“Ma.” Patrick’s face appeared over the wagon’s edge. “Ma, look.”
Margaret turned, and her stomach dropped. It wasn’t a ranch. It wasn’t even a farm. It was an empire. A massive house dominated the valley below. Two stories of timber and stone, windows glinting gold in the dying light. A porch wrapped around three sides. Smoke curled from two chimneys. Beyond the house, buildings spread like a small town: a barn that could hold 50 horses, workers’ quarters, storage sheds, a separate cottage. And beyond that, land. Endless land stretching to the mountains.
“Holy Moses.” Patrick breathed.
“Language,” Margaret said automatically, but her voice was faint.
“That ain’t a farm,” Tommy had climbed up beside Patrick, his face pale. “Ma, that ain’t a farm.”
“I know. He lied to us.”
“I know. What else did he lie about?”
Margaret didn’t have an answer.
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