Make You Feel My Love

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  “What’s that?” Aunt Rosemary straightened. “Were you talking to me, young man?”

  He smiled at Chelsea a second time, then turned toward Aunt Rosemary. “Miss Townsend, my name’s Liam. I live a few miles outside of Chickadee Creek.”

  “I know who you are. You’re the young Chandler boy. And I know the house. I remember when it was built, five or six years back. The huge log house where the mining office used to be.”

  Liam took a couple of steps toward her great-aunt. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “You know, young man, there was a Chandler in Chickadee Creek before there was a town. Owen Chandler was one of the few who made a real fortune here.”

  “So I understand.”

  “And Chandlers have owned a good share of the land in these parts ever since.”

  He nodded.

  “So. A Chandler’s come back to stay. That’s good.” Aunt Rosemary motioned to a straight-backed chair against the opposite wall. “Drag that over here and sit down so we can get acquainted.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He obeyed at once.

  Chelsea thought she should go back to work, but something kept her at the railing, staring down at her great-aunt and the visitor. Liam Chandler. Why did his name sound familiar too?

  Aunt Rosemary leaned forward enough to pat his knee. “What brought you to Chickadee Creek? We don’t get many young folk moving in. Way more move away, like most of your family. Not a lot to offer in these parts, except for the beauty of God’s nature. We’ve got plenty of that.”

  “I know. My brother and I came up here in the summer as kids. My parents had an old cabin that was in the family for years.”

  Chelsea pressed her lips together. Could she possibly have met him the summer she’d stayed with her great-aunt? He didn’t look to be much older than she was. Maybe four or five years, tops. Was that why he looked familiar, why she felt like she knew his name? Had he come into the antique shop back then?

  Aunt Rosemary looked up and saw her watching them. “Chelsea, come down and join us.”

  Caught eavesdropping, she felt heat rise in her cheeks. She quickly shook her head.

  “Come on now.” Her great-aunt motioned with her hand. “There’s nothing so important up there that it can’t wait while we have a good visit with a neighbor.”

  Liam's Journal

  Her name was Nanci. Nanci with an i. That’s what I think of first when I think of her. She made sure everybody knew how to spell her name.

  She was the prettiest girl in the ninth grade. No doubt about it. She was in the same homeroom as Jacob, and he had it bad for her. But he was shy, and he couldn’t seem to get her to notice him. So he came to me for advice. I was fifteen, in high school, and full of myself. I figured I could help him ask her out on a date.

  Then I saw her at a football game, and all I could think was I hadn’t understood just how pretty she might be. She was the first redhead I ever fell for. Dark auburn. She wore it long and loose. And she had big brown eyes. Enormous. Almost like a caricature.

  I gave Jacob advice. It was good advice too. But I made sure I was always in the picture somewhere when Nanci was around. Unlike my brother, I wasn’t shy. I was confident with girls, and I was good with a line too. I knew how to say all of the right things at the right time. (I was an actor even then.) I made sure Nanci noticed me. Jacob didn’t stand much of a chance.

  I’m ashamed now, writing it in this journal. Seeing what it says about me.

  But if Jacob knew what I did, that I intentionally made Nanci want me instead of him, he never let on. Ever.

  I wish we’d talked about it after we grew up. Wish we’d talked about it as adults and best friends. Did it matter to him or was it forgotten, along with a lot of things that don’t get remembered from our childhoods?

  Members of a family remember different things about their lives in that family. And when we remember the same things, we remember them differently. I’ve learned that. No wonder eyewitness accounts are unreliable.

  He was tall and wearing a red knit cap.

  No, he was short and wearing a black skullcap.

  No, it was a woman in a baggy T-shirt and yoga pants.

  ?

  Funny thing, I don’t have a clue what happened to Nanci. She and I went out a few times, but it wasn’t like we became a thing. We didn’t even break up. We simply drifted on, made other friends. Both of us. It was over before the football season ended.

  Did Jacob know that too? Did he care? Did he think about her for years after?

  Something I know now that I didn’t know a year ago: even when somebody’s dying and you know it, you still think you’ve got time. Time to say the things you want to say. Plenty of time to remember and discuss and share. But you don’t. It doesn’t go on forever. Nothing does. You run out of time, and there are things you wished you’d asked. Things you wished you’d let them say. I wish I’d talked to Jacob about Nanci and asked him to forgive me.

