Mark pulled up his horse, slid to the ground, and walked slowly into the house. He went to the desk for the ledger and the deed, then into the bedroom for Luke's razor and some clean clothes. He came back out into the main room and took his mother's picture down from the wall, then opened the cupboard where his father kept their family Bible. There was another picture there, of Luke and Margaret on their wedding day. Mark set the two pictures side by side. His mother looked the same in both, young and pretty and very happy. She was sitting in a chair in the picture with Luke, a bunch of flowers on her lap and his hand on her shoulder. His father...Mark studied Luke's face. It was younger, without the lines that years of hard work and worry had etched on his skin. He wasn't smiling, but there was something about the way he stood next to his wife, looking down at her instead of at the camera...the boy smiled a little, remembering the first time his father had shown him the picture. "Your mother was so exasperated. She wanted me to look at the camera, but I just couldn't take my eyes off her. Did you ever see anyone so pretty? Finally the man just took the picture and your mother said it was the best wedding picture she ever saw."
The boy touched his father's face, then turned to the picture of Margaret alone, standing in a softly patterned dress with a book in her hands. "I wish I could remember you better, Ma. Mostly it's just little things, like the way Pa would pick us both up to hug us when he came home at the end of the day, or how your hair fell down on me when I sat on your lap. It smelled like lavender. Pa never has anything that smells like lavender in the house, but the first time I smelled it in the general store I remembered your hair. It was like the wing of an angel." Mark's throat was tight. "I guess that's what you are now, waiting for Pa and me. I'm gonna be a while yet but you'll be seeing him real soon. I miss you so much, but Pa always took real good care of me. He raised me just the way you wanted him to. I'll do my best so…so you'll both be proud of me when I do get there." The tears could no longer be held back and Mark laid his head on the table, sobbing bitterly.
It was a long time before the storm of grief passed, but when he finally lifted his head he felt easier. He packed Luke's things lovingly in the saddlebag and went out the door, then turned aside to look at the sign on the side of the house.
This house rebuilt by Lucas McCain and his son Mark, August 1881, may God bless our home.
Mark took out his handkerchief and rubbed the sign clean of dust. He looked around at the land he had worked with his father, thinking of all they had done together through the years, all the hardships and triumphs they had shared, and even in his sorrow he was strengthened as he rode back to North Fork.