Not all had names, or if they had once, time had erased them. But she read those she could. Mary Margaret Ryder. Daniel Edward Ryder. And there a tiny one, marking the grave of Susan—just Susan, who’d died in 1853 at the tender age of two months.

Someone tended to the grass here, she mused, so it didn’t grow wild. Still, there was that sense of wild. To offset the infant, she found the grave of Catherine Foster Ryder, who’d lived from 1781 to 1874.

“Ninety-three,” Justine murmured beside her. “A good, long life. I wish I knew who she was to me.”

“You’ll get the Bible, then you’ll know.”

“How come they can’t stay at the inn like Lizzy?” Murphy asked her. “How come they have to stay here?”

“Lizzy’s special, I guess.” Justine lifted him up, pressed her face to his throat as Hope turned.

She’d thought Ryder stood beside her, but saw now he’d walked off, to the right, stood alone by a trio of graves.

She walked toward him, realized her heart began to thud as she did.

“He’s the middle one.”

“What?” Her hand trembled as she reached out for his again.

“He was born last, died second. They were brothers.”

“How can you—I can’t make out the names.”

“Light’s going,” he said as she dropped down to her knees to peer closer.

“Oh God. Billy Ryder. They didn’t put his formal name on his grave. Just Billy. March 14, 1843, to September 17, 1862.”

“And Joshua, earlier that same year. Charlie, twenty-two years after. Three brothers.”

“It’s Billy.” It was all she could think at first. Here. They’d found him. “Is she here?” Hope’s head came up. “How could she be here?”

“It’s not her.” Understanding, Ryder gestured. “Honeysuckle. It’s about buried the wall behind these graves.”

He turned, looked at his mother. As their eyes met, he didn’t have to call out to her, to speak. Hers filled as she started toward him.

“You found him.”

“Time’s dulled the carving, but you can make out the name. He died the same year as Lizzy. The same month, within the same day.”

Owen stepped to his mother, slipped an arm around her waist, kept Avery’s hand in his. Then Beckett with Clare, and the boys miraculously quiet. And Willy B, patting Carolee’s back when she let out a little sob.

The sun slid into twilight, and the air stirred the thick scent of honeysuckle.

Hope traced the name with her finger, then laid it against her heart.

“We’ll bring flowers next time.” Justine leaned her head against Owen’s arm, touched Beckett’s, touched Ryder’s. “It’s time we remembered them. We’re here because they were, so it’s time we remembered them.”

On impulse, Ryder took out his pocketknife, cut through honeysuckle vines. He laid it down.

“That’s something anyway.”