Beside her trotted a young Malinois puppy, jumping up playfully to greet Barnaby, whose tail thumped against the cedar boards in rhythmic, contented adoration: thump… thump… thump.
And walking behind her, her silver hair gleaming in the morning sun, carrying a plate of warm honey butter…
Came Major General Eleanor Mercer—my “Mrs.
Whitaker.”
She wore comfortable wool trousers and a crisp linen shirt, her eyes bright with that eighty-year family pride that had guarded my threshold through eight years of shadows.
Willa ran straight to my chair, setting the nursing citation on the chestnut table with a proud, confident click.
She leaned down, wrapping her strong, loving arms around my neck, pressing her warm cheek against mine:
“Mom?”
Willa whispered into the morning breeze:
“The car is unpacked.”
“The supplies are put away.”
