Sitting back on her heels, Rosie'd wipe the dust from her hands and look at the small mountain of boxes piled in the closet. She'd wrap the brand new black Stetson in plastic and put it on the top of the boxes. It had never been worn. It's intended owner had never seen it and probably never would.

For the first time in two weeks, she'd woken up without tears on her face or stains on her pillowcase. The sun streaming through the window felt good on her face. The dull ache in her heart for the child lost would never go away, and she could deal with that. But the pain for the husband who had deserted her had lifted in her sleep. It had been replaced with resolve.

She'd not even changed out of her flannel nightgown when she started packing his things up. She'd carefully and neatly place the clothing into plastic bags, then into boxes they went. All of his jewelry, wrapped seperately in tissue, then together, then into another, smaller box. The meticulous care she put into packing was a last loving gesture to her husband.

As she placed the Stetson atop of the collection of boxes she'd smile softly. "Good bye, Dakota Steele."