If you are reading this, I ran out of days before I ran out of pride.
His mouth tightened.
Yes.
That sounded like her.
The letter did not apologize.
Not directly.
It said the house remained standing. It said he could sell it, leave it, burn every memory of it if that was what he chose. It said she would not ask him to come home or forgive her. It told him Lila could answer some questions if she wished.
Then came the line that hurt most.
I have given this family enough instructions to last a lifetime.
Graham read it twice.
Then a third time.
Still no tears.
Only anger.
His mother had managed to die exactly as she had lived: leaving him something difficult and refusing to tell him what to do with it.
He folded the letter.
Outside, Lila stood near the fence with her back to the tack room.
Graham walked toward her.
“Why didn't she just write the rest?”
Lila turned.
“I don't know.”
“She sends a stranger six hundred miles with a letter that doesn't explain anything.”
“I am not a stranger to her.”
“To me, you are.”
Lila accepted that with a small nod.
“Yes.”
Graham held up the folded page.
“Then tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Everything she didn't.”
Lila's expression changed.
“No.”
His anger flared.
“No?”
“She gave me permission to tell you what I know.”
“She did not order me to.”
“I'm not asking because she ordered you.”
“You're asking because you're angry.”
“Yes.”
“And that makes this the worst possible time.”
Graham stared.
Lila held his gaze.
The woman was either brave or had a poor instinct for self-preservation.
He could not yet tell which.
“What did you promise her?”
“To find you.”
“Done.”
“To put the letter in your hand.”
“Done.”
“And the spurs?”
“She wanted those delivered too.”
Graham looked toward them.
Still wrapped on the rail.
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Then your promise is finished.”
“Yes.”
“You can leave.”
Lila's face tightened slightly.
Not hurt exactly.
Something more controlled.
“I intend to.”
She reached for the cloth.
Graham stopped her.
“Leave the spurs.”
She did.
Then looked at him.
“Your mother was difficult.”
The sentence surprised him.
Graham almost laughed.
“That your attempt at comfort?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I'd be bad at it.”
She collected her gloves.
“She was controlling.”
“Proud.”
“Sharp-tongued when frightened.”
“She could punish people with silence for days.”
Graham stared.
Lila continued.
“I won't tell you death made her kinder than she was.”
“That's not what happened.”
“Then what did happen?”
Lila's expression softened.
“She became tired enough to recognize some of the things she'd refused to recognize while strong.”
Graham looked away.
That sentence followed him through the night.
He barely slept.
By dawn he had decided to go south.
Not home.
He refused to call it that.
Juniper Bend was a place.
A house.
Property.
A dead woman's remaining affairs.
Nothing more.
Silas found him saddling the dun gelding.
“You going?”
“Yes.”
“You want company?”
“No.”
Silas nodded.
“Lila Bennett leaves on the southern stage around noon.”
Graham paused.
“I didn't ask.”
“No.”
Silas checked a buckle.