The Milch Bride (25 page)

(One Year Later)

Hattie held onto Jackson’s strong arm, Greta Jane a tiny
bundle in her arm. J.D. trudged up the hill in his new boots, hanging onto his
daddy’s hand and talking all the way in his own language. Behind them, James
Boyd walked with an arm around Ruybe, his son little James cradled in her arms
and supported by his hand under the boy’s back. Finally, they reached the crest
of the little hill above the ranch, the one she had come to on that rainy
evening so long ago.

Hank and Cliff waited at the top of the hill, each man held
one of the beautiful carved crosses that James had made and brought out for the
occasion. He had waited for the day that Hattie had a name for the smaller
cross. It had taken awhile.

The preacher trailed up the hill behind them, the good book
clasped in his hand. “I guess you know this is not the usual way things are
done, but then I should know not to expect anything usual from the Harper’s.”

Jackson glared at the man, and he stopped his grumbling.

Hattie handed the baby girl, named for her and Jackson’s
mothers, into her daddy’s arms. As usual, J.D. insisted that his Daddy kneel
down so he could see his baby sister.

Hattie smiled at the older couple who meant so much to her,
to all of them. She was so grateful that they had agreed to return to the ranch
until both babies were born and she and Rubye could both be back on their feet.
Hattie had been afraid it was her fault, that she couldn’t give birth to a
healthy child, and that she might lose this baby too. But her daughter was
strong and healthy, just as Jackie had been. She was surprised that Rubye was
just as worried, fretting that she was too old. Both were grateful when she and
James also had a strong, healthy boy. Two months and she knew they would soon
leave, but she didn’t know if she would be able to stand it.

She walked over to Hank and took the larger cross, the one
with Thomas Matthew Stoddard, his years of birth and death chiseled below the
beautifully carved name. James had painted both crosses white, and then painted
black inside the chiseled letters and numbers. Proudly she positioned the cross
at the head of her father’s grave, but after pushing hard, she accepted Hank’s
help in getting it deep enough to stand straight. Then she took the smaller
cross from Cliff and was able to get it deep enough on her own.

She let her fingers trail across the incised letters, Thomas
James Stoddard, the single date, 1872. She had known he deserved to go into the
next world with a name and the blessings of the lord, now at last he would.
Gratefully she walked over and swept J.D. into her arms, leaned into the tall
body of her husband as he rose and circled her back. Together they all listened
to the words and prayers of benediction.

A sudden gust of wind blew, tugging at her bonnet and Hattie
curved so that the new baby was sheltered in her embrace as well. For a brief
moment she felt the brush of wings, smiled as she felt Donna’s love surround
them all. As she looked down, she saw Jackie’s old bonnet framing Greta’s face,
its tiny bluebird vivid with the promise of happiness.

THE END

J.R.Biery is a retired teacher who loves to write fiction. When
I was little, my mother was always telling me to “close that book and come here,
right now.” She wanted to convince me to stop wasting time reading and would
add, “You know those books are all lies.”

As a writer, I am always making up stories. I find the lies
of fiction help me find structure and truth in all the confusion of real life.

I hope you enjoy
reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked it and are so
inclined, I would appreciate a kind review at

https://www.amazon.com/review/create-review?ie=UTF8&asin=B00JC6DOLK&channel=detail-glance&nodeID=283155&ref_=cm_cr_dp_no_rvw_e&store=books

If you find errors or things that I should change, please
send me suggestions at [email protected]