Chapter Eight
Henry awoke to the unfamiliar scent of fresh coffee.
For a few disoriented moments, he lay still beneath the quilt, staring at the ceiling as pale morning light filtered through the window.
Outside, dawn was spreading across the ranch.
He could hear the distant sounds of cattle lowing in the pasture and the faint creak of the windmill turning in the morning breeze.
A mockingbird had already begun its endless repertoire somewhere near the house.
With a sigh, Henry swung his legs over the side of the bed and dressed quickly. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots as he crossed the hallway. The moment he stepped into the kitchen, he stopped.
The room was clean. Not merely tidy, but clean.
The counters had been wiped down. The worktable was clear of the tools, account papers, and miscellaneous clutter that tended to accumulate there.
A fresh cloth covered the center of the table.
The windows had been opened, allowing cool morning air to circulate through the room alongside the aroma of breakfast that drifted from the stove.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he had barely eaten the night before.
At the stove stood Nora, who wore a simple blue dress with her sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows.
Her chestnut hair had been braided and coiled at the back of her head, though a few loose strands had escaped and framed her face.
Morning sunlight streamed through the window behind her, illuminating the fine strands of hair near her temples.
She glanced up as he entered. “Good morning.”
The greeting sounded entirely natural, as though she had been living here for years instead of less than a day. Henry cleared his throat. “Morning.”
His gaze moved toward the table. James sat there, already helping himself to coffee.
His cousin looked entirely too pleased with himself.
Beside him sat Lola, the little girl quietly eating breakfast while watching Nora with cautious interest. Just then, Nora carried a platter to the table before returning for another.
“What is that?” James asked eagerly.
“Flapjacks.”
His eyes widened. “Real flapjacks?”
Nora laughed. “Are there counterfeit flapjacks I should know about?”
James grinned. “Not if you know how to cook.”
Henry removed his hat and sat down, the platter was set before him moments later. Golden flapjacks, fresh bacon, biscuits, and eggs. It was a breakfast considerably better than anything he had expected, or deserved. Nora poured coffee into his mug and the rich aroma filled the air.
“Thank you,” he said
Nora smiled. “You’re welcome.”
James shoveled his fork into his mouth. “Lola, what do you think?”
The little girl glanced down at the flapjack on her plate and carefully took a bite. They all watched her as she chewed and swallowed.
“So?” James pressed.
Lola shrugged before stabbing another piece with her fork.
James grinned. “Ha,” he said. “I knew it. All children love flapjacks.”
“Big kids, too,” Henry muttered around a mouthful of food.
“Hey,” James said. “I heard that.”
To his surprise, Lola giggled. The sound was so unexpected that Henry nearly looked around to make certain it had come from her. It wasn’t a loud laugh. More of a quick burst of amusement before she immediately tried to suppress it. Yet, hearing it sent a sharp jolt through his chest.
“Everyone loves flapjacks,” Nora said with a smile. “Little or big.”
The meal continued, but Henry was strangely unable to join it. Instead, his gaze drifted around the table. James was reaching for another flapjack and Lola was carefully pouring honey over hers with intense concentration while Nora passed the biscuits.
The sight stirred an old memory he hadn’t visited in a very long time and for a moment, the years seemed to fall away. He could almost see the same breakfast table, but a different morning. Another life.
The Foster breakfast table had been crowded that day.
Samantha sat across from him, laughing at whatever James had said.
Her dark hair had come loose from its pins, and she kept pushing it behind her ear while balancing baby Lola on her lap.
Beside her sat her husband, Thomas. He was patient and steady.
The sort of man who could calm a frightened horse or a crying baby with equal success.
The room had smelled of coffee and biscuits fresh from the oven and sunlight had streamed through the windows.
The future had stretched before them all like an open road.
At the time, Henry had scarcely appreciated how perfect the morning was.
He had been too focused on the war. The papers were filled with reports from the East. Every week brought new rumors. New fears.
His enlistment papers sat folded in his pocket. He was planning to leave in two days. He remembered Samantha reaching across the table and squeezing his hand.
“Come back to us.” The words echoed as clearly now as they had that morning. “Promise me you’ll come back.” At the time, he had laughed and told her she’d never be rid of him.
The memory shifted. During the long months that followed, that breakfast had become a symbol of something far more important. In muddy camps and crowded barracks, when exhaustion and homesickness threatened to overwhelm him, Henry had thought about that morning.
He had imagined this very table and his family waiting for him.
Samantha teasing him., James stealing extra biscuits, baby Lola learning new words.
The picture had sustained him through more nights than he cared to count.
Whenever things became difficult, he reminded himself that it would all be worth enduring.
Because eventually, he would come home. Eventually, there would be another breakfast. Another gathering around the table.
The promise of that future had carried him through the war.
Then he’d come home, like he vowed to his sister he would, only to discover that future no longer existed.
The grief hit him with familiar force. Not as sharp as it once had been, but no less deep.
Across the table, Lola laughed again at something James said and the sound pulled Henry back to the present.
For a moment, he simply looked around. Suddenly, the scene felt dangerously familiar.
Not because it was the same. Nothing could ever be the same. But because it reminded him of what family felt like, of what home had once felt like, and that frightened him more than he cared to admit.
Work, responsibility, duty. Those things were dependable.
***
When they had finished the flapjacks and drank the last of the coffee, Nora rose from her chair and started gathering plates.
