Extended Epilogue

Four Years Later

July 25,1872

Houma, Louisiana

Brooks Shanton looked at the calendar on the wall as a smile curved his lips. Life sure has changed in such a few short years. He didn’t often spend time regretting the past, or even looking back. It was better, he knew, to think about each day and be glad, but he couldn’t help remembering how just a few years ago he’d sat in this very room, a dusty, cobweb-infested kitchen, with a bottle of whiskey as his only companion, mourning Emily and the boys – right up until Hattie swooped into his life. He chuckled to himself as he stared at his wife, who was busy mixing pie crust. Today is four years since my life began again.

“Did you notice the date?” he asked as Hattie turned to give him a smile, those lovely green eyes sparkling as usual. Today she wore a dark green dress, sprinkled with yellow daisies and green ivy vines. Her shiny blonde hair, grown long enough to braid and coil into a bun on her head, hung down her back this morning like a little girl’s.

Hattie came over to him and brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “I noticed the date yesterday,” she teased him, curling his hair behind his ears, “and that’s why I decided to bake apple pies today. We’ll have a celebration.”

“Oh, we will, will we?” He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her soundly on the lips. “I think we should. It’s truly one of the happiest days of my life.”

For just a minute, her face took on a serious look as she whispered, touching her warm forehead to his, “Truly, Brooks? You don’t think about – about them?”

“Yes,” he said, “I do think about Emily and the boys, but I know I can’t do anything to change the past. Somehow, I think maybe Emily had a hand in you coming to my door that day. These last four years with you and the children have been like I’ve been given life all over again. I love you, Hattie.”

She’d just bent over to give him another kiss when a plaintive little voice called from the cabin door, “Papa, Papa!” Olive stood there, her sturdy little body quivering in indignation. “Today it’s my turn to carry the milk pail, but Sammy won’t let me.”

Behind her, a little tow-headed boy glared at his sister. Sammy, named after Brooks’ old deputy, held the handle of the milk pail in a white-knuckled hand, the pail almost brushing the tops of his little boots.

Hattie gave Brooks a quick kiss to the tip of his nose and got up. “Now, Sammy, you know today is Olive’s turn to help Papa.”

While Brooks watched, Hattie managed to unclench the little boy’s hands from the milk pail and hand it off to Olive. Then, to staunch the tears quivering from his green eyes, she tugged the collar of his blue shirt and whispered in his ear. “You can be a special helper to Papa today. I think you are big enough to carry a cookie in case Papa gets hungry milking the cow. Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” the three-year-old answered, a smile bringing the sunshine back to his chubby baby face. “Me tookie too?”

“Mama?” Olive began, watching Hattie hand Sammy two cookies. “I would like a cookie, too, if Papa and Sammy are eating one.”

With her cheerful laugh, Hattie handed Olive an oatmeal raisin cookie, too, and shooed them out the cabin door with her yellow, flour dusted apron. “Out, out, all of you! I’ve got baking to do!”

Brooks grabbed up his son, oatmeal cookie crumbs lining his mouth, and followed Olive, the milk pail clanking down each wooden step as they hurried out of the cabin. He and Sammy shared the cookies as they headed for the barn and their morning chores. The barn smelled of sunshine, baked hay, the not-unpleasant scent of cow hides, and the pungent aroma of a stall that needed to be mucked. Olive abandoned the milk pail and went to do what she considered “her” chore – spreading feed to the chickens.

“Papa? Why you do dat?”

Brooks smiled down at his son, his heart overflowing as always for such a precious gift. “Well now, Sammy, you like to drink milk, don’t you?” When the little boy nodded, Brooks scooped a measure of grain and poured it into the feeding trough to keep Ruth still while he milked.

The brown, short-horned cow nudged him with her head, then turned to munch the grain. The little boy’s green eyes, so much like Hattie’s, stared at everything with a fresh, open eagerness.

George and James, you would have loved your little brother.

