He pointed toward the pantry.
“Biscuits.”
She brought two.
He ate half of one.
Eliza ate both of hers.
Grant watched.
“What?”
She asked.
“Nothing.”
“You have a face.”
“So I've been told.”
He smiled.
“I was thinking about the saucer.”
Eliza stopped.
“What saucer?”
“Blue.”
“Chipped.”
She laughed.
“You remember?”
“Every detail.”
“I hated that thing.”
“I kept it.”
She stared.
“You what?”
Grant looked pleased.
“Top shelf in the storeroom.”
Eliza stood.
“You kept that horrible saucer for forty years?”
“Apparently.”
“Why?”
Grant's expression softened.
“Because that was the night I learned feeding somebody and making room for them aren't necessarily the same thing.”
Eliza sat again.
He continued.
“I thought you needed food.”
“You needed a place.”
Her eyes filled.
“Grant.”
“Don't cry.”
“You're dying.”
“Exactly.”
“Very manipulative time to become sentimental.”
She laughed through tears.
He took her hand.
“You gave me a place too.”
“I already had the ranch.”
“House.”
“Samuel.”
“Work.”
He squeezed weakly.
“Not the same.”
Eliza leaned closer.
“What did I give you?”
Grant thought.
“Someone who argued when I was wrong.”
She laughed.
“Very romantic.”
“I wasn't finished.”
“You taught me that being needed isn't the same as being loved.”
Eliza became quiet.
Grant continued.
“I spent years thinking if everyone needed me, nobody would leave.”
“Samuel.”
“Ranch hands.”
“Cattle.”
“Then you arrived and refused half the things I offered.”
Eliza smiled.
“Still do.”
“Yes.”
“And stayed anyway.”
He closed his eyes.
“That was new.”
Eliza rested her forehead against his.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
“Arrogant.”
“Married forty years.”
“Evidence.”
Grant died two mornings later.
Eliza buried him on a hill beneath a cottonwood.
Samuel came home.
Nora.
Matthew.
Rose.
Grandchildren.
Ranch hands.
Neighbors.
People from the winter dining room.
More people than Grant would have wanted.
At supper after the funeral, everyone stood around the long table.
Eliza looked at the chairs.
So many.
Someone had placed food for everyone.
Samuel stood beside her.
He was gray now.
Still, for one moment, she saw the ten-year-old boy pushing his plate toward her.
“She can have mine.”
Eliza touched his arm.
“You remember?”
He nodded.
“Third chair.”
She smiled.
“Yes.”
Samuel looked toward the place Grant usually sat.
Empty.
“Feels wrong.”
“It is.”