  Something else I know now: when you see somebody you love fighting for breath, struggling against the pain, you stupidly think it’ll be a relief when they aren’t suffering any longer. And maybe there’s a fraction of that. But mostly, after they’re gone, you feel the emptiness in your life. You wish them back, despite the suffering. You think if you could have another day or another hour with them, then it would be worth it.

  But I’m never going to have another hour with Jacob this side of heaven. Never.

  That hurts.

  Chapter 5

  Liam watched as Chelsea left the second story of the shop and came down the stairs. As on the day he’d seen her crossing the road, she wore a sleeveless top—this one a pale pink—and a pair of denim shorts. Her ginger hair was woven into a single braid that fell over one shoulder. She was thin, like a lot of the women in LA, but for some reason, a protective feeling rose in him, as if he wanted to rescue Chelsea before she blew away in a stiff wind.

  He gave himself a mental shake. The feeling was probably a leftover from the months he’d watched Jacob wasting away.

  “This is my brother’s granddaughter,” Rosemary said. “Chelsea Spencer. Like you, she’s new to Chickadee Creek. Come to help me while I recover with this bum leg, but I hope she’ll stay a long time beyond that.”

  A sweet smile played across Chelsea’s mouth at her great-aunt’s words.

  Liam found himself hoping she would stay in town a long time too. At least as long as he stayed. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “You too.” Her green eyes narrowed. “Have we met before?”

  He shook his head, pretending he didn’t understand why he looked familiar to her. “I don’t believe so. But I passed you on the road earlier this week. You were toting a ladder and pail over to this shop.”

  “No. That’s not it.”

  Kurt Knight might be right. Maybe Liam was already on his way to being forgotten, less than a year after his last movie. He hadn’t done interviews around the film’s release because of Jacob’s failing health. And over these last eight months, few had mentioned him in the trades or on talk shows. Perhaps he’d had his fifteen minutes of fame. And if he didn’t mean to return to Hollywood, if he didn’t want to resume his film career, why did any of that matter?

  “Liam?” Rosemary’s voice drew his attention back to the older woman.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She shook her head. “That’s quite enough of that ‘ma’am’ business. I can see you’re a respectful young man, which I appreciate, but please call me Rosemary. Everyone in Chickadee Creek does.” Without waiting for a reply, she looked at her great-niece again. “Chelsea, get a chair and join us. As nice as everybody was at the hospital and rehab center, I confess I’m starved for real conversation.”

  Had he been crazy to stop in at the antique store after saying goodbye to his agent? Liam wasn’t researching the history of Chickadee Creek, despite what Grace Witherstone seemed to think, and he wasn’t in the market for antiques. So what was he do
ing there? Maybe he’d been starved for some real conversation too.

  “Tell us why you’ve come to stay in our little village,” Rosemary said.

  He cleared his throat. It was okay, he’d learned, to edit his responses while still telling the truth. He’d also learned that he didn’t owe his private business to the world, despite what many people seemed to think about celebrities. Or even semicelebrities, like him.

  Rosemary laughed softly. “Don’t be afraid to tell me to mind my own business, if that’s what you want.”

  It seemed she’d read his mind. Not that he would have put it in those words. But for some reason, her frankness made him more willing to talk about himself.

  He leaned back in his chair. “When I had my house built five years ago, my intent was to come to the area for hunting or a brief getaway every now and then. I was living and working in southern California at the time, so it seemed likely that’s all it would be. Just a vacation place. Then my family needed me to come to Boise for a while, and when . . . when the crisis was over”—this was the well-edited part—“I decided to come up to Chickadee Creek for . . . for a rest. The longer I’ve stayed, the more I’ve liked it.”

  “And there’s nothing in California waiting for you?” Rosemary’s eyes were watchful.

  “You mean work?” He smiled wryly, thinking of Kurt’s visit. “I’m not sure. Possibly, when I’m ready.”

  “And what is it that you do?”

  He swallowed. There was no avoiding it. “I . . . work in the film industry.”

  Chelsea sucked in a breath of air. “Liam Chandler,” she said softly.

  His gaze shifted to her.

  She pointed at him. “You were in that movie with Chris Pratt. Destination: North Star. I saw it on Christmas Day. That was you.”

  He shrugged.

  “You’re a movie star?” Rosemary drew back, her eyes wide. “Well, mercy me. I never.”

  He wasn’t sure what to say to that.