“I can help with that,” James offered.
“Don’t worry,” she replied. “I can manage.”
Henry found himself watching as she moved around the kitchen.
There was an ease to her work that suggested long practice.
She carried plates to the wash basin, wiped the table, and straightened chairs without appearing hurried.
Every now and then she hummed softly beneath her breath.
The tune was unfamiliar, but for reasons he couldn’t explain, the sound caught his attention.
The house had been so quiet for so long. Not silent, but quiet in the lonely way houses became quiet when laughter and conversation disappeared from them. The soft humming seemed to fill spaces he hadn’t realized were empty.
Henry immediately frowned at himself. That was a foolish thought, and a dangerous one. One woman could not magically repair years of grief.
Still, he couldn’t deny what he saw. The kitchen looked better, the meal had been excellent and somehow Lola had eaten an entire breakfast without complaint. That alone bordered on miraculous.
Nora carried another stack of dishes to the counter. Morning sunlight caught the chestnut highlights in her hair. A few loose strands had escaped her braid and curled softly near her neck.
Henry looked away and then looked back before he could stop himself. She really was beautiful and the realization irritated him every bit as much as it had yesterday. Nora finished clearing the last plate and turned toward Lola.
“What time does school begin?”
“In half an hour,” Henry answered, as he pushed back his chair. “I’ll take her.”
Lola nodded and slid from her seat as Henry reached for his hat. He turned back to Lola to see that Nora had crouched beside the little girl. At first, he assumed she was straightening Lola’s collar. Instead, she gently placed a hand on the child’s shoulder.
“Before you go.”
Lola looked uncertain. “What?”
Nora smiled. “My mother used to pray for me before school.”
The little girl blinked. “Oh.”
“We’ll be late,” Henry interjected.
Nora glanced at him, her eyes widening a fraction. “It won’t take a moment.”
He opened his mouth to respond and then closed it again.
She turned back to Lola. “May I?”
For a moment, Lola simply stared and then she gave the smallest of nods.
“Dear Lord, thank You for Lola. Please watch over her today. Help her learn well, be kind to others, and remember how much she is loved. Keep her safe and bring her home again this afternoon. Amen.”
The kitchen was quiet as Lola stared down at her shoes. Then, she lifted her head, a faint flush colored her cheeks. “Thank you,” she mumbled. She hurried toward the door before anyone could make a fuss.
Henry stood motionless. The prayer had been brief, ordinary in most houses, yet it stirred something he preferred left undisturbed. He remembered Samantha praying over Lola in much the same way. Before bedtime, back when faith had seemed simple and before grief complicated everything.
A familiar wall rose inside him in the same wall he always erected when conversations drifted toward God. Without a word, he settled his hat on his head and followed Lola outside.
The walk to town passed beneath a cloudless sky. The morning had already begun warming. Meadowlarks sang from fence posts, and grasshoppers sprang from the roadside grasses as they passed. The scent of sunbaked earth drifted on the breeze.
Lola skipped a few steps ahead before falling back beside him. For a while, neither spoke. Then, she asked quietly, “Do you think Nora knows lots of Bible stories?”
Henry glanced down at her. “Probably.”
“My mama used to tell me some.”
His chest tightened. “I know.”
Lola kicked at a pebble. “She prayed like Mama.”
The words landed with surprising force and Henry found himself looking out across the fields. “I suppose she did.”
Lola fell silent again, but her observation followed him all the way to the schoolhouse.
***
When he returned to the ranch, the property had already settled into the rhythm of the workday. The cattle needed checking and a section of fencing near the south pasture still required repair. There were feed deliveries to account for and a dozen other tasks waiting for his attention.
First, however, he stopped by the house for a ledger he had forgotten. The kitchen appeared empty when he entered and he heard movement near the pantry shelves.
He walked over to find Nora balancing on the tips of her toes, reaching for a jar stored high above her head. She stretched again, but the jar remained stubbornly out of reach. Henry sighed and, without thinking, he stepped into the small adjoining room.
“Let me.”
Nora startled slightly, but before she could protest, he stepped closer and reached above her. The shelf wasn’t particularly high for him and his fingers closed around the jar.
But when he’d stepped into the room, what he hadn’t accounted for was how small the space was and he became aware of details he had no business noticing. The faint scent of lavender soap and the warmth radiating from her body.
As he handed her the jar, then their hands touched, her fingers brushing against his. Both of them froze. While the contact lasted perhaps a second, still, it seemed oddly significant.
Nora’s eyes lifted to his, but Henry stepped backward immediately and the jar nearly slipped from her grasp. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, clearing his throat. “I should go.” With that, he turned and retreated toward the door.
“Henry?”
He stopped, looking back at her over his shoulder. “What is it?”
A smile touched her lips. “Have a good day.”
The simple kindness somehow made everything worse and he nodded once before exiting out the back door.
Outside, sunlight flooded the yard and then familiar sights of the ranch greeted him.
The barn and corrals. The pastures stretching toward the horizon. All so solid and predictable. The sort of things that made sense. Unlike that woman standing in the pantry behind him.
Determinedly, Henry grabbed his tools and headed for the south fence line. Work, that was the answer. It always had been. If he kept his hands busy enough, perhaps he could stop thinking about warm kitchen, soft prayers, and women with gray eyes.
Unfortunately, as the morning wore on, he discovered that some thoughts were considerably more stubborn than broken fences.