Pulling up the three-legged stool and the milk pail, Brooks sat down beside Ruth. “Since you like milk, we have to get Ruth here to give it to us.” After a pat to the cow’s side, Brooks began the gentle rhythm of pulling and squeezing the milk into the pail. A barn cat came at the first sound of the liquid hitting the tin sides. “Hey, there, Sarah,” he smiled at the little gray tabby, glad for her help in keeping mice out of the barn. “I’ll pour you a saucer as soon as I’m done.”

“We po’ sauc’a soon as we done,” Sammy repeated in his baby lisp, a promise Sammy kept after the pail foamed with milk. He sat the cracked saucer down, then Brooks handed him a dipper of milk and Sammy tipped it out for the cat. The little boy, short legs scurrying in brown pants, tagged along as Brooks put the milk pail in the spring house to cool.

By the side of the cabin, Olive clucked in imitation of her mama feeding the chickens. “Here, chick, chick,” she called, her hands tossing feed every which way. The chickens scurried around, pecking the ground for breakfast.

Midnight snickered from the small corral beside the barn, reminding Brooks of his presence. “You’ll get your hay, too,” he said. Brooks walked outside, picking up a pitchfork, and scooped up a mound of hay from the haystack to toss into the corral.

Sammy trailed along, as he did most days when Brooks took care of the barn chores. His questions were never ending, but Brooks had never minded the sweet voices of his children, even when Hattie hollered they were about to drive her out of her mind. Brooks cherished every second with this second chance at a family – although he did admit that those two a.m. feedings made a man wonder why babies were so much work. Even when he grumbled to have a night’s rest undisturbed, he didn’t mean it.

“We’ve been through a lot the past few years, haven’t we, fella?” He patted Midnight’s sun-warmed flank and leaned against the top rail of the corral fence. Sammy tried to pull himself up to pat the horse, so Brooks gave him a hand. He’d just sat Sammy on the top rail of the corral when Olive came racing over to join them.

“Papa! Papa!” Olive hollered as she hop-skipped across the yard, scattering the flock of chickens before her. Her pink calico dress fluttered around her legs and, as usual, her feet were bare and muddy. The small yellow braids Hattie carefully tended and tied with pretty ribbons each morning were undone. Olive’s yellow curls tumbled around her flushed cheeks, and she brushed them impatiently out of her blue eyes. A tomboy at heart, Olive loved nothing better than climbing trees or riding the pony Brooks had bought her.

“Whoa, slow down,” Brooks cautioned as Olive cantered to a stop, out of breath. “What are you in such an all-fired hurry for?”

Like her brother, Olive clambered up on the corral fence so she could pat the horse. “I fed the chickens and went inside, but Mama said I was to come outside and bother you for a while. She said she’s worn out from noisy children and wants a little quiet.”

“She did, did she?” Brooks smiled in the direction of the cabin – a much larger cabin these days. Filled with my family. Life sure is different than that day when Hattie and Olive fell through my door.

“How come you’re smiling like that, Papa?” Olive asked.

“Oh, I guess I just felt like smiling,” he answered, brushing Olive’s stray curls away from her flushed cheeks. “Today is a special day and I know a secret.”

“Tell me,” Olive begged. Beside her Sammy begged too, “Me, Papa, me tell.”

Olive gave her brother a withering look. “No, Sammy, if it’s a secret you can’t tell. Can you, Papa?” Then realizing she really wanted to know the secret, she changed it to, “Well, you can tell me ‘cause I won’t tell anybody else.”

Helping both children down from the fence, Brooks bent down, so they were all eye to eye. “If I tell you the secret, you can’t tell Mama. At least not for a little while yet. Do you promise?”

Olive nodded. When Sammy appeared not to understand, she grabbed his ears and made him nod up and down. Satisfied, they’d promised, she whispered. “We won’t tell Mama a word. Not a word.”

“Remember when John Pierre brought a letter last week? Well, it was from a friend who told me he’s coming to visit us today.”

