"God, no." Thorne laughed — real. "Marcus Thorne Senior thought fish came from markets." He baited his hook — clumsy, earnest. "I learned — late. Prospectors taught me. Before the money."
"Before the money," James repeated — soft. "Tell me. About — before."
So Thorne told — the lines in the water, the morning unfolding. About arriving west at twenty-two with nothing but a pick and arrogance. About the first strike — luck, mostly. About the hunger that followed — not for food, for more.
"More mines. More land. More — " He stared at the water. "It never filled, James. That's the secret no one tells. More doesn't fill."
James was quiet — the pole steady.
"What fills it?" he asked — gently.
Thorne thought — the mill, the men, Harriet's nod, this morning.
"This," he said — simple.
Then — the pole jerked. James whooped — hauling, the line singing — and up came a catfish, huge, whiskered, furious.
"Look at that!" James laughed — boyish, bright.
Thorne laughed too — netting it, the old hands remembering — and they held it up together, admiring.
"Dinner," James declared.
"Dinner," Thorne agreed — proud.
They cleaned it riverside — Thorne showing, James learning — and carried it to Paloma's kitchen, where she fried it with chile and declared them heroes.
That evening — the porch, full bellies — James was quiet.
"Father?"
"Son."
"I'm staying." Firm. "The mill — Peterson says he'll teach me. I want — " He met Thorne's eyes. "I want to build something. Here."
Thorne — sixty-two, the ruin-remade — felt tears come.
"Your mother," he managed, "would be — "
"She'd say — " James smiled — wet. "About time."
They laughed — the shared laugh, new, old — and the river sang below.
Mending, Thorne thought — the son, the fish, the morning.
Like fences.
Paloma fried it — whole, with chile and lime — and declared a feast.
The kitchen filled — Harriet, Reed, Ned, workers drawn by the smell.
"The biggest catfish in ten years," Paloma announced — grand. "Caught by blood. Thorne blood!"
Laughter — warm, easy. Thorne — glowing — took a bow.
After — the dishes cleared, the crowd thinned — Thorne told the other story. The one he'd never told.
"My father," he began — slow — "was a clerk. Philadelphia. Ledgers. Ink. He thought the west was — " Thorne smiled — sad. "Barbaric."
"Was it?" James asked — soft.
"Yes." Honest. "And I became a barbarian. Worse — a polite one. With lawyers." He stared at his hands. "Your mother — " His voice roughened. "She saw it first. Tried to stop me. I wouldn't listen."
James — quiet — took his father's hand.
"She forgave you," he said — firm. "Her letters — she wrote — he's still good, James. Find the good."
Thorne — breaking — wept. Silent.
Harriet — rising, discreet — left them. Some moments are private.
Later — the porch, the stars — James spoke last.
"I'm staying," he said — simple. "The mill. Peterson. Everything."
"Why?" Thorne whispered.
"Because you're trying." James met his eyes. "And because — " He grinned — wet. "Somebody has to teach you to bait a hook."
They laughed — the shared laugh, new, old, theirs.
Below — the river, singing.
Mending, Thorne thought — the son, the fish, the forgiveness.
The walk home — stars out, the pole on James's shoulder — was silent. Good silent.
At the hotel — the porch, the moths — Thorne stopped.
"James."
"Father."
"Thank you." Thorne's voice was rough. "For — coming. For staying. For — " He gestured — helpless. "Today."
"Thank you," James said — steady — "for the catfish. And — " He smiled. "For trying. Thirty years late is better than never. That's what Mother said."
"She was wise."
"She was." James hugged him — hard, brief. "Goodnight, Father."
"Goodnight, son."
Thorne stood — long after James went in — looking at the river. Silver. Singing.
He thought about hunger. About more. About how little it takes — a pole, a son, a morning — to fill a man.
He went in. Slept. Dreamed of water.
Like fences.
Chapter 27 — The Fiesta
Paloma's fiesta in '88 was dedicated — to Harriet.
She — sixty-seven, protesting — was paraded. Literally. Carried.
"Put me down!" she laughed — crying.
"Never!" Tomas roared — seventy-eight, strong.
Reed — watching, fifty-five, the limp — glowed.
Later — the dance, the moon — Harriet found him.
"Dance with me, old man."
"My limp — "
"Dance," she ordered — fond.
They danced — slow, the music soft — sixty years of life between them.
"Happy?" Reed murmured.
"Yes," Harriet said — simple, true. "You?"
"Yes."
And the valley — dancing, laughing — celebrated.
The widow. The river. Us.
Midnight — the fiesta winding down, the children asleep on blankets — Tomas fed the bonfire and beckoned.
"Stories," he announced — seventy-eight, the fire in his eyes. "The old ones."
A circle formed — Harriet and Reed, Thorne and James, Ned and his bride, Paloma, the elders.
"Before the acequia," Tomas began — slow, the flames dancing — "before the Americans, before the Spanish — the river ran wild. No ditches. No shares. Just water, going where it pleased."
"Like you, old man," Paloma teased — laughter rippling.
"Like me," Tomas agreed — grinning. "Then came the first mayordomo — my great-grandfather's grandfather. He watched the river for one year. Just watched. Then he dug — one ditch, with one shovel. Said: the river is strong. We must be smarter."
"Wise," James murmured — rapt.
"The ditch fed ten families. Then twenty. Each mayordomo added — a branch, a gate. Never taking more than the river offered." Tomas poked the fire — sparks rising like stars. "That is the law, children — older than Spain, older than Rome. Take what you need. Leave the rest."