Evelyn stepped closer.
“You already asked.”
“I didn’t reach the question.”
“You reached enough of it.”
She touched his cheek.
“My answer is yes.”
He stared.
“Evelyn—”
“Yes.”
James kissed her.
And for once, Evelyn did not think about who might be watching.
They married that October.
Not in a grand church.
Not before half the territory.
They married beneath the cottonwoods beside Whitmore Creek.
Grace stood beside Evelyn.
Sheriff Pike attended.
Mr. Talbot attended.
Half the ranch hands attended.
Even the cook from the Willow Creek hotel came.
Beatrice did not.
But that morning, a package arrived.
Inside was the silver brooch Evelyn had removed on the night of Grace’s engagement dinner.
There was no letter.
Only the brooch.
Evelyn held it for a long time.
Then pinned it beneath her throat.
Not because everything was forgiven.
Because the brooch belonged to her.
Just as the ranch did.
Just as her future did.
That evening, after the wedding supper, James found Evelyn standing alone in the old dining room.
The same room.
The same long walnut table.
The same chandelier.
But nearly everything else had changed.
“Thinking?” he asked.
“A little.”
He came beside her.
Her gaze settled on one particular chair.
The chair he had pulled out almost exactly one year earlier.
“I nearly didn’t sit down that night,” she said.
“I know.”
“How?”
“You looked terrified.”
“I was.”
“Of me?”
She shook her head.
“Of choosing myself.”
James took her hand.
She looked around the room.
“I thought that was the night my life fell apart.”
“It was.”
Evelyn smiled.
James added, “Fortunately, it needed to.”
She rested her head against his shoulder.
Then footsteps sounded behind them.
Grace entered carrying a wooden box.
Evelyn groaned.
“If that contains another legal document, burn it.”
Grace laughed.
“It doesn’t.”
She placed the box on the table.
“I found this while cleaning Mother’s old room.”
The humor vanished.
Evelyn slowly opened it.
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
A baby blanket.
And one small leather journal.
Rose’s journal.
Her mother’s.
Evelyn touched it with trembling fingers.
For several minutes she could not open it.
Finally she did.
Most entries were ordinary.
Weather.
Cattle.
Pregnancy.
Thomas.
Then Evelyn reached the final pages.
Her eyes moved across the handwriting.
She stopped.
“What?” James asked.
Evelyn reread the sentence.
Then another.
Her face drained of color.
Grace stepped closer.
“What is it?”
Evelyn handed her the journal.
Grace read aloud.
If my daughter is ever told that Beatrice merely tolerated her, then Thomas must tell her the truth. My sister begged me for months to name her guardian. She says she has never loved any child as much as she already loves mine.
Grace stopped.
Evelyn stared at her.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
She took the journal back.
Read further.
Rose described Beatrice sitting beside her bed during the pregnancy.
Sewing baby clothes.
Painting a cradle.
Arguing that the baby should have Rose’s green eyes.
Then came the final entry.
Beatrice worries I will die in childbirth. She cried tonight and made me promise that if anything happens, she may raise the baby as hers. I laughed at her fear, but I agreed.
Evelyn’s knees weakened.
James pulled out a chair.
She sat.
Grace whispered, “Mother loved you.”
Evelyn shook her head.
“No.”
But the journal remained open before her.