Olive’s little lips curved in displeasure. Brooks could almost hear her thoughts. What kind of a secret is that? “It’s someone very special and I want you both to be on your best behavior when he comes. We can’t tell Mama yet though. It must be a surprise.”

Brooks knew his daughter well enough to know Olive didn’t much like this secret, even before she asked a grumbly question.

“Is this the kind of friend where Mama’s gonna brush my hair and make me wear a fancy dress?” Her little eyes opened wide at the horrors that might await, “and shoes? Do I gotta wear shoes?”

“Shoes?” Sammy repeated, although he rarely went anywhere – even to bed – without his small brown cowboy boots. Just like Papa’s, he always said, and sobbed uncontrollably when Hattie made him take them off to sleep.

“If you don’t want to wear shoes or fancy dresses,” Brooks reassured her, “this friend won’t mind.”

“I like this friend,” Olive decided. “What’s his name?”

“Michael Storey. Remember I told you stories about him? He’s a sheriff in Texas.”

Olive nodded. “I remember you and Mama talking about him. An’ how Sammy’s named after your old deputy. Maybe Mama knows your old secret anyway, ‘cause she’s making apple pies for supper.”

Brooks winked. “Oh, I don’t think she knows the secret. She just knows I like apple pie and today is a special day. Now, you two rapscallions go play somewhere and don’t bother Mama for a while. I’ve got to mend the fence where the cows broke through in the south pasture. If you see Michael coming, ring the dinner bell so I hear.”

“Papa, how come it’s a special day?”

“It’s the day I met your Mama.” Brooks saddled Midnight, watching as the children went to play a game. His heart felt full, and the pain of the date July 25th no longer beat in his mind as the day when he’d found Emily, George, and James dead. Now the date had joyful memories – the day Hattie and Olive fell through his door and into his life. What a glad day that had been.

***

Hattie hummed to herself as she placed two apple pies in the oven of her Franklin stove. She glanced out the window to see Olive and Sammy playing a game they loved – riding a stick horse around the yard. Lily shouldn’t wake up for another hour or so from her nap. Earlier, Brooks had said he planned to mend the fence in the south pasture. A glance at the calendar reminded her of the date she’d first met Brooks: July 25th.

Time to sit a spell and remember.

Hattie knew she’d never be as smart as her husband. She’d never had any schooling at all, although Brooks did his best to help her learn to read better and do sums.

With the help of Miz Landry and Miz Watkins at the plantation, Hattie figured she’d learned how to be a right good housekeeper and mama, and by the time Lily was born, she sure had mastered those linen diapers! Babies took a powerful lot of those before they could use the privy like anybody else.

She knew she’d never be as smart as Brooks in book learning, though. Brooks’ mind was sharp as anything and he could think things through in a way Hattie knew she’d never try. Hattie didn’t rightly understand all what he meant, but she knew she learned more each day as Brooks’ wife. When he explained things, they seemed to make a lot more sense.

They’d talked a lot about how his first wife and sons died. “You coming to me on the same date,” Brooks had explained once, “makes it like a circle. From the tragedy of that day six years ago, to the happiness we have now.” Hattie liked that idea, and something else Brooks always said: “Good can come from evil, Hattie, just sometimes it’s a mighty hard road to get there.”

Hattie sighed, sat in her rocking chair, and closed her eyes, enjoying the slight breeze coming in through the window. Maybe it was like Brooks said, and there was a God somewhere looking out for them all. Maybe He’d been there all along when her Mama sold her to Mateo Avila and set her life on a hard, dangerous road. After all, if not for that road, she may never have met Brooks.

A smile curved Hattie’s lips as she thought of her strong, handsome husband. It had taken her a while to get used to the idea that he wasn’t going to abandon her or mistreat her. That he loved her – dumb little old Hattie Munn, whose Ma didn’t even want her.

Hattie especially loved the nights they lay in one another’s arms, their heads sharing one pillow as they whispered in the dark. It had taken years of such nights for her to feel safe and loved. On more than one night she’d shared her life with the gang as Brooks wept with her.

