Grace mirrors him, lifting her own cup, a soft smile curving her lips. “To new roots,” she echoes.
Epilogue
Marcel 1987
A year has passedsince Clara said yes—yes to staying, yes to love, yes to building something new on land that has carried both our grief and our hope. In that year, the rhythm of life has settled in a way made sweeter by the long, aching road that led us back to one another.
Clara and I have made a home in the little cottage tucked out on the far edge of the fields. The place had been nothing but weathered boards and dust when I first showed it to her, but together we cleaned, mended, and painted until it shone bright again. It isn’t grand, but it’s ours—sunlight through lace curtains, the smell of bread in the oven, the sound of her humming while I mend a bridle. I still work around the ranch, but more often these days I find myself working for her—fetching wood, fixing steps, building a life out of small, steady gestures.
Sundays are for church and for family. Clara slips her hand into mine during the hymns, and when the preacher speaks of grace, I know she is my living example. We’ve traded guilt for forgiveness, sorrow for love. Every day with her feels like a gift wrestled back from time itself.
We’ve begun to plan a trip to Cheyenne so I can meet Sebastian. I’m looking forward to talking with him, getting to know him. I just hope he will accept me.
And then there’s Grace.
She and Isaac didn’t surprise us when they married just a few months after she arrived here. Young love often burns fast, but theirs is something deeper, rooted, like it belongs to this land as much as each other. She’s carrying their first child now—round with new life, cheeks flushed with expectancy. Another generation is coming to Devil’s Ridge. Another branch grafted into this stubborn old tree.
Eli, never one to be idle, built himself a little place on the back of the property. Says he prefers it to rattling around the big house. He left the main ranch house to Grace and Isaac, telling them to fill it with children. They manage the land together with a kind of unity that reminds me of Ada and Frank. The Hayes legacy continues, strong and steady, just with a new last name.
This evening we’re all gathered at the long table. Thankfully, Grace is a good cook and the smell of her roast chicken and biscuits fill the air, while laughter floats through the room.
Clara sits beside me, her hand warm on my thigh. Grace and Isaac sit across the table, their fingers twined as though neither can quite let go. Eli clears his throat and rises, lifting his glass, a twinkle in his eye, as Ruth does the same.
“Well,” he begins, slow and teasing, “looking at this table, I’d say the ranch has done it’s best at mending hearts and joining new ones. Marcel and Clara quit circling one another like spooked horses. Grace and Isaac, well—you didn’t waste time at all.” He grins, and laughter ripples around the table. “Love has a way of sneaking in, whether you’re twenty or eighty. And this land…” His gaze sweeps the room. “This land keeps hold of the people it’s meant to, making strangers family. That’s the real blessing.”
He pauses, his expression softening, and for a moment, the weight of generations seems to rest in his voice. “Family, love, hard work, and a table full of food. This is all a man can ask for.”
Then, with care, he sets his glass down and reaches into his vest. He pulls out an envelope, and slides it across the table toward Isaac.
The young man blinks, confused. “What’s this?”
Eli sits and leans back in his chair, a smile tugging at his lips. “Papers. Making it official. The ranch is yours now—yours and Grace’s. Devil’s Ridge belongs to the next generation.”
Silence falls, thick with awe. Grace presses her hands to her mouth, tears brimming. Isaac stares down at the envelope, then back at Eli, his jaw tight with emotion.
“I don’t know what to say, Eli. Thank you.”
Grace peers up, “Yes, thank you, Eli.”
Ruth raises her glass, “To Devil’s Ridge and to the Myers.”
We all raise our glasses as Grace leans her head on Isaac’s shoulder.
And I, after all these years, feel the rare and holy knowing that we’ve come full circle. Love lost. Love found. Generations turning. And Devil’s Ridge is still standing, strong as ever.
Clara
The table is full tonight, the way I always dreamed but never thought I’d get to see. The food is nearly gone, Isaac keeps reaching for more potatoes, and Grace, glowing, laughs at something Eli says. Marcel sits beside me, his arm brushing mine every time he lifts his fork. It’s the smallest touch, but after all these years, it still makes my heart race like the girl I once was.
I watch them all—my granddaughter, her husband, the man I love—and I feel the weight of my years. I have lived throughthe rigid expectations of society, the suffocating demands of a loveless marriage, the bitter taste of regret. I have carried secrets, buried pieces of myself, and convinced the world I was content.
Marcel was the one who loved me with a depth I didn’t know how to hold. And I let the years fall through my fingers like water. I traded pieces of myself, entire dreams to keep everyone else happy. I traded him. I traded us. And I lost so much damn time.
But here, at this table, I have found what I thought I lost forever and I know I have all of eternity to enjoy it.
For decades, I told myself the story that the summer in 1923 was something fragile, meant to be hidden. A stolen season, tucked into the hidden corners of my heart. But it wasn’t fragile. It wasn’t fleeting. It was love, true and relentless, waiting all this time to bloom again.
Marcel wraps his arm around me, his thumb tracing slow circles against my shoulder. When I glance at him, he’s already looking at me, like he’s been waiting for me to notice. His eyes soften, and I know he’s remembering it too. The first dance. The compass. The way we promised each other the impossible.
