“Why are you wasting your breath?” Ryder asked him.
After a rush, a pause for debates, much excitement from the boys on what promised to be an adventure, they piled in various cars and trucks. One debate involved dogs, and in the end, they left Ben and Yoda with Cus and Finch—cutting the numbers.
Hope found herself riding shotgun in Ryder’s truck, D.A. sprawled on the seat between them.
“Tomorrow would’ve been more sensible,” Hope commented.
“None of this is about sense.”
“No, it’s not. And I’m glad we’re going tonight. He may not be there, or the headstones may have been damaged. It may never have been marked.”
“Good. Keep up that positive thinking.”
“Just preparing for possibilities.”
“There’s a possibility you’ll find what you’re after.”
“I guess I’m a little nervous that we won’t find anything, and a little nervous that we will.”
He took one hand off the wheel, reached over to take one of hers in a gesture that surprised her heart into thudding. “Stop, and relax.”
Because the abrupt order struck more in line with what she was used to, she did just that.
“This was all farmland,” he told her as he turned onto a winding road with homes spaced wide enough for some decent elbow room, for sloping lawns, shady trees.
“It must’ve been beautiful. All fields and rolling hills.”
“People have to live somewhere. And they didn’t crowd them in, so that’s something. We got some work out here during the boom. People adding on, remodeling.”
She leaned forward. “Is that—”
“Yeah, the old Ryder farmhouse. The developer was smart enough not to tear it down, to put some money into it—and I bet he got plenty out of it.”
“It’s beautiful, the stonework, the gingerbread. And it’s big. Pretty gardens and trees. They must’ve added on that solarium, but it’s well done. It’s a nice spot.” She looked at him as they drove past, turned again. “Have you ever been inside?”
“We did some work in it about three years ago. Updated the kitchen, two baths, added on a bonus room over the garage. And that sunroom you liked.”
“How did it feel?”
“At the time? Like a job. A good one. Now?” He shrugged. “I guess I get what Mom was talking about. Maybe we should’ve paid more attention to this part of us, had more respect for it. My grandfather pretty much hated the farm, and it was clear he didn’t get along with his old man, so I never thought much of it.”
He turned yet again, onto a narrow gravel lane.
“Is this private property?”
“Maybe. Might be Park Service. We’ll deal with it if we have to.”
“They fought here? North and South, boys and men.”
“All over hell and back,” Ryder confirmed. “See there?”
She saw the little pond he’d spoken of, its water dark and deep in the lowering light. Cattails crowded around it with their brown velvet heads, and ferns green with summer formed a verdant carpet.
Beyond it, before the trees thickened, stood a low stone wall. The sort, she thought, Billy Ryder might have built. Headstones tilted in its center. Hope counted sixteen—small markers, pocked by time and weather, some tipped in the rough ground.
“It looks lonely. Sad and lonely.”
“I don’t think dead’s a party.”
He parked, got out with the dog scrambling behind him. When Hope simply sat, he walked around, opened her door as the rest of the family convoy pulled up.
“He’s here or he’s not. Either way, we are.”
She nodded, stepped out beside him.
It felt less lonely with people, with voices. With boys running and dogs sniffing. Still, she felt unsteady enough to reach for Ryder’s hand, to be grateful when he linked his fingers with hers.
More than sixteen, she realized as they approached. Some of the markers were hardly more than a stone set flush with the ground.
Not all had names, or if they had once, time had erased them. But she read those she could. Mary Margaret Ryder. Daniel Edward Ryder. And there a tiny one, marking the grave of Susan—just Susan, who’d died in 1853 at the tender age of two months.
Someone tended to the grass here, she mused, so it didn’t grow wild. Still, there was that sense of wild. To offset the infant, she found the grave of Catherine Foster Ryder, who’d lived from 1781 to 1874.
“Ninety-three,” Justine murmured beside her. “A good, long life. I wish I knew who she was to me.”
“You’ll get the Bible, then you’ll know.”
“How come they can’t stay at the inn like Lizzy?” Murphy asked her. “How come they have to stay here?”
“Lizzy’s special, I guess.” Justine lifted him up, pressed her face to his throat as Hope turned.
She’d thought Ryder stood beside her, but saw now he’d walked off, to the right, stood alone by a trio of graves.
She walked toward him, realized her heart began to thud as she did.
“He’s the middle one.”
“What?” Her hand trembled as she reached out for his again.
“He was born last, died second. They were brothers.”
“How can you—I can’t make out the names.”
“Light’s going,” he said as she dropped down to her knees to peer closer.
“Oh God. Billy Ryder. They didn’t put his formal name on his grave. Just Billy. March 14, 1843, to September 17, 1862.”
“And Joshua, earlier that same year. Charlie, twenty-two years after. Three brothers.”
“It’s Billy.” It was all she could think at first. Here. They’d found him. “Is she here?” Hope’s head came up. “How could she be here?”
“It’s not her.” Understanding, Ryder gestured. “Honeysuckle. It’s about buried the wall behind these graves.”
He turned, looked at his mother. As their eyes met, he didn’t have to call out to her, to speak. Hers filled as she started toward him.
“You found him.”
“Time’s dulled the carving, but you can make out the name. He died the same year as Lizzy. The same month, within the same day.”
Owen stepped to his mother, slipped an arm around her waist, kept Avery’s hand in his. Then Beckett with Clare, and the boys miraculously quiet. And Willy B, patting Carolee’s back when she let out a little sob.
The sun slid into twilight, and the air stirred the thick scent of honeysuckle.
Hope traced the name with her finger, then laid it against her heart.
“We’ll bring flowers next time.” Justine leaned her head against Owen’s arm, touched Beckett’s, touched Ryder’s. “It’s time we remembered them. We’re here because they were, so it’s time we remembered them.”
On impulse, Ryder took out his pocketknife, cut through honeysuckle vines. He laid it down.
“That’s something anyway.”
Inexpressibly moved by the simple gesture, Hope rose, took his face in her hands. “That’s perfect,” she said, and kissed him.
“It’s cooling off. You’re going to get cold,” Beckett told Clare. “I’m going to swing by, pick up the dogs, take Clare and the boys home.”
“We need to tell her.” Clare looked at Hope. “I feel like we should all be there when you tell her.”
“It can wait until tomorrow. You get pale when you’re tired.” Beckett trailed a finger down her cheek. “And you’re pale. It can wait until tomorrow.”
“Maybe that’s better anyway.” Avery lifted her hands. “We can think about how to tell her. I mean we found him, here he is. But what does that mean? It seems almost cruel to tell her he’s buried out here, miles away from