“I’m so sorry,” he’d say, his face wet with tears that mingled with her own. “Sorry I couldn’t save you a long time ago.” Having Brooks understand made up for all those awful years she’d been alone and afraid with just Francisco to look out for her.

As she rocked, looking around her clean, well-swept cabin, Hattie smiled at all the nice things Brooks had bought her. Every so often, she looked around and knew how blessed she was to have the life she had now. Oh, she loved her “pretties,” as Miz Landry called them, the fine walnut China hutch with pretty China – even a teapot with a violet on the lid – the calico curtains fluttering at the windows, chairs with soft cushions, and kerosene lamps with glass globes of fine white porcelain painted with yellow roses. But Hattie knew she would not mind losing those things. Like Mavi had taught her long ago, they weren’t as important as her precious Brooks, Olive, Sammy, and Lily.

“Mama! Mama!” Olive hollered from outside. “I see a rider coming from the south.”

Hattie sighed. Although she dearly loved all three of her children, she had to admit that some days being a mama got tiresome. Although, as she often told Brooks, it was a sight better being a mama than riding with a gang.

Hattie walked out onto the porch and stared off to the south. It was impossible to tell who the rider might be from this distance, but in the past few years she had learned not to jump at every visit from a stranger. Those years with the Avila gang had marked her for a long time after, but with Brooks’ love and their children, she had finally put the past behind her.

“Mama!” Olive jumped from the tree where she’d been keeping watch. “Papa said if anyone came, I was to ring the dinner bell so he could come. In case anyone came.”

As the rider grew closer, she could see the broad white Stetson and knew it must be Michael Storey coming for a visit. It wasn’t often Michael rode the distance from Beaumont to Houma, but he was always welcome when he did. Now that he had two younger deputies and a bride of his own, he tried to make the journey once a year to visit his old friends.

“Well, then,” she told Olive, “ring the dinner bell while I put the coffee pot on.”

Hattie bustled inside the cabin, wiping floury hands down the yellow apron. Outside she heard the clang, clang, clang as Olive jerked the iron dinner bell side to side. Smiling to herself, she went to pull open the oven door to check the pies. Sheriff Storey surely did love his apple pie – just like Brooks. And just maybe, he would have news about Francisco.

***

Michael rode up in time to meet Brooks as he came from the corral, alerted by the dinner bell’s clang. “Michael! You made it! Your letter was a little mysterious. Why are you so far from home?”

“Well now, that’s a long story. I hope you can let me bunk here for a day or so.”

“You know you’re always welcome.” Brooks looked down at the children, staring in amazement at the tall, white hatted man on the golden palomino. “You remember Olive and Sammy? Olive, do you remember Sheriff Storey? He visited last year.”

“Well, now, they were no bigger than grasshoppers last year.” Michael tipped his hat to Olive who giggled. Sammy, not quite certain about this near-stranger, grabbed Brooks’ pant leg and hid his face.

“Hello, Sheriff Storey,” Olive had never met a stranger, and her grown-up way of talking surprised many. “Guess what? I’m almost five years old now! My birthday is August first and Papa took me to town all by myself and I got to pick out a present at the mercantile …”

The words were run together in Olive’s usual impetuous way, but Michael seemed to enjoy the prattle. “Is that a fact? Why, I can remember last year, when you were only four.”

“I was a baby then,” Olive’s nose crinkled, and she sneered at how young that was. “Sammy’s only three, almost four, now and Lily’s not even a whole year old yet.”

“That’s right, I haven’t seen the newest addition to the family!”

“Olive,” Brooks knew his daughter well enough to know she’d never stop talking unless someone shushed her. “That’s enough for now. You can visit Sheriff Storey later. Go tell Mama we’ve got company for dinner.”

“She already knows that Papa, she saw him, same as I did before I rung the dinner bell. Then she went inside to make coffee.”

A stern, “Olive,” buttoned her lips.

