world?” she murmured to herself. And the sparkling clean surfaces glinting back at her.
Someone had been here and cleaned up. Relief and gratitude combined into a perfect cyclone of emotion, and tears touched Etta’s heart and eyes. She took a step further toward the bar, almost expecting it all to wink away and the dirty plates, half-drunk plastic cups of tea or cider, and the slow cooker crock full of cold, crusty baked beans to reappear.
They didn’t, and she turned in a full circle, finding the pillows back on the couches. “This is crazy,” she said. Those pillows never stayed on the couch for longer than ten seconds, especially if Smiles came over to play with Wilder.
She pulled out her phone and texted Holly Ann. Did you come clean up the homestead? Thank you so much!
Holly Ann hadn’t been at the hospital long, because she had a holiday party tonight, and she’d come back to the ranch to finish the prep and get the food where it belonged. She was probably either in transit to the party right now or setting up, so she probably wouldn’t answer.
Etta stepped over to the fridge and opened it, immediately realizing Holly Ann hadn’t been the one to clean up. The crock itself sat in the fridge, a piece of plastic wrap pressed around it. That was fine with Etta, but Holly Ann would have never done that.
Etta backed out of the fridge. The garbage can sat there, a new bag in it, but she didn’t see the full trash bag. Holly Ann wouldn’t have taken that out to the big barrel, because she’d have to come back up the stairs, and with only two and a half months until she delivered, she would’ve just put it on the deck.
Etta stepped outside and saw no trash bag. It wasn’t me, Holly Ann said as she moved back inside. She texted Willa, who’d also taken longer to come down to the hospital, because she and Cactus had a lot of children to wrangle now. Not only that, but it had been afternoon, and she’d stayed to babysit several of the younger babies who needed naps. Only then had she loaded up as many car seats as her minivan would hold and come down to the hospital.
I didn’t do it, Willa said. I’ve barely had time to think past my nose.
Etta frowned. Everyone else had come down to the hospital about the time she had. Cleaning up the homestead had likely taken at least thirty minutes. Etta knew, because Etta did it all the time. People came over, made a mess, and left. They never really thought about the fact that people actually lived in this house, and they had to clean up after company. Or if they did, they still left their cups on the table and didn’t replace the toilet paper when it ran out in the main floor bathroom.
Etta sent a text out to the family, determined to know who’d cleaned up for her so she could thank them properly. Thanks to whoever cleaned up after lunch. Speak now, and I’ll bring you your favorite dinner one night next week.
She loved cooking, and it was one of the major ways she’d been able to serve others throughout the years.
It was me, Preacher said quickly. I love those chicken taquitos you make.
It was not, Charlie said. Don’t listen to him, Etta.
Judge tried to claim credit, but Cactus said they’d driven down together, and there was no way it could’ve been Judge. The ribbing went back and forth for several minutes, but the result was the same: No one in the Glover family had cleaned the homestead.
“So who did it?” Etta took in the spotless kitchen, and all at once, like a lightning strike from thunderclouds, she knew. She dialed and lifted the phone to her ear.
“Etta,” August said pleasantly. “How’s Ward and Dot? You never texted me what they named the baby.”
“Did you clean the homestead?” she asked, completely ignoring his question.
He didn’t answer for a moment, which was all the answer she needed. “August,” she said, her voice soft and overflowing with emotion. “Thank you. Thank you so much. What a blessing to come home to a clean house.”
“I’m glad it was a blessing,” he said.
Etta went into the living room and sank onto the nearest couch. “I texted the family, asking them who’d done it and promising them their favorite dinner one night next week.” She let the sentence sit there, hoping