a good survivor.”

Tansy lunged again, this time catching his sleeve.

Immediately victorious.

Ennis didn’t pull away. Just let her grip him like she had claimed territory.

“That yours?” Thomas called from behind a wagon.

Silence followed the question, stretching just long enough to become pointed.

You felt it before anyone said anything—the way people always started assigning meaning to shared space out here.

Ennis didn’t look up. “She prefers me in the mornings,” he said easily.

Your ears went warm.

“That’s not true,” you said quickly.

Tansy promptly abandoned him to reach for your spoon again, proving absolutely nothing helpful.

Eliza made a sound that might have been amusement.

Ennis reached into his saddlebag then, like he’d been waiting for the right moment.

He pulled out a small cloth bundle and handed it to you.

“You’re doing gifts again,” you said suspiciously.

“Always been told consistency matters in courtship.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Open it.”

Inside the cloth was a carved wooden rattle.

Simple, but thoughtful—smooth, rounded, with a small hollowed center filled with dried pebbles or seeds.