"Really." Reed stared at the fires. "Courage isn't not being scared, son. It's being scared and holding anyway."
"Holding till Sunday," Ned said — trying the words.
"Holding till Sunday," Reed agreed.
And the boy — seventeen, orphan, son — leaned against the man's shoulder and slept. While Reed Dawson — soldier, farmer, father — kept watch.
Holding.
Till Sunday.
The fever came in '76 — August, the heat thick as soup — and it took Ned's parents in three days.
Three days. Mother first — quiet, the sleep. Then father — fighting, the way he'd fought everything, uselessly.
The house — quarantined, the yellow flag — stood empty but for the boy. Fourteen. Alone. The neighbors left food at the gate. No one came closer. Fever makes cowards of the kind.
Father Anselmo — brave, foolish, holy — did. He sat with them. Prayed. Buried them — together, the churchyard, the earth hard as iron.
And the boy — Ned, thin as a rail, eyes hollow — sat on the porch afterward. Waiting.
For what, he couldn't have said. Someone. Anyone.
Reed came at dusk — the wagon, the limp, the soldier's face. He'd known the father — nodding acquaintance, ditch meetings. Good people. Gone.
He looked at the boy. The empty house. The yellow flag, taken down.
"Come on, son," Reed said — rough, the war in his voice, the heart breaking under it. "Supper's getting cold."
Ned — staring — whispered: "I can't leave them."
"They're not here, son." Reed — sitting beside him, the porch creaking — put a hand on his shoulder. "They're — " He gestured — helpless — at the sky. "You'll see them again. Meanwhile — " He stood. "Meanwhile, you eat."
That was three years ago.
Now — seventeen, the porch, asleep on Reed's shoulder — Ned dreamed. And in the dream, his mother — smiling — said: "This one, Neddy. Stay with this one."
He woke at dawn — stiff, safe — and found Reed still watching. Still holding.
"Mr. Dawson?" he mumbled. "Did you sleep?"
"Some." Reed — lying, kindly — ruffled his hair. The ritual. "Come on. Ditch won't walk itself."
And Ned — following, the tally stick, the morning — thought about porches. Then and now.
Some porches, he thought — the water singing, the sun rising — save you.
Those first weeks — Ned learned the ditch.
Reed — patient, the soldier's discipline — taught him. Laterals. Headgates. Flow. The boy — quick, hungry — learned fast. Hungry for more than food.
For — belonging.
Nightmares came — first months. Ned — crying out, the bunkhouse dark — woke sweating. Reed — appearing, the lamp, no questions — sat till he slept.
"They're gone," Reed would say — quiet. "You're here. Breathe."
Breathe. The boy learned that, too.
The tally stick — Reed's gift, Christmas '76 — was carved. N.D. Ned Dawson. Not legally. Really.
"It's yours," Reed had said — gruff, embarrassed. "Don't lose it."
He hadn't. Three years. Every dawn.
Now — seventeen, the ditch, the morning — Ned ran the laterals like breathing. And Reed — watching, the pride quiet — thought about porches.
The boy had come with nothing. Not even hope.
Look at him now, Reed thought — the tally stick flashing, the water singing.
Some things, he thought, you don't inherit.
You choose.
Miss Delgado — lending books, insisting — taught him letters. Ned — stubborn, bright — learned fast. By spring, he read — slow, proud. By fall, he devoured.
Reed — watching, the lamp — felt his chest tight. His boy. Reading.
"Mr. Dawson?" Ned — one night, the book lowered — asked: "Did you — read? Much?"
"Some." Reed — sheepish — admitted: "Army taught me maps. Mara taught me — " He stopped. "Books."
"Tell me about her," Ned whispered. "Sometimes."
And Reed — halting, then flowing — did. Her laugh. Her temper. How she sang while she worked.
"She'd have liked you," Reed finished — rough. "Bossed you terrible."
Ned — grinning through tears — promised to deserve it.
The tally stick — N.D. — grew smooth with use. Three years of dawns. Three years of belonging.
Some nights, Ned touched the carved letters — wondering.
Dawson. Not by blood. By choice.
Better, he thought — fierce, young. Better.
Good boy, Reed thought — watching him go, the stick flashing in the sun.
Good man, coming. God willing.
Chapter 7 — The Village
Paloma had been there before the territory — adobe, the church, the acequia older than memory.
Saturday morning — the fires still on the bluff — the village met. Father Anselmo opened the church — and everyone came. Farmers. Mothers. Children. Old men who remembered droughts before.
Reed stood at the back — the rifle left at home, for once — and listened.
"The river is ours," old Tomas said — seventy, the acequia mayor. "Our grandfathers dug the ditch. Our fathers kept it."
"Thorne says — " someone began.
"Thorne says much," Father Anselmo cut in — gentle, iron. "But the river — " He looked around — the faces, the lives. "The river was here before Thorne. It will be here after."
A murmur — agreement, fear.
"What do we do?" Miss Delgado asked — twenty-four, the schoolteacher, brave.
Silence. Then Harriet — small, iron-gray, the spectacles — stood.
"We hold," she said simply. "Together."
"How?" Tomas demanded. "Thirty men! Guns!"
"With — " Harriet paused — "law."
"What law?" someone laughed — bitter. "Thorne owns the sheriff!"
"Thorne owns much," Harriet agreed — level. "But not — " She looked at Reed — direct. "Not the river."
Reed — frowning — said: "Harriet. What do you know?"
"Sunday, Reed." The familiar refrain. "Hold till Sunday."
"That's tomorrow!" Tomas burst out. "What happens Sunday?"