"To standing up!" they roared.
A mill hand — young, shy — sang. A love song. Off-key. Perfect.
James — emboldened — asked a village girl to dance. Rosa. Sixteen. Laughing.
Thorne — watching his son whirl — felt time fold.
Thirty years ago — he'd danced like that. Before the hunger.
Harriet and Reed — slipping away — walked to the river. Alone.
The water — moonlit, singing.
"Do you remember," Harriet murmured, "the Sunday?"
"Every detail." Reed's arm tightened. "You — in black. The paper. Thorne's face."
"I was terrified."
"I know." He kissed her temple. "That's why it was brave."
They stood — the river, the moon, the music faint.
Behind them — the bonfire burned low. Tomas covered it — sand, careful, the old ways.
"Sleep," he told the embers. "We'll need you tomorrow."
The widow. The river. Us.
And the stories — settling like silt.
Rich. Deep.
The last dancers — young, tireless — twirled till the fiddle gave out.
Tomas banked the fire — sand, ash, the old care.
"Sleep," he told the embers — soft. "Dream of rain."
Harriet — passing, Reed's arm around her — paused.
"Tomas."
"Señora."
"Thank you. For — " She gestured — the night, the valley. "Everything."
"De nada." He bowed — deep, playful. "You gave us the paper. We gave you the party. Fair trade."
She laughed — crying a little — and kissed his cheek.
Walking home — the moon high — Harriet stopped at the river. Whispered.
"Goodnight."
The water answered — over stone.
Reed — holding her close — understood. Some loves are people. Some are places.
Hers — was both.
Home.
Chapter 28 — The Years
The years passed — kindly, mostly.
Ned — twenty-five, the trading post his — married Miss Delgado's niece. Children — two, the joy.
Peterson — retired, the mill James's. Thorne — consultant emeritus, seventy, content.
Reed — sixty, the farm Ned's boys helping — slowed. Gently.
Harriet — seventy, the spectacles, the ledger Ned's now — rested. Finally.
Sunday afternoons — the porch, the river — they sat. Hand in hand.
"Regrets?" Reed asked — once, the dusk.
"One," Harriet said — quiet.
"What?"
"That we didn't meet sooner."
Reed — kissing her forehead — said: "We met when we needed to."
True, she thought — the river singing.
True.
August — the heat shimmering, the river low and clear — Reed took Ned's children swimming.
Elena — six, fearless. Rafa — four, clinging.
"Uncle Reed!" Elena demanded — hands on hips, miniature of her mother's sister. "Teach us now!"
"Patience, mija." Reed — sixty, the limp, the grin — waded in. "First — respect the river."
"Respect?" Rafa whispered — wide-eyed.
"She's strong. She gives. But — " Reed tapped his chest. "You listen first. Always."
Harriet watched from the cottonwood shade — seventy, the spectacles, a book unopened on her lap.
Elena went first — kicking, splashing, shrieking with delight. Reed held her steady — big hands, gentle.
"Float," he coached. "Starfish. Arms out. Trust it."
She floated — wobbling, then still — and gasped.
"I'm doing it! Abuela Harriet — look!"
"I see, sweetheart!" Harriet called — clapping, beaming. "Beautiful!"
Rafa — encouraged, terrified — edged in. Reed knelt — water to his chest — and opened his arms.
"Come on, partner. I've got you."
Rafa launched — splash, giggle, clinging like a barnacle.
"See?" Reed murmured — holding him close. "The river holds you. Like family."
They played till dusk — diving, racing leaves, Elena teaching Rafa to blow bubbles. Reed — tireder than he'd admit — glowed.
Supper — Ned's table, crowded, joyful — Elena recounted every moment.
"And Uncle Reed says the river is family!"
"Does he?" Ned — thirty, proud father — grinned at Reed.
"She is," Reed said — simple. "Fed us. Taught us. Forgave us." He glanced at Harriet. "Like family does."
Harriet's eyes shone.
Later — the porch, the children asleep inside — Reed and Harriet sat hand in hand.
"Regrets?" he asked — once, the dusk.
"One," she said — quiet.
"What?"
"That we didn't meet sooner."
Reed kissed her forehead — tender.
"We met when we needed to."
True, she thought — the river singing, the children's laughter echoing.
True.
The picnic — blankets, bread, Paloma's tamales — spread under the cottonwoods.
Harriet — settling, the shade cool — took Elena's hand.
"Letters," she announced. "In the sand."
She drew — slow, the spectacles slipping: A.
"A — ah — like agua. Water."
Elena — tongue out, concentrating — copied. Crooked. Perfect.
"R — ere — like river. Rio."
Rafa — abandoning letters — climbed onto Reed's chest and fell asleep. Instantly. Deeply.
Reed — trapped, delighted — didn't move.
"He trusts you," Harriet murmured — soft.
"He should." Reed stroked the boy's hair — gentle. "I'm trustworthy. Ask anyone."
"I asked," Harriet teased — eyes shining. "The river vouched."
Ned and his wife — watching from the blanket — exchanged a look.
This, the look said. This is wealth.
Dusk — the walk home. Elena chattering, Rafa carried, the fireflies starting.
"Abuela Harriet," Elena asked — solemn, "will you teach me every day?"
"Every day I'm given," Harriet promised — honest.
That night — the porch, the children asleep inside — Reed held her hand.
"Regrets?"
"One."
"That we didn't meet sooner."
Reed kissed her forehead.
"We met when we needed to."
True, she thought — the river singing, small breaths soft inside.
On the porch — Harriet dozed. Mid-sentence. The book slipping.
Reed — gentle — covered her with the shawl. Tucked it close.
Inside — the children's breathing. Soft. Even. Elena murmuring letters in her sleep: "A — agua — R — rio — "
Reed — listening, smiling — sat beside his wife. Held her hand. Lightly. Not to wake.