he said in a voice that had changed register entirely.
“My mother’s,” Josie said, not looking up. “She sewed that pattern into everything: saddle blankets, coats, my brother’s shirts when they tore. Said a plain patch was an insult to good canvas.” She glanced up, caught his face, and stopped. “Wyatt, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said slowly.continue reading …
