A Pansy for Eleanor, Epilogue

Thistle Creek, Colorado

Spring 1877

The wind was soft, carrying the scent of fresh earth and pine as Eleanor stepped onto the porch of their small home. The morning sun cast long golden rays over the valley, warming the wooden planks beneath her feet. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, breathing in the crisp spring air.

A splash of color caught her eye near the garden fence; delicate purple and yellow blooms pushing up through the thawing soil.

Pansies.

Eleanor’s heart softened at the sight. She hadn’t planted them, but somehow the flowers had taken root on their own, stubborn and determined, just like this town.

She ran a hand over the curve of her stomach, barely perceptible beneath the folds of her dress. The thought had only begun to settle in her mind, a quiet suspicion, a flicker of awareness. She hadn’t said anything to Henry yet. It was too soon. And yet, she knew.

The idea of a child, their child, was something she hadn’t allowed herself to dream of before. But here, in the quiet of the frontier, with a home of their own and the past fading into memory, it didn’t seem impossible.

The front door creaked open behind her.

“You’re up early,” Henry murmured, stepping outside, his hair still tousled from sleep. He slid an arm around her waist, pulling her close.

“I wanted to see the sunrise,” she said softly, leaning into him.

His gaze followed hers to the small patch of pansies by the fence. He smiled. “Those weren’t here last week.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I think they were meant to be.”

Henry pressed a kiss to her temple, then glanced down at her. “You’re quiet this morning.”

Eleanor hesitated, then turned in his arms, pressing a hand against his chest. “I was just thinking…We’re building something here, aren’t we?”

His fingers traced soothing circles on her back. “Yes, and I plan to keep building it, as long as you’ll have me.”

She smiled, warmth blooming in her chest.

Beyond the fence, the town stirred to life. The clang of a hammer rang out from the blacksmith’s shop. A wagon rolled down the street, kicking up dust in the early light. The sun reflected off the windows of the mercantile, which was becoming more successful with Henry’s guidance.

There had been no sign of Lord Rutledge. No letters. No threats.

The past had not followed them here. For the first time in her life, Eleanor felt truly free.

Henry brushed a stray curl from her cheek. “Come inside. I’ll make you tea before we head to the store.”

Eleanor let him lead her back into the house, one last glance at the pansies making her smile.

Perhaps, when the time was right, she would tell him about the other life growing within her.

Eleanor and Henry's story is only one of many from Thistle Creek. See below for other tales that take place here.