Choose Her, Daddy
In the dust-bright square where women queued for ranch work—cooking, washing, childminding—the foreman turned selection into spectacle. Foreman Boyd’s grin was big as a billboard; his voice oozed like molasses.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty thing,” he said to the blonde near the front.
“Emma, sir,” she blushed, curling a strand behind her ear.
He held her hand longer than necessary. “Sweet name for a sweet girl. You’re hired. Carter Ranch. Tomorrow.”
Emma giggled and stepped aside. The line shuffled forward. Boyd’s charm rose or fell with cheekbones; his laugh was loud with the polished, and with the plain he made a show of indifference.
“Name?” he asked a slender brunette.
“Sarah.”
“Strong hands, good posture. You’ll do fine.” His eyes skipped like stones across a pond. Then Iris Hullbrook stepped up, in a plain green dress, round face flushed with effort, sewing samples clutched tight. The grin faltered.
“Name?” he snapped, as if extracting a confession.
“Iris Hullbrook, sir. I can cook, clean. I can haul—”
“Haul water? Chop wood? Keep pace?” A curl of his lip. “You?”
“I’ve done it before. I just need a chance.”
He snorted. Laughter rippled behind her. Someone jeered, “She’d break the axe before the log.” A shove from the side sent Iris stumbling. Her bundles scattered into the dust. The crowd roared. “She can’t even stand.”
Iris swallowed hard and gathered the pieces with shaking fingers. “Please, sir,” she whispered. “I’m a widow. I just need work.”
Boyd turned to the onlookers and lifted his arms. “She wants a chance,” he mocked.
More laughter. Another push. Iris fell to her knees. She didn’t cry until she limped to a bench on the edge of the square. Then the tears came, hot and private, where no one cared to look.
Across the square, Daniel Harden stood with his six-year-old, Abby. His jaw was tight. He said nothing.
“Papa, they’re being mean to that lady,” Abby whispered.
“I know.”
“Then why aren’t you stopping them?”
“It’s not my place, Abby.”
She frowned up at him. “What about her for our house?”
He glanced at the woman in green, her shoulders rounded with defeat. She was not what they needed. Too soft for the work, too vulnerable for the talk that would follow. Pity wasn’t practicality. “Just because,” he said, and hated the way it sounded.
He went to Boyd. “Need a housekeeper. Good with children.”
“You came to the right man,” Boyd beamed, tilting his head toward a tall, polished woman. “Margaret. Best one I’ve got. Experienced and easy on the eyes.”
“She’ll do,” Daniel said.
Boyd clapped his shoulder. “Smart choice.”
He turned—and Abby was gone.
Panic flared. He found her on the bench beside the woman in green. Abby’s legs swung, her eyes solemn.
“Are you sad?” Abby asked.
The woman blinked, surprised. “A little, sweetheart.”
“Those people were mean.”
“Yes, they were.”
“My mama used to say life isn’t always fair,” Abby said softly. “She died three years ago.”
The woman’s face changed, softened. “I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t remember much,” Abby said. “Just little pieces. Do you have children?”
“No,” the woman said. “I wanted them, but it didn’t happen.”
“Then you can be my mama.”
The words hit the woman like a blow. Tears slipped before she could stop them. “Oh, sweetheart.”
“Abby,” Daniel said, striding over, relief and frustration roughening his voice.
“I just wanted to talk to her,” Abby said.
The woman stood quickly. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“We’re leaving,” Daniel said.
“Goodbye, Miss—” Abby turned back.
“Iris,” the woman said, and lifted a trembling hand. “Goodbye, Abby.”
At the wagon, Abby dug in her heels. “Papa, why can’t we take Miss Iris home?”
“Because we already hired someone.”
“I don’t want that other lady. I want her.”
“Abby, the hiring has rules. Only women the foreman approves can work. Miss Iris wasn’t approved.”
“Why not?”
Because people judge what they see. Because he had been a coward. “It’s complicated,” he muttered.
Abby crossed her arms. “I want Miss Iris.”
“Abby, no.”
“Papa, you have to choose her.”
“I can’t. It’s against the rules.”
Her chin trembled, but her voice rose, clear and fierce. “Then I won’t go home. Not unless you choose her.”
Heads turned. Matron Walsh hurried over, lips pinched. “Mr. Harden, control your child.”
Abby’s tears spilled. “Please, Papa. Please pick Miss Iris.”
Boyd stepped in, arms folded. “Problem?”
“My daughter wants me to hire the woman you rejected,” Daniel said flatly.
“That one?” Boyd smirked. “Not a chance. Council rules. Take Margaret. She’s the best.”
Daniel looked at Margaret, laughing with someone in a perfect dress. He looked at Abby’s wet lashes, stubborn mouth. He looked at Iris, who sat straight on the bench now, as if bracing for another blow. Pain and grace, together.
