CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"TEXAS MORNING"

Juliana woke to the soft glow of a Texas morning seeping through the slatted blinds of Michael's childhood room. The air carried a faint scent of wood polish and sun-warmed cotton, grounding her in the heart of his family's home. As she stretched, her eyes fell on a picture frame resting on the bedside table.

Curious, she rolled over and picked it up, a smile tugging at her lips. The black-and-white photograph showed a gangly boy of about nine perched proudly atop a horse, waving an oversized cowboy hat. He gripped the reins with a confidence that belied his wiry frame, his grin as wide as the Texas sky behind him.

"Bucky," Juliana murmured, chuckling at the memory of Michael's childhood nickname. She set the frame on her lap, the image sparking an idea. Reaching for her sketch pad, she settled back against the headboard, the pencil in her hand gliding across the paper with ease.

She lost herself in the details—the tilt of the hat, the curve of the horse's neck, and the pure, unfiltered joy etched into the boy's expression. Time seemed to melt away as she captured the essence of that spirited moment, the lines on the page bringing Michael's younger self to life.

A light knock at the door broke her concentration.

"Are you up, dear?" Bette-Clair's warm, musical voice called from the hallway. "Michael and Memaw will be here for breakfast soon."

Juliana quickly set her sketch pad aside and crossed the room to open the door, a slight blush rising to her cheeks as she realized she was still in her modest, floral nightgown.

Bette-Clair's eyes sparkled with amusement as she glanced at Juliana's outfit. "Well, sugar, looks like you're still in your mornin' best. Did you get cold last night?"

Juliana laughed nervously, clutching the sketch pad to her chest. "No, ma'am. I just got a little carried away." She turned the pad around, hesitating only for a moment before showing Bette-Clair the drawing.

Bette-Clair's expression softened as she took in the sketch. "Oh, would you look at that," she said, her voice tinged with nostalgia. "That was Michael at summer camp. He'd spend every waking minute with the horses, convinced he was born to be a cowboy."

Juliana grinned. "Is that why Memaw calls him her little Buckaroo?"

Bette-Clair chuckled. "That's part of it, but mostly it's because they were so close back then. She practically raised him for a time while I was working two jobs to get my design business off the ground. She'd sing him to sleep every night with an old tune called Prairie Lullaby."

Juliana's heart warmed at the image of young Michael curled up on a creaky bed, soothed to sleep by his grandmother's gentle singing. "That's so sweet," she said softly, running her fingers along the edge of her sketch pad.

Bette-Clair reached out, giving her arm a light squeeze. "Well, they'll be here any minute," she said with a smile. "Come down whenever you're ready, sweetheart. Breakfast is waiting—and so is Bucky."

Juliana smiled after her, her cheeks still faintly pink as Bette-Clair made her way downstairs. Closing the door, Juliana cast one last glance at the photograph before setting it gently back on the bedside table.

"Bucky," she murmured with a giggle, grabbing her clothes and getting ready for the day.

By the time she hurried downstairs, the aroma of buttery biscuits, sizzling bacon, and rich coffee filled the air. She reached the bottom step just as the front door opened, and Michael and Memaw walked in, their laughter as bright as the sunlight streaming through the windows.

Michael greeted her with a quick kiss on the cheek, his hazel eyes lighting up. "Mornin', Jul. How'd you sleep?"

Juliana smiled, brushing her hair behind her ear. "I was out the second my head hit the pillow," she said, a hint of sheepishness in her voice. "You?"

Michael grinned, throwing an arm around Memaw. "Stayed up late talking with this one," he said, giving her a playful squeeze. "She missed her boy, didn't you, Memaw?"

Memaw patted his arm affectionately. "Oh, you know I did. And you gave me plenty to catch up on, Bucky."

They moved into the kitchen, where the table was set with a classic Texas breakfast—eggs, crispy bacon, creamy grits, and biscuits smothered in golden gravy. Juliana's eyes widened in amazement.

"Dig in, y'all," Memaw said, waving them toward their seats. As they ate, the conversation flowed easily, punctuated by laughter and stories of Michael's boyhood adventures.

Toward the end of breakfast, Memaw suddenly perked up. "Oh, Juliana, I almost forgot!" She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a worn recipe card. "Here's the recipe for Bucky's favorite lemon meringue pie. I meant to give it to you last night."

Juliana took the card as though it were a precious heirloom, her eyes scanning the elegant, looping handwriting. "Thank you so much! This means a lot to me." She frowned playfully at the detailed steps. "But, uh… this looks intense. I'm not sure I can pull it off."

"Nonsense," Memaw said, waving a dismissive hand. "I'll just have to show you how it's done."

She turned to Bette-Clair. "Do you have any fresh lemons in the house?"

"Nary a one," Bette-Clair replied with a laugh.

"Well, then," Memaw said, rising with purpose, "Bucky and I will check the pantry, and then we'll head to the store. Meanwhile, you and Juliana can spend some time getting better acquainted."

Michael stood and gave a mock salute. "Yes, ma'am."

