She squinted until she made them out.
Eddie tugged on her arm. “I not see them.”
“I’ll help you.” Jace scooped up the boy and directed his gaze in the right direction.
“I see. I see.” He spun to Jace, pressed his warm little palm to Jace’s cheek, and pulled his attention to him. “Why they not fall down?”
The boy’s touch, soft yet insistent, made him smile. “I don’t exactly know except God made them to climb the mountains.” A Bible verse came to mind?—
“‘He will make my feet like hinds’ feet, and He will make me to walk upon mine high places.’” Wonder softened her words. “That verse has taken on a whole new meaning.”
Eddie squirmed to be down, and he and Skip trotted down the slope to where the land flattened out.
Jace and Dianne followed. At the level area, Jace left the picnic items on a flat rock and then pivoted full circle to take in his surroundings. “I used to spend hours here, but I haven’t been in a long time.”
Her gaze was on him. Steady. Curious.
He didn’t look directly at her, conscious of how close to the surface his feelings pressed.
“What brought you here in the past?”
Had she guessed there was a driving reason?
“I suppose it was a place I could feel sorry for myself without Chet knowing.” He did not want pity. Nor did he want scolding.
“Ah. You came here to listen to your heart.”
The words jolted through him. Landing dead center of his being. “I suppose that’s true in a way. Everyone in my family was gone. I needed to be alone and think about all the things that had happened to me.” He thought those troubles were dead and buried, but they rushed back with fresh vigor. “I felt abandoned.” And now he was alone again of his own doing.
Her fingers curled around his hand. She led him to a rock where she sat and drew him down beside her. “I know the hurt and fear of being alone.”
Of course, she did. He turned his palm to hers and squeezed.
They sat shoulder to shoulder, her hand in his.
“It’s nice here,” she murmured. “Peaceful.”
“I’ve always found it so.” He inhaled sweet mountain air. “I suppose it’s why I came.” His gaze went to the trees bordering the clearing, to a slab of upright wood. The names he’d carved on it were still visible.
She followed the direction of his look. The marker was more than half hidden in the shadows. Would she make it out?
“What’s that? It looks like—” Her gaze returned to his. She blinked her uncertainty. “Is that what I think it is?”
“I’ll show you.” He rose and pulled her to her feet, retaining her hand as they climbed the steep slope. Time would wear away the letters. Eventually, they’d be forgotten, but not while he was alive. He touched each name.Reynolds family. Died 1864. John Reynolds, Father. Ada Marie, Mother. Sarah age 8, Sister. Mary age 6, Sister.
As always, a sharp pain stabbed him in the chest. He clamped a hand over it to contain it.
“Tell me about them.” Dianne’s gentle voice soothed his tight ribs. She sat on the ground, her skirts spread around her legs and patted the spot beside her.
Without hesitation, he sat cross-legged at an angle. He wanted to be close, to absorb her comfort, but he also wanted to be able to see her eyes, her face, her reactions.
“I was nine when Sarah was born, eleven when Mary was born. I took my role of big brother very seriously. I built a little wagon, and Pa found wheels for it. I’d take the two little girls on rides. Mary always made her voice bump along to the roughness of the trail.” Laughter gurgled at the memory. “Sarah was the more serious of the two. I accused her of being a little mama.” The back of his nose stung, and he pressed his finger against it.
Dianne took that hand and drew it to her lap, enclosing it between her palms.
Warmth crept up his arm and eased the tightness in his throat.
He told her of reading to the girls, of putting them to bed when his parents were out, and sometimes when they weren’t as the girls begged for Jace to hear their prayers. He shared hismemories of clapping at their school recitations. “They loved winter because I would take them sledding.” This wooden slab with their names on it was all he had left of them besides the few items he’d salvaged from the wagon. “I have Pa’s Bible and Ma’s favorite poetry book. I have the girls’ rag dolls. I guess it’s strange for a grown man to have dolls.” He ducked his head but watched her from under the curtain of his lashes.
