"Mama," Meera said as Eliza pulled the covers up around her shoulders. Will you tell me about when you were little? What do you want to know? Everything. I want to know everything about you.
So Eliza settled on the edge of the bed and began to tell stories about her own childhood, about her grandmother who taught her to braid hair, about the time she'd tried to bake a cake and accidentally use salt instead of sugar. She talked until Meera's eyes drifted closed, until the little girl's breathing evened out into the rhythm of healthy sleep. Good night, baby girl," Eliza whispered, pressing a kiss to Meera's forehead. "Sweet dreams. " "Love you, Mama," Meera mumbled, already more asleep than awake. "Love you, too, sweetheart. " "So very much. " As Eliza closed the door softly behind her, she found all four boys waiting in the hallway, lined up like they'd been rehearsing this moment.
Good night, Mama, they chorused, their voices ranging from James' newly deepening tone to Nathaniel's child treble. "Good night, my boys," Eliza said, her voice thick with emotion. "Sleep well. " She made her way to her own room finally, exhausted, but content in ways she'd never experienced before. As she changed into her night gown and settled into bed, she pulled out her mother's locket one last time, looking at the picture of the young, hopeful woman who'd given birth to her. I found it, mama, she whispered to the image.
I found where I belong. Not where I was born and not where I was sold, but here with these children who chose me. With this man who saw value in me when no one else did. I'm not broken anymore. Or maybe I am, but it doesn't matter here.
Here. Broken is just another word for human. She closed the locket and set it on the bedside table next to Catherine's cup with its scratched flower. Two women's legacies side by side, both honored, both cherished. Outside the desert sang its nightly song.
Inside a house full of healing hearts settled into peaceful sleep. And in the small room at the top of the stairs, Eliza Morland, no longer Morland, no longer Peton, but simply Mama, closed her eyes and dreamed of tomorrow. Summer deepened into the kind of heat that made the air shimmer and dance, turning the New Mexico landscape into something that existed between earth and mirage. The ranch work intensified with the season. Cattle needed moving to higher pastures.
Fences required constant mending, and the garden demanded daily attention just to survive the relentless sun. But inside the Thatcher house, something had bloomed that had nothing to do with the struggling vegetables or the resilient desert flowers. The children had truly claimed Eliza as their own, and she'd claimed them right back with a fierceness that surprised even herself. Mornings began with Meera crawling into her bed at dawn, snuggling close and whispering elaborate plans for the day. Nathaniel shadowed her through chores, his gaptothed grin constant, and his chatter endless.
Levi spoke more now, not frequently, but in careful words that carried weight precisely because he used them so sparingly. James had become her right hand, anticipating needs before she voiced them, teaching her the rhythms of ranch life that his mother had known by heart. And Matthew, Matthew had transformed from her fiercest opponent into her most devoted defender, quick to jump to her aid, and quicker still to correct anyone who didn't show her proper respect. It was Matthew's devotion, actually, that led to the incident in town. 6 weeks after Meera's recovery, they needed supplies from Ash Ridge that couldn't wait for the monthly supply run.
Flower and sugar had run dangerously low, and Doc Morrison had sent word that he had medicine for Eliza to pick up. A tonic he'd ordered special for building Mera's strength after her illness. I'll go, Bo had said at breakfast, but Eliza shook her head. You've got that fence line in the north pasture that can't wait. James told me about it last night.