As Memaw and Michael disappeared into the pantry, Bette-Clair leaned toward Juliana with a playful smile. "Making Memaw's lemon meringue pie is a rite of passage in this family, sweetheart. You're officially in the thick of it now."

Juliana laughed, a mix of nerves and excitement swirling in her chest. "I guess I'd better take notes."

"You'll do just fine," Bette-Clair said, her tone reassuring.

Juliana couldn't help but smile. With every passing moment, it felt less like she was just a guest in this house—and more like she was becoming part of the family.

Juliana sat cross-legged in the studio, her pencil moving fluidly across the sketch pad while Bette-Clair painted with steady, deliberate strokes by the tall windows. Sunlight streamed through the glass, bathing the room in golden light and casting soft halos around them. The space was alive with quiet creativity, punctuated only by the rustle of paper and the faint whisper of bristles against canvas.

As she sketched, Juliana shared pieces of her nomadic childhood, recounting the adventurous chaos of growing up in a blended family that moved often. "We never stayed in one place for too long," she said with a nostalgic smile. "But that taught me to see beauty everywhere—to make every new place feel like home. I think that's why I'm drawn to capturing the world through art and photography."

Bette-Clair listened intently, her brush pausing momentarily as she regarded Juliana with warm eyes. "It sounds like your journey gave you a creative soul," she said thoughtfully. "You've channeled those experiences into something truly meaningful."

Juliana's expression softened as she shifted the focus to Michael. "They did," she agreed, "but Michael has reshaped how I see the world now. His perspective—how he finds poetry in the everyday—is something I've come to treasure."

Her tone grew earnest as she turned toward Bette-Clair. "I've been meaning to tell you how grateful I am for the way you raised him. You molded Michael into someone determined, talented, and kind—a man who sees life through such a beautiful lens and shares that view with everyone around him. He's a poet, in every sense of the word."

Bette-Clair stilled, her brush hovering above the canvas. A proud yet wistful smile touched her lips. "I worked hard to give Michael the life he deserved," she said quietly, setting her brush aside. "It wasn't easy—starting a business while raisin' him on my own. He had to grow up fast, maybe too fast. He helped me more than a boy his age should have, and he didn't always make it easy."

Juliana tilted her head, curiosity and affection mingling in her expression. "He told me about his rebellious streak," she said, her voice tinged with amusement.

Bette-Clair chuckled, shaking her head. "Oh, he thought he knew everything when he ran off to California at seventeen. He was still just a boy, not nearly ready for the world he thought he could conquer. But somehow, he found his way. He turned his life around, and now, I couldn't be prouder of the man he's become. Watching him grow has been the greatest reward of my life."

Juliana's cheeks flushed, but her gaze didn't waver. "He's someone worthy of praise," she said softly, her voice carrying a weight of sincerity.

Bette-Clair smiled, standing to stretch. "What are you working on over there?" she asked, gesturing to Juliana's sketch pad.

Juliana grinned, turning it around to reveal a lively and detailed sketch of the Attwater's prairie chicken they had rescued the day before. Across the top, in bold, playful letters, she had written, Save the Texas Prairie Chicken!

Bette-Clair burst into laughter, leaning closer to inspect the drawing. "Oh, that's just wonderful," she said, her delight evident. "You've captured its spirit perfectly—and with so much heart."

Juliana beamed. "I was thinking it could make a fun conservation poster. I mean, how often do you get to save an endangered chicken?"

Before Bette-Clair could respond, voices drifted in from the hallway.

"What are you ladies plottin' in here?" Michael called out, stepping into the studio with his arms laden with groceries. Memaw peeked over his shoulder, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Bette-Clair gestured toward the sketch. "Oh, just savin' Texas prairie chickens, one sketch at a time," she teased.

Michael leaned in to examine the drawing, his grin widening. "Jul, this is fantastic," he said, genuine admiration lighting his hazel eyes. "You've got to send that to someone—it's too good not to be seen."

Juliana laughed, shaking her head. "Let's survive dinner without another wildlife rescue first," she quipped, earning chuckles from everyone.

—

Later, the kitchen buzzed with activity as Memaw and Juliana worked side by side, preparing the family's signature lemon meringue pie. The air was thick with the tangy-sweet scent of fresh lemons and sugar, a symphony of citrus and warmth that seemed to wrap itself around the two women. Memaw moved with the confidence of someone who had perfected this recipe through years of repetition, her every motion deliberate yet effortless. Juliana followed her lead, her apron dusted with flour, and her cheeks glowing with the joy of being part of this cherished tradition.

"Now, child," Memaw said, her tone a blend of instruction and affection, "the secret is whippin' those egg whites stiff, but not dry. You want peaks that look like clouds—not cotton balls."

Juliana grinned, mimicking Memaw's cadence. "Cloudy, not cottony. Got it." She whipped with exaggerated focus, drawing a chuckle from Memaw.

