Page 107 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

James standing beside Walter in front of a truck that looked older than both of them.

A little blonde girl sitting on a pony with a helmet far too big for her head.

Carson.

I slowed. There were dozens of her.

Carson missing her front teeth.

Carson holding a kitten.

Carson in muddy overalls beside James.

Carson sitting on the hood of the black Chevy currently occupying one of my garage bays.

Carson beside Blueberry holding a buckle nearly as wide as her waist.

Older Carson at rodeos.

Her high school graduation.

Birthdays.

Christmas mornings.

It was like walking through the years of someone’s life without permission. But what stood out wasn’t how many pictures there were. It was who appeared in them.

James.

Evelyn.

Carson.

There were other faces occasionally.

My dad.

My mom.

A few people I recognized from town.

Ranch hands.

Kids Carson must have gone to school with.

But almost every photograph that looked like family came back to the same three people.

I remembered what Dad had said. James and Evelyn raised her. I hadn’t thought much about what that actually meant.

There was one photograph near the edge of a shelf that made me stop. A young woman held a baby against her chest; she looked barely old enough to have a child. But the resemblance with the baby was immediate. Same blonde hair Carson had. Same shape to the eyes. Same nose.

Meme appeared beside me carrying a bowl. “That’s my daughter.”

I looked toward her. “Carson’s mom?”

She nodded. “Long time ago.”

There was something in the way she said it that made every question I might have asked feel inappropriate.