The little girl stopped, hurt, but knew better than to argue. Brooks gave her a smile and a chuck under the chin to soften the blow. “Take Sammy with you.”

“Well look at that big boy,” Sheriff Storey said as Brooks drew the little boy away from his tight hold on his pant leg. “He’s grown since I’ve seen him.”

“He’s three,” Olive informed him again, eager to get across this necessary information. “He won’t be four for months and months. C’mon Sammy, let’s go tell Mama what Papa said.”

Reluctantly, Sammy grabbed his sister’s hand with a fearful look back at Michael. He tugged his brown pants up with the other hand and followed Olive, almost stepping on her heels.

“That little Olive sure speaks her mind, doesn’t she? Sounds a lot like her Mama. What’d you ever do to have such sweet kids, Brooks?”

Brooks laughed, once the kids were out of distance of hearing, he joked, “Well we stole one from an orphanage. The rest are homegrown.”

Michael laughed at the private joke, knowing his friend’s secrets as well as his own.

They had decided Olive would never need to know the truth about her birth.

“I don’t want her to think somebody didn’t want her from the start,” Hattie had said as they rode away from the orphanage on that long ago day, “We loved her from the beginning and that’s all she needs to know.”

“What are you doing out this way? No trouble, I hope?”

“No trouble at all. I had a chance to be out this way and since it wasn’t that far from you all, I decided to pay a visit. See that new little one Hattie wrote to me about. And I wanted to bring that present I wrote you about.”

Brooks grinned, anticipating Hattie’s pleasure in the present.

They shared the local news from Beaumont and Houma as they walked toward the cabin and the delicious aromas of pot roast and apple pie.

“Michael!” Hattie threw her arms around him and hugged him hard. “I think I knew we’d be havin’ company today. I put on a special company meal this morning and baked pies. I’m so glad to see you. Come, sit, tell us about everyone in Beaumont. Olive, set the table. Sammy, you help her.”

As the children hurried to put plates, cups, and silverware at each place at the big wooden table, Hattie couldn’t stop talking. She dished up pot roast, potatoes, and a bowl of creamed peas.

“Do you see much of Mavi and Jeb?” Hattie bustled around the kitchen, pulling a pan of warm biscuits from the oven with a dish towel.

Michael sat at the place Brooks motioned him and accepted a hot cup of coffee in a fancy glass cup. “Doing fine, doing fine.” He took a sip and leaned his bulk back in the chair, spurs clanking on the wooden floor. “Jeb comes for a visit every week or so when he’s in town. You wouldn’t believe the improvements they’ve made on the ranch. Jeb decided to raise cattle, and they’ve got a fine herd now. They fixed up the big house just dandy. You wouldn’t recognize the place.”

“I’m glad.” Hattie set a dish of butter on the table and grabbed a China pitcher of milk.

At his chair, Brooks delighted in watching Hattie’s happiness in having fine things like China. Hattie had never asked for fancy furbelows or fine China – but he knew how it delighted her.

“Mavi sends her regards. Says you all should bring the children for a visit someday.”

“Mavi wrote me they took in some children. How’s that working out?” Pulling out Sammy’s chair, Hattie lifted him into his seat and tied a towel around his neck. She quickly started serving dishes around the table, helping the children fill their plates. Cutting up Sammy’s meat and buttering a biscuit for Olive, she kept her bright, inquisitive eyes focused on Michael’s face like he might vanish, like she was hungrier for news of their friends than food.

“They did indeed,” Michael helped himself to the pot roast and passed it to Brooks. “Mavi said since they couldn’t have any children themselves, they’d help others. Last time I went out there were three boys and two girls from an orphanage in the south. You wouldn’t believe how those young ones just can’t do enough for Jeb and Mavi.”

Olive and Sammy were quiet during the meal. Sammy was always shy around strangers, but Olive had never met a stranger yet. When it was just family, Brooks and Hattie let her chatter away. When company came, though, the children were expected to mind their manners. Brooks could tell Olive was having a hard time keeping her little pink lips silent.

