Page 124 of Holding Hope

I swallowed hard, stepping fully into the room. They all looked up. I knew what they saw—the stains on my face and shirt, the hair that stuck to my face and the tears that hadn’t stopped.

Colton’s face crumpled. Mama reached for me. Avalon took a step forward. Dad stood, his chair scraping the floor, but I lifted a hand, stopping them. I didn’t need to be coddled. I didn’t need to be handled like glass.

“I know where she should go,” I said, my voice raw but steady. “Where we should bury her.”

Dad blinked. “Clarke—” His gaze floated around the room nervously. “Let me⁠—“

“In the pasture,” I continued. “Where we set the Hanover horses free. Where the sun hits the grass first in the morning.” My throat tightened. “She always believed a place like that existed.”

Silence fell—heavy, reverent.

Mama nodded first, tears spilling again. “Yes. Yes, baby. That’s perfect.”

Colton wiped his face with the back of his hand. “She’d like that.”

Delia whispered, “She’d love it.”

Dad’s voice cracked. “Then that’s where she’ll be.”

Avalon moved toward me slowly, like she was afraid I’d shatter if she came too fast. Her eyes searched mine, full of grief and something else—something soft, something steady.

“I want to stay,” she said quietly. “I’ll stay in the farmhouse when you bury her. I don’t want to intrude. I don’t want to⁠—”

“No.” The word came out sharper than I meant, but I didn’t take it back. “I need you there.”

I reached for her hand, needing something to hold onto. I gave it a gentle squeeze and forced a smile.

“We need you here.”

Her breath caught. “Are you sure?”

“Melody would’ve wanted you there,” I said softly. “She wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Avalon’s eyes filled, and she nodded, stepping close enough that our arms brushed and her fingers fumbled for the rest of mine.

And for the first time since Melody’s heart stopped, I felt like I could breathe.

My sister was buried at sunset, just as the sun tucked herself behind the tall mountains and the horses gathered near the creek. Her funeral was small—just family and close friends. Nothing flashy. Melody had always hated flashy.

I visited her every day, taking small gifts and letters people from town had brought for her. We never told them where she was laid to rest, wanting to keep it private for just those closest to her.

The wildflowers we’d laid over Melody’s grave had begun to wilt at the edges, their colors softening under the Texas sun. The wooden marker Colton carved stood at the head of the mound, her name etched with careful, trembling hands.

Melody-Claire King.

Our Brave Little Cowgirl.

I stood there with my boots in the grass, the wind brushing against my shoulders like a familiar hand. The same wind that had carried her laughter. The same wind that had tangled her curls.

Avalon stood beside me, her fingers laced with mine—not tight, not demanding, just there. Present. Steady. Her thumb brushed the back of my hand in small, grounding circles.

She hadn’t gone back to Mayfair. She hadn’t even asked when she should leave. I knew something had happened—videos circulating, her mother showing up, nasty words exchanged—but I didn’t press and she didn’t offer.

She just stayed. In the farmhouse. In the kitchen with Mama. In the barn with Colton. In the pasture with me.

We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. Grief had a way of stripping everything down to the bone, leaving only what mattered.

And somehow, in the middle of all that loss, we found a way to keep moving.