The Texas morning began in gold. The sun climbed slow and soft over the flat horizon, spilling warmth across the stretches of wild grass and the faded red roof of Cordelia’s small farmhouse. Dew still clung to the blades, glinting like glass as she stepped out onto the porch with a basket of freshly baked sourdough loaves resting on her arm.
The smell of bread and hay mixed in the breeze; her new life, simple and quiet, a world away from Nevada’s roar.
Her stand sat at the edge of the dirt road, shaded by an old pecan tree. The hand-painted sign that read “Cordy’s Table – Fresh Bread & Produce” swayed gently in the wind. Locals had grown fond of her, especially the Amish families who lived on the far side of the county. They came early with calm smiles and cash tucked neatly in handkerch