Thankfully, Michael must have noticed too. “So, Olive,” he said, and the little girl perked up, those blue eyes sparkling, “what did you buy for your birthday?”

“Papa bought me a doll for my very own. I can show you after we eat.”

“Well, that’s right nice.”

Since no one stopped her, Olive prattled on. “Mama said I could name her anything I wanted, so I named her Hattie ‘cause it’s the prettiest name I know.” She grinned at her mother, butter dripping from her chin.

Hattie leaned over to wipe her daughter’s face. “I told her there’s prettier names,” she said in embarrassed delight, “but she’s set on it. “

“It is the prettiest name there is,” Brooks smiled across the wooden table at his wife. Hattie flushed and looked down at her plate.

The meal went on with quiet conversation and ended with warm apple pie, just as Lily set up a fuss from the other room. “Olive, go joggle the cradle a minute until I can feed her. Take Sammy with you. I’ll come in a minute.”

The children scrambled out of the chairs and went to do as they were told. Both loved nothing better than helping with their baby sister. “You got some mighty fine young ones there.” Michael forked up another bite of pie, “and a mighty fine baker in Hattie. I swear, Hattie, if I eat another bite my Angie’s going to have to sew my pants bigger!”

Hattie, unmindful of Lily’s escalating whimpers for a meal, or Michael’s compliment, moved her chair closer to his and asked in a quiet, eager voice. “Have you heard anything of Francisco lately?”

“That’s right, it’s about time his sentence is over,” Brooks said as he took another bite of apple pie. He winked at Michael. “Have you heard anything about his plans? Where will he go? The warden sent me a letter not long ago that Francisco was a model prisoner and he had great hopes of him leading a better life once he gets out.”

“Well, now,” Michael got a smile on his face, “that’s another reason I thought I’d pay you all a little visit.” He stood and went to the cabin door. “I sure hope, Hattie, you’ve got enough of this fine meal to feed another mouth.”

With that cryptic remark, he stood on the porch and emitted a loud, piercing whistle. Hattie looked at Brooks, at Michael, rose from her chair and ran outside. From the bedroom, Olive and Sammy ran into the kitchen, curiosity in their eyes. Sammy looked on the verge of tears and grabbed Brooks’ leg to hide his face.

“What’s wrong? Mama? Papa? Why did the sheriff whistle so loud?”

Across the back pasture a rider on a black stallion drew closer. Hattie pressed a hand to her mouth as tears pooled in her eyes. A silent word formed on her lips: “Francisco.”

Francisco rode up to the porch, dismounted in a hurry, and ran to grab Hattie in his arms. Off to the side, Michael and Brooks watched the joyful reunion. Brooks’ heart soared at seeing Hattie so happy. It had been difficult to keep Michael’s secret, but well worth it to see Hattie’s shining face.

The man who stood on the porch hugging Hattie had changed in the years since they’d seen him in Beaumont Jail. His dark hair had been neatly cut and although his cragged face still bore scars from his years with the gang, a genuine smile creased the hardened cheeks in newfound happiness. Francisco wore clean dark pants and a brown shirt. Instead of the sombrero he’d worn much of his life, a black Stetson topped his head. Without the sombrero, Francisco looked more respectable, somehow.

The children stood beside their Papa, staring in curiosity at this stranger. Sammy whimpered and snuffled a runny nose against Brooks’ leg. Inside, baby Lily announced to the world that she better get her dinner, and soon!

“Francisco, Francisco,” Hattie half cried, half muttered the name, hugging him so tightly the man looked on the verge of having his breath squeezed out. “I missed you so much!”

“Mama,” Olive interrupted, tugging on Hattie’s apron, “Lily’s awful hungry.”

“Oh my!” Hattie let Francisco go, wiped her tears with the yellow apron and apologized. “I have got to feed that baby. Brooks, you give Francisco some dinner. Now, don’t you go anywhere.”

