Page 20 of The Cowboy and the Stray

Midge glanced at the basket. "Oh, just some mending needs doing. Quilt sprung a leak." She shot me a speculative look. "You sew at all?"

I hesitated. "I used to watch my mom sometimes. When I was little." The words brought with them a sudden, vivid sense-memory. Dim light straining through motel curtains. The steady whisper of the needle, the nearly silent flutter of fabric. My mother's bent head, her clever hands. The rare peace on her face as she worked, as if in those moments, the world narrowed to the size of each tiny stitch, and nothing could reach us while she sewed.

"I never tried it myself," I said, shaking off the cobwebs of remembrance. "But I could give it a shot, if you want." God help us all.

Midge studied me, then gave a decisive nod. "Finish up that salsa, and I'll show you what needs fixing."

We worked side by side, a companionable quiet settling over the kitchen, broken only by the occasional direction from Midge or the sizzle of the meat in the skillet. By the time lunch was ready, I was surprised to find some of the coiled tension unwinding from my shoulders. There was a straightforward satisfaction in cooking, in creating something nourishing and real. It eased an ache I hadn't fully recognized was there. That was just what I needed.

After lunch, and the dishes were washed and put away, Midge brought out the quilt, spreading it across the scrubbed tabletop. It was in faded pinks and blues, and sunny yellows pieced together by a sure hand.

"Belonged to my mother, Calder's great-grandmother," Midge said, fingering a frayed edge. "Been around almost as long as the ranch." She pointed to a ragged tear, stuffing poking through. "Reckon that's where we'll start. Let me grab my specs."

She disappeared down the hall, and I bent closer, examining the rent in the fabric. Tentatively, I pinched the edges together, marveling at the delicacy of the stitches, the history woven into each threadbare scrap. How many Maddox babies had been rocked to sleep under this quilt? How many long nights had it weathered, how many slow-spun rancher's dawns?

No pressure or anything.

Midge returned, specs perched on her nose magnifying her eyes, and picked up the needle and thread. "Don't look so nervous. It ain't rocket science." She gestured at the chair. "Get comfy. Come on I'll show you how to do an invisible stitch."

Settling beside me, she demonstrated with practiced ease. Her fingers seemed to dance as she picked up the smallest possible bit of fabric on one side, then mirrored it on the other, pulling the thread taut just enough to close the gap without leaving a visible mark. "See?" she murmured, holding it up for inspection. "You just want to catch the very edge of the fabric from each side." She handed the needle back. "Take your time. I'll be back before you know it."

And with that, she was gone again, bustling off to some other corner of the house, leaving me alone with the quilt and my crackling nerves. I perched on the edge of the chair, thread and needle in hand, the torn gap gaping up at me like an open wound. Great. A fabric-based panic attack.

Despite my apprehension, my hands were steady as I began to sew.

Following her direction, the rhythm came to me slowly, my fingers clumsy on the delicate fabric. I pricked my thumb once, twice, a bright bead of blood welling up, but I didn't stop. Midge had told me to take my time, and I intended to do just that. Apparently, blood sacrifice was part of the process.

As I sewed, I couldn't help noticing the lingering ache in my muscles, the rainbow of fading bruises staining my skin. They were healing, but slowly. All the chores I'd been doing couldn't have been helping, but they hadn't hurt either. I wondered, as the needle flashed in and out, if this was how it would always be. A gradual piecing together, a painstaking reconstruction of something torn. If I would ever feel whole again, or if I'd have to content myself with being patchwork.

The world narrowed to the span of that quilt, to the tiniest stitches my unpracticed fingers could manage. I could almost hear my mother's voice in my ear, coaxing me along. Whispering for me to have patience. To believe that even the most tattered things could be mended with time. Thanks for the pep talk, ghost mom.

Eventually, Midge's tread shook me out of my reverie. I looked up as she came into the kitchen, a stack of folded fabric in her arms.

"Well now." She nodded at my handiwork, something approving in the set of her mouth. "That ain't half bad."

I ducked my head, an unfamiliar heat prickling in my cheeks. "It's not perfect." Understatement of the year.

"What in life is?" She plopped the stack on the table, eyeing me critically. "You been making do with them scraps long enough."

I blinked at her, uncomprehending. She flapped a hand at the pile.

"Clothes. Lord knows we got enough to spare around here." Her voice gentled. "Ain't no shame in needing a little help."

Cue emotional overload in 3, 2… My throat closed up, and I shoved away from the table, nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste to reach the folded shirts and jeans. It was stupid, I knew that. Even as I clutched them to my chest like a lifeline. They were just clothes. Just cloth and thread, no different from the quilt puddled behind me.

Just don’t cry on them. They’re clean.

But as I buried my nose in the cotton, they felt like so much more.

"Thank you," I said, or tried to say. The words came out waterlogged.

Midge just harrumphed, already moving to pour two glasses of iced tea, condensation beading down the sides. "Drink. 'Fore you keel over."

I obeyed, the cold tartness jolting me back to myself. We sat, the quilt between us, as the ice cubes popped and settled.

"Not used to much fussing, are you?" Midge asked, but not unkindly.

I shook my head, tracing a finger over the sweat pooling on the tabletop. "It's been a while since I, uh, had anyone look out for me. Besides myself." And barely even me, half the time.