He made his choice.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll take her.”
“Margaret—”
“No.” Daniel’s voice was steady. “Iris Hullbrook.”
“You can’t,” Boyd said.
“I just did.”
He crossed the square. “Miss Hullbrook,” he said gently. “You’re coming with us.”
She stared at him, blank with disbelief. Abby grabbed her hand, beaming through tears. “See? I told you Papa chose you.”
Daniel walked away from the square with his daughter and the woman everyone had mocked. He didn’t look back.
The wagon rattled toward the ranch. Abby sat between them, sneaking glances at Iris like she might dissolve. Iris folded her hands tight in her lap, trying not to take up too much space.
“Do you know any songs?” Abby asked after a while.
“A few,” Iris said.
“Will you teach me one?”
“Let Miss Iris rest,” Daniel murmured.
“It’s all right,” Iris said softly. “I know one about a sparrow.”
She sang, low and a little off-key, but warm. Abby hummed along, making up words she didn’t know. Daniel’s shoulders loosened a fraction.
The ranch crested into view—modest house, slat-sided barn, corral, chickens scratching near the porch. Daniel helped Iris down. His hand was rough, warm. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He nodded, unreadable.
Inside was simple: sturdy table, black stove, a rocker by the hearth. “You’ll have this room,” he said, gesturing to a small chamber off the kitchen. “Meals at regular times. Abby needs looking after while I work. Mending as needed. If something’s too much, tell me.”
Iris swallowed. “Thank you, Mr. Harden.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
That afternoon she worked quietly, sweeping, organizing, making stew from potatoes, carrots, a bit of salt pork. Abby appeared at her elbow. “Can I help?”
“Of course.”
“Really? Mama said I made messes.”
“Then we’ll make them together,” Iris said. They peeled side by side. Abby’s pieces were uneven; Iris didn’t correct her, just smiled and dropped them in the pot.
At supper, Daniel took one bite, stopped. “This is good.”
Abby glowed. “I helped. Miss Iris let me peel. I wasn’t good, but she didn’t mind.”
Daniel’s eyes flicked to Iris. Something altered.
After, Abby tugged Iris outside. “Come see the chickens.”
“She’s worked all day,” Daniel began.
“I’d love to,” Iris said.
Evening air cooled her face. Abby led her to the coop. “Can you teach me to collect eggs without getting pecked?”
“Move slow. Speak soft,” Iris showed her. A hen fluffed and struck Abby’s fingers. She yelped. “She hates me.”
Iris laughed—a surprised bright sound. “She’s just protecting her babies. Like a mama should.”
“But it hurt.”
“I know. You were brave. Brave people get pecked sometimes. Doesn’t mean you stop trying.”
Abby thought, then nodded, and tried again. She held up an egg like treasure. From the barn door, Daniel watched, something in his chest cracking open.
That night, Iris mended a torn shirt by candlelight. A knock, then Daniel stood holding a folded quilt. “Nights get cold. Thought you might need this.”
“Thank you.” He noticed the shirt. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
He hovered like he had more to say, then nodded and left. Iris pressed a hand to her racing heart.
In the morning, Mrs. Fletcher from the next property brought eggs to trade. She stopped at the kitchen threshold. “Oh. You’re the one from the square.”
Iris’s hands stilled. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Fletcher’s gaze traveled up and down, then away. She set the basket down and left with her flour. Outside, her voice carried. “That woman, Daniel—the one they laughed at.”
“She’s my housekeeper,” he said.
“It’s improper. Unmarried woman with a child. People will talk.”
“Let them.”
“I’m only thinking of Abby. Appearances matter.”
Inside, the old shame crept back like frost. Iris moved quieter, smaller.
That evening, Abby slipped and scraped her knee. Iris scooped her up and cleaned the scrape with gentle hands. “It stings,” Abby sniffed.
“I know. You’re so brave. Just a little more.”
Daniel appeared, went pale at the blood, then watched Iris wrap the cloth, watched Abby calm in her arms. His late wife would have scolded for the torn dress. Iris just held, and the world steadied.
Later, he found her on the porch. “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do,” he said. “My wife—Sarah—she was beautiful. Everyone said so. She didn’t want this life. Resented the ranch. Resented Abby for tying her. When she died, I grieved. But I felt guilty that I wasn’t more heartbroken.”
Iris was quiet. “My husband married me on a bet,” she said. “His friends dared him. On our wedding night, they waited outside to see if he’d… He told me years later, thought it was funny.” She swallowed. “When he died, I felt free. Then guilty for feeling free.”
Daniel looked at her. “We married the wrong people.”
“Maybe that means we know what the right person looks like now.”