Francisco shook his head and crossed his heart. “Michael has offered me a job with him in Beaumont. We are going to stay a few days and have a nice long visit before we leave.” He laughed, a sound like bells ringing out. “I am to be a deputy! How is that for a change, my sweet Hattie?”

Hattie, tears filling her eyes, couldn’t speak as she went to feed Lily.

Brooks shook Francisco’s hand. “We meet under better circumstances this time. I’m glad things worked out for you.”

“As am I.” Francisco’s leathered hand shook Brooks’ hard. “And grateful to have such a friend.”

He turned to look down at Olive’s inquisitive blue eyes. “And who is this? Do not tell me this is Olive? Baby Olive.”

“I’m not a baby,” Olive declared. “I’m almost five years old.”

All the men laughed. “So you are, and do you know something, Miss Olive?”

Olive shook her head.

“You were my inspiration these past few years.”

“What’s he mean, Papa?” Olive tugged at Brooks’ hand, uncertainty wrinkling her brows. “What’s ‘spiration?”

Brooks and Michael laughed. Francisco squatted down to speak to her eye to eye.

“It means I changed my life because of you, Chiquita. You are the reason I wanted to breathe fresh air, to be a free man and live a changed life. Because my sweet Hattie told me the next generation must grow in love and not hate. When life grew hard, little Olive, I thought of you and how you must have a better life than your mama and I did when we were young. We were taught to hate, but you and your brother are taught only love.”

“Did you know my mama when she was little?”

“Si. We grew up as banditos together.”

Olive took great offense at this and drew up her little body, fists clenched. “My mama was not a bandito! Not ever. My mama is good.”

Brooks could see this conversation had clearly upset Olive. Especially when she turned to him, lips quivering, “Papa? Mama was not a bandito, was she?”

Having heard his stories many a night, about his years as a sheriff fighting banditos, Olive knew banditos only as very naughty people who got justice from her Papa. Although he kept his stories mild for little ears, Olive and Sammy both knew banditos were bad. He knew his daughter well enough to know this was not how she pictured her beloved mama.

“Well …” Brooks wished the conversation had not come up, but he knew he’d have to be honest. “Your mama was a bandito.” At Olive’s gasp, he thought of a way to ease out of the uncomfortable subject until she grew old enough to know some of the truth. “Your mama was the very worst kind of bandito,” he said as Hattie came back out on the porch with Lily in her arms. “She stole my heart and never gave it back. “

“Papa!” Olive squealed, annoyed at this, but not upset about this kind of bandito. Running to grab her mother’s skirts, she tattled, “Mama, Papa said you were a bandito and stole his heart.”

Hattie smiled down at Olive. “I reckon he’s right. But that makes him a bandito, ‘cause he stole my heart too. Now, you two run off and play so Francisco can have his dinner and we can talk.”

“Mama and Papa were banditos!” Olive hollered. “C’mon, Sammy.” She grabbed her brother’s hand. “Let’s go play.” As the children jumped off the porch, Brooks reached for Hattie’s hand and squeezed tight. Scattering chickens across the dusty yard, Olive kept up her silly shouting, “Mama and Papa were banditos!” Tagging along, Sammy managed a lisped, “’Ditoes! ‘Ditoes!”

“We best not take her into town anytime soon,” Hattie cautioned. “People might get the wrong idea about us. They think I’m a mite strange anyway.”

Brooks often told Hattie how good could come from evil, but sometimes it was a mighty hard road getting there. As he thought of everything evil had done – the deaths of his wife and sons, Sam, and all the waste and heartache the Avila gang had caused, it seemed like there was no hope at all in the world. That the road would grind them all to dust on the trail.

But as he looked at Hattie, smiling as she introduced Lily to Francisco, he knew they had survived all the tragedy and regrets of the past. Four years ago, Brooks didn’t think he could endure another minute, another breath. Today, he hoped he’d have years and years to count his blessings.

July 25, the best day on the calendar.