Meanwhile, in the living room, Michael and Bette-Clair sat together on the couch, their conversation unfolding in quiet, comfortable tones. The soft clinking of a spoon against Michael's glass of sweet tea punctuated their words.

Bette-Clair's gaze drifted toward the kitchen, her expression softening. "She's smitten with you, you know," she said, her voice carrying a blend of teasing and sincerity. Her smile widened as she added, "I caught her sketching that picture of you from horse camp."

Michael's lips curved into a soft, boyish grin. "She has a thing for cowboys," he said with a light chuckle, though his eyes carried a depth that hinted at something more.

Bette-Clair tilted her head, her tone growing serious. "It's more than that, and you know it. The way she looks at you—it's like you hung the moon. That kind of love doesn't come around every day, Mike."

Michael exhaled, his smile fading into a look of quiet determination. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Mom, I know she's the one. I'm just tryin' to get my career in order first—I want to be the kind of man she deserves. But I'm serious about her. I love her. And when the time's right, I'm gonna ask her to marry me."

Bette-Clair's eyes glistened with unshed tears as she reached out to take her son's hand, her grip firm and reassuring. "You have my blessing," she said softly, her voice trembling just slightly. "She's a remarkable woman, Michael. Don't let her slip away."

Just then, laughter erupted from the kitchen, light and infectious. Memaw and Juliana were bent over the counter, their shoulders shaking as Juliana tried—and failed—to keep her meringue from deflating under her overly enthusiastic whisking.

Michael glanced toward the scene, his expression softening as he watched Juliana. "She fits right in, doesn't she?"

"She does," Bette-Clair said warmly. "She really does."

Later that evening, the family gathered in the cozy glow of the living room, where the scent of pie lingered in the air. Michael set down his glass of sweet tea and reached for his guitar, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Memaw," he began, his voice playful, "we have a surprise for you."

Juliana smiled knowingly, her hands clasped nervously in her lap as Michael strummed the opening chords of Angel Band. When Juliana joined in, her voice was soft at first, then grew steadier as she found her harmony with Michael. Their voices wove together effortlessly, filling the room with a rich, soulful sound.

Memaw's eyes sparkled, tears welling up as she listened to her favorite hymn, the one Michael had taught Juliana on their drive to Texas. She pressed her hand to her heart, the melody unlocking a tide of memories and emotions.

As the final note lingered in the air, Bette-Clair clapped softly. "You two sounded in perfect harmony together," she said, her voice full of quiet admiration.

Memaw reached for them both, pulling them into an embrace that was as warm and enveloping as the hymn itself. "Thank you, children," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You don't know how much that song means to me." She kissed their cheeks, her love and gratitude radiating in every gesture.

The room fell into a peaceful silence, the kind that only comes after a moment of shared beauty. The faint hum of the guitar strings, still resonating from Michael's final strum, seemed to echo the unspoken bond among them.

The next morning, as the first light of dawn peeked through the windows, Juliana and Michael stood by the door, suitcases in hand, ready to leave. Memaw hugged Juliana first, holding her tightly. "I'm going to miss you, sweetheart," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Take care of this little gem, Bucky," she added, glancing at Michael with a knowing smile.

Michael hugged her in return. "I'll try my best, Memaw. I promise."

Bette-Clair embraced her son, her eyes glistening. "I'm proud of you, Mike," she said, kissing his cheek. "Please keep in touch. Don't let so much time go by next time."

Juliana stepped forward, her own eyes brimming with tears. "I'm so happy I finally got to meet you both," she said sincerely. "Thank you for welcoming me with such open arms. I feel like I've been part of your family forever."

Bette-Clair wrapped Juliana in a warm hug. "It already feels that way to us," she said softly. "Take care of yourself and Mike. And don't give up on your art—you have a real gift, Juliana. The world needs more women sharing their talent and their voice."

Juliana sobbed gently, overwhelmed by the love and encouragement. "Goodbye," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'll miss you both so much."

As the Woody wagon rumbled down the highway, the Texas horizon stretched endlessly before them, golden and glowing under the early morning sun. Juliana sat quietly, gazing out the window, her head leaning against the cool glass. The distant silhouettes of ranches and windmills slowly gave way to open plains, the land both foreign and familiar now.

Michael glanced over at her, a grin tugging at his lips. "They sure like you a lot," he said, breaking the silence.

Juliana turned to him, her eyes sparkling with affection. "They're wonderful," she replied, her voice soft yet full of conviction. "I love them both." After a beat, a playful glint danced in her eyes. "And thank you for inviting me, Bucky."

Michael groaned, his head falling back against the seat. "If you ever call me that in front of the guys, I'll never hear the end of it," he said with mock exasperation.

Juliana laughed, the sound light and musical. "Your secret's safe with me," she teased. Her expression softened as she reached for his hand, their fingers intertwining effortlessly. "You're safe with me," she added gently.

Michael glanced at her, his expression unguarded and tender. "I know," he said simply.

The Woody wagon rolled on, heading westward, carrying with it two hearts full of gratitude, love, and the unspoken promise of all the adventures that lay ahead.