Before either spoke, a coyote called. The moment snapped. “I should check the animals,” he said, and left Iris with the echo of his words.
Three weeks slid past like water over stone, smoothing edges, changing everything. Mornings found Iris up before dawn, the house warmed, coffee ready. Abby climbed into her lap as if she’d always belonged there. Daniel left nothing in his cup. The rooms felt different—alive.
One afternoon, Abby asked, “Will you teach me to braid like yours?”
They sat on the porch steps while Iris parted and crossed the strands. “Not too tight. Keep it snug.”
“It’s hard,” Abby said.
“It takes practice,” Iris murmured.
“Miss Iris?” Abby asked, small. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
Iris’s hands stilled. She turned Abby to face her. “I think you are beautiful.”
“Really? Sarah Miller says my nose is funny.”
“Sarah Miller is wrong.” Iris cupped Abby’s cheeks. “You have your papa’s eyes—strong and honest—and your nose is perfect.”
Abby flung her arms around Iris’s neck. From the barn door, Daniel’s breath caught. Later he left a wooden comb he’d carved on the table with a small note: Thought of you. In the morning, Iris wore it in her hair. They didn’t speak of it, but something warm threaded the air.
The warmth shattered with hoofbeats. Three riders approached—Tom leading, grin mean. They rode right up to the line where laundry flapped white against blue.
“Oh, well,” Tom drawled. “Harden’s new housekeeper.” He circled. “Heard you’re the one from the square. The one nobody wanted.”
Iris kept her hands moving. “I have work to do.”
“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” One snickered. “Or just too much of you to find it.”
Tom leaned closer. “Tell me what kind of work you’re really doing here. Can’t imagine he hired you for your looks or your charm.”
“Enough,” Daniel’s voice cut from the barn.
“Just conversation, Harden,” Tom grinned. “We’re curious what you see in her. She’s not pretty. Not respectable. So what’s she good for?”
“Last warning,” Daniel said.
“She’ll ruin you. Whole town’s talking,” Tom said. “Unmarried woman under your roof with a girl. Council won’t stand for it.”
“Get out,” Daniel said, and they left laughing.
That evening, Iris stood at the window, shaking. “He’s right,” she said later on the porch. “They’ll come. It’s because of me.”
“It’s because of them,” Daniel said. “Not you.”
Hoofbeats again. A buggy. The preacher’s wife and Matron Walsh in black, stern as verdicts.
“This arrangement is improper,” Mrs. Dalton announced.
“My household is my business,” Daniel said.
“Not when it affects the community,” Walsh snapped. “An unmarried woman under your roof with a child is scandalous. Either she leaves or you marry her properly. One week.”
Before Daniel could speak, the door flew open. Abby at the threshold, fists tight. “Stop being mean.”
“Child—” Walsh began.
“No!” Abby trembled with fury. “You want Miss Iris gone, but she stays. She’s good and kind, and if you make her leave, I’ll hate you.”
“Abby,” Daniel said softly.
“I won’t be quiet,” Abby cried. “Miss Iris makes Papa smile. She makes me happy. You’re trying to ruin it.”
Silence. Walsh cleared her throat. “One week, Mr. Harden.” They turned the buggy and left.
Abby ran into Iris’s arms. Daniel stood like an anvil in the doorway.
“I’m sorry,” Iris whispered later.
“You didn’t cause this,” he said. “They did.”
The week that followed tilted like a dish of water. Daniel found reasons to be near: to fix a cabinet she mentioned, to bring extra wood, to stand close when they reached for the same jar. Fingers brushed. Eyes met. Neither pulled away fast enough.
One evening after Abby was asleep, they sat on the porch. “Iris,” he said, not Miss Hullbrook.
“Yes.”
“What they said about the week.”
“You don’t have to think about it,” she said quickly, though her pulse fluttered. “I’ll leave before the week is up. I won’t trap you.”
“What if I don’t want you to leave?” he asked. “Not because they’re forcing me. Because when I picture you gone, I can’t breathe. Because my daughter laughs again. Because this house feels like home.” He took her hand. “Because I love you.”
Her breath hitched. “Daniel.”
A crash inside—something falling. He stood, startled. “I’ll check on Abby.” The moment evaporated, his words echoing like a bell.
The next afternoon, Abby declared the barn cat needed a proper bed. “Miss Iris, help me with the hay.”
Iris climbed the ladder. “Careful,” Daniel said below. “I can—”
“I’ve got it,” she said, then turned and slipped. He caught her, arms hard around her waist, both tumbling into the hay. They landed tangled. Time tightened, breath and heartbeat close. His hand cupped her cheek. “You all right?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
They leaned—but Abby’s delighted shriek shattered the air. “Are you kissing? Does this mean wedding? Can I be flower girl?” She bounced in place.
