Ursa wept miserably as Jo carried her to the bed. She was wet to the skin and shaking with chills. “We need to get these clothes off, love bug.” Jo sat her on the bed.
“Why is she here?” Ursa said when she saw Lenora.
“I was afraid for you,” Lenora said.
“No matter where you make me go, I’ll find Jo!” Ursa said, new tears falling. “Jo and I know how to be happy without you!”
Jo took off her shoes and stripped away her wet pants and T-shirt. She pulled a clean shirt over Ursa’s quaking body and lifted her into the bed, tucking the blanket and comforter around her. After she turned off the air conditioner, she went into the bathroom to change out of her wet clothes. When she came out, Lenora was pushing numbers on her phone.
“Please don’t have police come here right now,” Jo said.
“I have to tell them to stop looking,” Lenora said.
“I know, but can we just have a moment?”
Lenora nodded. When she connected with hospital security, she said she had found Ursa and asked them to tell all law agencies that she was safe. She took off her raincoat and slumped in a chair with a weary exhalation.
Jo crawled into bed with Ursa. The rule about separate beds didn’t matter anymore. She would give Ursa what she needed. She spooned the small girl against her body and kissed her cheek. “Warm enough?” she asked.
“I want to stay here forever,” Ursa said.
“Me too,” Jo said. “Please never doubt that I love you. No one can take that away from us.”
Thunder growled. Rain clawed at the window. Jo held Ursa in her safe nest, and all the while fate sat watching.
38
A month later, on a rare cool day in late August, Ursa stood between Gabe and Jo, her hands clasped in theirs. Beyond the white marble cross, the minister turned his car onto the cemetery path and drove away. Lenora Rhodes started her car and followed behind him. No one else had come to watch Portia Wilkins Dupree laid to rest, not even her mother. Portia was twenty-six when she died trying to protect her daughter, the same age as Jo.
Ursa let go of Jo’s and Gabe’s hands and spent a minute rearranging the flowers into a new constellation around the grave. “Bye, Mama. I love you,” she said when she finished.
She took hold of their hands again. “I want to see Daddy now.”
They walked to the grave of Dylan Joseph Dupree. He was buried next to his mother, and the empty plot next to her was for her husband. Dylan’s father lived in a nearby nursing home, his mind too impaired by Alzheimer’s disease to understand who his granddaughter was. Because there hadn’t been room to bury Portia next to Dylan and his parents, Jo had purchased a plot as close to Dylan’s as possible. According to Ursa’s wishes, Portia’s cross was the same as the one over Dylan’s grave.
Ursa let go of Jo’s and Gabe’s hands as they arrived at Dylan’s grave. She took a folded picture from her pocket and laid it against the bottom of the cross. It was an image of the Pinwheel Galaxy, located in Ursa Major.
Dylan had loved anything to do with stars. Before his life fell apart, he’d wanted to be an astrophysicist. He’d named his daughter Ursa for the Big Bear in the sky, and he’d taught her the names of stars and constellations. When Ursa was afraid of the dark, he would open her window a crack and tell her good magic that fell out of the stars was coming in her window. He said the magic would always keep her safe. After he died, Ursa opened her window wide every night, trying to let in lots of good magic. That was how she escaped the grasp of the men who nearly killed her.
Ursa walked to the cross and kissed the top of it. “I love you, Daddy.” She pointed behind her. “This is Jo and Gabe. You would like them. Gabe likes stars like you do.” She straightened the picture of the galaxy and turned around.
“Ready to go?” Jo said.
“Ready,” she said.
They had one more grave to visit. They got in Jo’s car and drove from Paducah, Kentucky, to Vienna, Illinois. As they approached Turkey Creek Road, Ursa leaned between the seats as far as her seat belt allowed. She hadn’t been back since the night she was airlifted from that very intersection and taken to Saint Louis for surgery.
“What is this?” Jo said when the road came into sight. “Have I traveled forward in time?”
“I thought you said we don’t look that much alike?” Gabe said.
“Only because of the age difference.”
