Above — the stars, the clear desert sky. Below — the river, singing full-throated.
Recovery, Reed thought — green, patient, earned.
Like forgiveness.
Like the beginning — again, and again.
Chapter 19 — The Fiesta
Paloma's fiesta that fall was the biggest in memory — the compact, the rain, the future.
Everyone came. The valley. The mill town. Mesilla.
Harriet — guest of honor, protesting — was seated at the head table.
"To Harriet Voss!" Tomas toasted — seventy-three now, strong. "Who saved the river!"
"To Harriet!" the crowd roared.
She — standing, small, overwhelmed — said quietly: "To the river. To — " She looked around — the faces. "Us."
Cheers. Music. Dancing.
Reed — watching, the limp, the contentment — felt Ned tug his sleeve.
"Mr. Dawson? Dance with me — Miss Delgado's sister — "
"Go," Reed laughed. "Go."
Later — the moon, the music soft — Harriet found Reed by the river.
"Penny?" she offered.
"Just — " Reed gestured — the water, the moon. "Thinking."
"About?"
"How close it came." His voice was quiet. "Thorne. The guards."
"But it didn't," Harriet said — firm. "We held."
"You held."
"We," she insisted — taking his hand. "Reed. Listen. I — " She paused. "Twenty years, I planned alone." Her voice softened. "I'm tired of alone."
Reed — turning, the moon, the years — understood.
"Harriet Voss," he said — slow, "are you proposing?"
"I'm suggesting," she said — dry, "that two tired people might rest better together."
He — laughing, crying — said yes.
Yes.
And the Rio Seco — witness, the moon on the water — sang.
Approval.
Paloma prepared for the wedding like it was a fiesta — which, Tomas insisted, pounding the table, it was, and no argument.
Miss Delgado — needles flying — altered Harriet's old gown, let out here, taken in there. "Beautiful," she pronounced — stepping back, head tilted. "Mrs. Voss — you will shine."
"Harriet," Harriet corrected — firm, fond, standing very straight on the stool.
Father Anselmo — polishing the church himself, directing the boys — pointed at the rafters. "Higher! The flowers — higher! God sees all, boys, but the bride should too."
Tomas — arguing about the menu with three women at once — overruled everyone. "Posole. Tamales. Bizcochitos. No debate. This is settled."
"Settled," the women agreed — rolling their eyes, already making the posole.
Ned — best man — practiced his toast in the barn. Nervously. Repeatedly. To the horses.
"You'll be fine," Reed told him — amused, leaning in the doorway.
"What if I forget the words? In front of everyone?"
"Then you smile and raise your glass," Reed advised — wise as Solomon. "Works every time. Trust me."
"Did it work for you?" Ned asked — suspicious.
"I'm not telling," Reed said — dignified, walking away.
Meanwhile — the farmhouse — Reed was suffering his own preparations.
Ned — brutal, enjoying it — laid out the suit. "Try it."
"It's — tight," Reed complained — tugging.
"It's — fine," Ned said — firm. "Stand still."
"I fought at Antietam," Reed muttered. "This is worse."
"Hold still," Ned ordered — pinning a sleeve. "Mrs. Voss deserves — "
"Harriet," Reed corrected — automatic.
"Harriet deserves a husband who looks — " Ned stepped back — critical. "There. Handsome."
Reed — studying himself in the cracked mirror — grunted. "Handsome's a stretch."
"She'll think so," Ned said — quiet, certain.
Reed — meeting the boy's eyes in the glass — felt his throat close.
"Thank you, son," he said — rough.
"Anytime, Mr. Dawson," Ned said — soft. "Anytime."
Harriet — pretending calm, checking lists — checked them twice. Thrice.
"Nervous?" Maria Bell asked — helping with the flowers, deft hands.
"Terrified," Harriet admitted — honest, folding a napkin with surgical precision.
"Why? He's a good man. Everyone knows."
"Sixty-two," Harriet said — dry. "Widowed twenty years. Marrying in a church full of people who watched me ruin a magnate." She set down the napkin. "It's — a lot, Maria."
"It's — love," Maria said — firm, practical. "The rest is decoration."
Harriet — studying her, the young mother, the shoes on her children — smiled. "When did you get wise?"
"Cash payday," Maria grinned. "Does wonders."
Afternoon — the quilting. Six women. One quilt. For the bride.
"Blue — for fidelity," Maria declared — stitching.
"Yellow — for joy," said another.
Harriet — handed a needle — protested. "I can't — "
"You can," the women chorused — firm.
She sewed — badly, laughing. They — kindly — left her stitches. Crooked. Hers.
"Perfect," Maria pronounced — solemn.
Harriet — running her thumb over the crooked stitches — felt her throat close. "Mine," she whispered. "Truly mine." The women — pretending not to notice her tears — stitched on.
It was. Crooked and perfect.
Eve of the wedding — Harriet alone, the trading post quiet, the lamp low.
She took out — from the bottom drawer, wrapped in cloth — a photograph. Charles. Young. Smiling. Hopeful.
"Well," she said — soft, to the empty room. "Here we are."
Silence. The lamp hissed. Outside, the river.
"I loved you," she whispered. "Always will. Part of me." She touched the glass — gently. "But — " Her voice steadied. "It's time. You'd — " A tear fell. "You'd want me happy, Charles. You always did."
She put it away — gently, final, wrapped with care.
"Sleep well, Charles," she whispered — to the drawer, to the years. "I did — right by you. At the end." And sat — the quiet, the river beyond the walls.
Tomorrow, she thought — the church, the man, the valley watching.
Peace.
At last.
Chapter 20 — The Wedding
They married in the church — small, Paloma, the winter sun streaming.