Daniel flushed. “Inside,” he laughed weakly.
Abby skipped away, singing. He turned back to Iris, hay in his hair. “She’s not wrong,” he said, stepping closer. “About the kissing.”
Her heart pounded. “When I do,” he said, “I want you to know it means something.”
“It already does,” she whispered.
That night he brought two cups to the porch. “About last night,” he said. “I meant it. I love you. I know it’s fast, but I’m tired of pretending. If you’ll take a chance on me and my girl, I’ll spend my life making sure you never doubt it.”
Tears spilled. “I love you, too. Since you stood up for me in that square.”
Relief loosened his shoulders. “The council gave us a week. That leaves five days.” He turned to her fully. “Iris Hullbrook, will you marry me?”
“Now?” she breathed, half laugh, half sob.
“I don’t want to wait. I don’t want them interfering. I don’t want to risk losing you. Marry me. Not because they demand it, but because I choose you.”
“Yes,” she said, laughing through tears. “Yes, Daniel.”
The next morning, they told Abby. She screamed for joy. “When? When? When?”
“Soon,” Daniel said.
“Tomorrow,” he added, glancing at Iris.
She thought of whispers, of deadlines, of the quiet cruelty of waiting. “Tomorrow,” she said firmly.
They prepared with what they had. No dress, then one: his mother’s cream, carefully folded away. “It was hers,” he said. “She’d want you to have it.”
Iris held it like a blessing. Abby picked wildflowers and wove them into Iris’s hair with solemn care. “You look like a princess,” she whispered.
“What if no one comes?” Iris asked.
“Papa will. I will. That’s enough.”
But Daniel had other plans. “We’re going to town,” he said.
Iris went pale. “What?”
“We’re getting married in the square. Where this started.”
“They’ll mock us.”
“Let them.” His voice was steady. “I won’t hide you. You were rejected there. Today you’ll be chosen there.”
They rode in: Daniel, Iris, Abby. People stopped. Daniel helped Iris down. The cream dress shone against the dusty square; the flowers glowed like a small meadow. Boyd pushed through, sneer sharpened.
“You’re really doing this?” he scoffed. “Marrying her?”
“Yes,” Daniel said. “Maybe I’m a fool. But she’s worth more than this whole town. She’s kind when you were cruel, strong when you tried to break her. And I love her.” He said it loud. “I love her. Anyone with a problem can leave.”
No one moved. The sneers frayed. The preacher shuffled forward, adjusting his collar. “Is this official, Mr. Harden?”
“It is. Marry us now.”
They stood on the spot where Iris had fallen weeks before. Daniel took her hands. The preacher’s words washed over them. Abby stood beside, chin up, holding the flowers like a shield.
“Do you, Daniel Harden, take Iris to be your wife?”
“I do.”
“And do you, Iris Hullbrook, take Daniel to be your husband?”
She met his eyes. “I do.”
“By the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife.”
He kissed her. The square erupted—some clapped, some turned away. Most just watched, curious, grudging, surprised. Abby cheered loudest of all. When they parted, Iris was crying.
“Why are you crying?” Daniel whispered.
“Because I never thought…” She couldn’t finish. He understood.
“You’re not alone anymore,” he said.
“Neither are you.”
Matron Walsh stood at the edge, arms folded, not angry now—resigned. Mrs. Fletcher stepped forward, flushed. “Mr. Harden. Mrs. Harden.” She inclined her head toward Iris. “I wish you well.”
A few others came, a smattering of congratulations, some stiff, some sincere. Boyd held his glare like a badge. Tom and his friends were absent.
Daniel didn’t care. He had what mattered.
They rode home at sunset. Abby talked the whole way, about flowers and vows and whether chickens could be taught to scatter petals. At the porch, Daniel helped Iris down. “How do you feel, Mrs. Harden?”
“Like I’m home,” she said.
“You are.”
They sat beneath a sky spilled with stars. Abby fell asleep between them, head heavy on Iris’s lap. Daniel looked at Iris. “I meant what I said in the square. Loudly. Publicly. You deserved to be chosen where they tried to break you.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For seeing me when I was invisible.”
“You were never invisible,” he said. “Not to me.”
Inside, they tucked Abby in. On the porch again, they stood where the soft night pressed close. Daniel took her hands and kissed her—properly now, no interruptions. When they broke apart, breathless and smiling, he said, “Welcome home, Iris Harden.”
“I’m already there,” she said.
The house that had been cold was warm. The man who’d gone quiet with grief had a family. The woman the town had mocked stood tall in the place she fell. In a small ranch at the edge of town, love proved stronger than judgment, and a little girl’s ultimatum turned into a life.
“I won’t go home, Daddy,” Abby had said in a square full of dust and disdain, “not until you choose her.”
He did.
And home began.
