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“I love you,” he said. “And I’m here for good.” Throat clogged with emotion, he had to work to get the rest out. “I’m so sorry you had to go through this alone.” He glanced at the tombstone and felt a kind of sorrow he’d never felt before. A loss of something he’d never known he’d wanted.
“We’ve wasted so much time.” Her voice shook, and she trembled like a leaf.
“That ends today. Right here. With our little boy watching. Keeping us on the straight line.” His voice was firm. His conviction strong. He was done running.
“I’ve loved you since the day I laid eyes on you, Calvin Bridgestone.” She slipped her hand into his, and he tucked her up against his side. “But what I feel right now is more. I feel right and good and finally free of this guilt I’ve been carrying around.”
They stayed that way for a good long while, the two of them, silent, taking strength from each other as he grappled with this news, and she gave up her guilt. Eventually, he kissed the top of her head. “Come on,” Cal said, drawing her away from the knoll. “What say we head out to the ranch and tell my family the news?”
“And what’s that, exactly?”
“That we’re getting a license, and I’m putting a ring on that finger of yours just as soon as I can.”
“I don’t need any of that,” she said softly, walking at his side.
“You might not. But I do.”
Cal slipped his arm across her shoulder, and the two of them slowly made their way back to the truck. He got in the driver’s side and pointed it to the Triple B. The radio was playing, one of his songs, and damned if the woman at his side didn’t know every single word.
His heart was full.
It was a good day to be a Bridgestone.
EPILOGUE
Cal foundthe letters in a square tin box, tucked away on the top shelf behind a pile of crap in the attic. He almost missed it, but sunlight streaming in from the window reflected off it, and, curious, he’d pulled it down.
It took a bit to tug off the lid. He sat down on an old trunk filled with his great-grandmother’s clothes and sorted through the box. It was filled with pictures, old snapshots of a very young Manley Bridgestone, and Cal’s mother, Joelle. In them, his father was tall and broad-shouldered, though his lanky limbs showed he hadn’t quite grown into his frame. His hair was longer than Cal ever remembered it, and in most of the photos, a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. Ryland was the spitting image of him.
But it was his mother who held his attention. As he went through the photos, those of her with her sisters, friends, and most of them with Manley, he saw something he hadn’t expected. Something he’d forgotten about. Love.
It was in the way they looked at each other. How Manley’s hand rested on her back, or the way she laid her head on his shoulder. There were pictures of them holding hands, with Manley leaning close, whispering into her ear. Some were of them kissing in the middle of a crowd.
They were private moments frozen in time, and Cal felt like a voyeur. He carefully stacked them together and reached for a pile of letters at the bottom of the tin. They were from his mother, addressed to his dad, and he hesitated, thinking that it might cross a line. Who was he to read private correspondence between his parents?
They were tied together in chronological order. He couldn’t help himself and gently untied the string. Then sat back and began to read.
May 22,1984
Dear Manley,
Daddy says I can’t come to the rodeo next weekend for Memorial Day.
He says he doesn’t want me fooling around with a bunch of no-good cowpokes.
Little does he know I’m getting a ride to Big Bend with Larissa.
I’ll meet you by the big red barn.
I love you with all my heart, and I can’t wait to be your wife.
Xo
Joelle
March 10,1985
Dear Manley,