The older version of Gabe smiled and waved from his chair under the blue canopy and FRESH EGGS sign.
“You didn’t tell me he’s the new Egg Man.”
“I didn’t know,” Gabe said.
“He never did this before?”
“I’m as surprised as you are.”
Jo parked her Honda next to Gabe’s white pickup. “He even uses your truck.”
“I told him to use it for farm stuff,” Gabe said. “His car is nice and gets beat up by the gravel.”
“Tell me about it.”
Ursa shot out the back door and ran to the egg stand. George Kinney stood and shook her hand. “You must be Ursa.”
“I am,” Ursa said.
“I’m George and very happy to meet you.”
“Why do you look like Gabe?” Ursa asked.
“Because Gabe had two dads, and I’m one of them,” he said.
Gabe embraced him.
“How’d it go?” George said.
“No hitches,” Gabe said.
“Kat and I worried they’d change their minds.”
“Is that why you’re out here—to watch for us?”
“I’m out here because the damn eggs are piling up to the roof.” He opened his arms to Jo. “Get over here, Wonder Woman.”
“I have significantly less in the chest than her,” Jo said.
“The better to hug you,” George said, squeezing her in his arms.
“We’re having a funeral for Little Bear,” Ursa said.
“Well, that’s really nice,” George said. “I hear he was a good dog.”
“He was the best dog,” Ursa said.
“We’d better go,” Gabe said. “Jo has to get on the road right after lunch.”
“I’ll pack up and see you at the house,” George said.
“Need help?” Jo asked.
“Come on, I’m not that old.”
Jo, Gabe, and Ursa drove the familiar rough wind of Turkey Creek Road. Ursa stretched high in her seat to see out the window. “It looks different,” she said.
“The plants grew and the colors are beginning to change,” Jo said.
“Where are the nest flags?”
“I took them down when my study ended. The indigo buntings are getting ready to migrate.”
“They’re leaving?”
“They’ll go in a few weeks, but just for the winter. They’ll be back in the spring.”
They drove onto the Kinney property, steering for the inviting yellow cottage on the hill. Before Jo turned off the motor, she looked at the hickory tree.
Ursa sprang from the back seat and ran toward the prairie behind the house.
“Ursa, it’s this way!” Gabe called after her.
“I’m getting flowers for him!” she said.
Jo watched her vanish into the tall grass. Gabe took her hands and pulled her close to his body. “Do you still sell eggs?” she asked.
“I haven’t since the shooting.”
“Will you again?”
“I don’t know.” He stared in the direction of the road, but his eyes were distant. “The egg stand was a thread that kept me connected to the outer world.”
“You have something more substantial connecting you now?”
He smiled down at her. “More like the thread was cut and I fell into the real world.”
“How’s that going?” Jo asked.
“Good. But sometimes I’m afraid to trust how good it is. What if it all starts again?”
“The people who love you will help you.”
He kissed her. Before any time seemed to pass, Ursa had enveloped them, one arm around Jo and the other on Gabe. She rested her head against them.
When Ursa was ready, Gabe led them to Little Bear’s grave. On a cross made of burnished cedar wood, he had etched LITTLE BEAR, and below the name, HE GAVE HIS LIFE FOR THE PEOPLE HE LOVED.
Ursa sniffled and wiped her cheeks.
“Do you like the cross?” Gabe asked.
“It’s exactly perfect,” she said. She laid her bouquet of goldenrod, ironweed, and asters on the mound of dirt that was already giving life to new flora.
“Would you like someone to say something?” Jo asked.
“I want to sing him my favorite song. Ursa’s dad—I mean, my dad—used to sing it when I went to sleep.”
“That would be nice,” Gabe said.
Looking at the soil that blanketed her dog, Ursa sang, “Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are. Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky, twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are.”
Gabe squeezed Jo’s hand.
When she finished singing, Ursa crouched down and patted the dirt. “I love you, Little Bear.”
They returned to the car and drove to the Nash family homestead.
“Whose cars are those?” Ursa asked when they pulled up. “Who’s here, Gabe?”
“Maybe you should go inside and see,” he said.