  A soft chime sounded, and Chelsea reached into her pocket to remove her phone. She read something on the screen. Her complexion paled, and an emotion flickered across her face. Dread? Fear? Worry? Then she stood. “Sorry. I need to see to this.” She hurried away, disappearing through a doorway at the back of the shop.

  “Oh, dear,” Rosemary whispered.

  Although he wondered what was wrong, he decided this would be a good time for him to leave. He didn’t want to answer more questions about his films, and he suspected the conversation might veer in that direction if he stayed.

  He stood. “It was a real pleasure to meet you, Rosemary. I hope you make a swift and full recovery.” He motioned toward her leg as he said it.

  “Thank you,” she answered, but her gaze remained on the door at the back of the shop, a deep frown furrowing her forehead.

  * * *

  Sitting in the dim light of the small office in the back of the antique shop, Chelsea stared at the message from her sister Evelyn.

  Tom still looking for you. Wants you to call him.

  Chelsea had mailed a note to her ex-boyfriend, telling him once and for all that it was over, that she never wanted to see him again. Nothing he could do would change her mind. She’d hoped he would take her words to heart and leave her be. She should have known better. Tom was too much like her father. Once he thought of something—or someone—as “his,” he wouldn’t let go lightly.

  But he doesn’t know where I am. No one except Grandpa John knows I’m here with Aunt Rosemary, and Tom’s never met Grandpa. I’m safe here. Tom can’t find me.

  Still, another chill passed through her, knowing Tom had contacted her sister. He would probably contact each of her siblings and their mother too. And frustrated in his efforts, he would grow angrier . . . and dangerous.

  I’m a long way from Hadley Station. I’m a long way from Spokane. He won’t find me in Chickadee Creek. He’s never even heard me mention Aunt Rosemary.

  Chelsea had destroyed her old mobile phone, and she’d turned off location services when she received her new one from a different service provider. Only Evelyn had her new number, and Evelyn would never betray Chelsea. Not ever.

  She imagined Tom standing on the boardwalk outside of Rosemary & Time, and a shudder made her teeth rattle.

  Fear not. That’s what the Bible told her. She wasn’t to live in fear. She could look at the world as it was. She could see and recognize reality. She could know Tom Goodson was a volatile man, a man to be avoided, someone never to be trusted. But she wasn’t to live in fear. God told her to be smart, not afraid. He wanted her to turn to Him in trust.

  But how? It was a balancing act that too often eluded her.

  Jesus, take my fear. I lay it at your feet. Make me as wise as a serpent and as gentle as a dove.

  She sat still, eyes closed, and waited for the dread to drain from her heart. It didn’t happen right away. But after a long while, she seemed to hear Grandpa John whispering in her ear: “‘Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.’ You know who said that? The Duke. Always appreciated that man’s common sense.”

  “‘Saddle up anyway.’” Chelsea took a deep breath and released it. “Keep moving forward. Take one step at a time. Do the next right thing.” Another deep breath and she was ready to brave the world beyond this small office.

  When she opened the door, she saw that her great-aunt was alone at the front of the store.

  “Mr. Chandler left?”

  Aunt Rosemary ignored the question, instead asking one of her own. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure, dear?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Aunt Rosemary. I’m saddling up anyway.”

  Her great-aunt smiled for the briefest of moments, obviously recognizing one of her brother’s favorite quotes.

  Chelsea leaned down and kissed Aunt Rosemary’s cheek. “I’d better get back to my sorting. Can I get you anything before I head upstairs?”

  “No, dear. I don’t need a thing. I’ll go back to my napping.” She closed her eyes. “Imagine. We had a movie star sitting in our shop this morning. Who’d’ve thunk it?”

  “Who’d’ve thunk it?” The oddly phrased question made Chelsea smile, and the lingering fears about Tom scurried away.

  She turned and headed up to the second floor, where the work awaited her.

  Preston

  May 1895

  The town of Chickadee Creek had never risen to the size or status of Idaho City, once the largest city in the entire northwest. But the gold—found in the creek that cut through the area and in the surrounding mountains—had brought many hopeful miners to the region. Following after those miners had come families, some of whom had put down roots and stayed after the rush was over.

  A distant cousin of Preston’s had been among the few miners who struck it rich in the 1860s. Owen Chandler was also one of the men who stayed in Chickadee Creek. He used his money to buy land. Lots of land. He built a big house in the town and filled it with fine furnishings. At the age of fifty, he married a woman who was half his age and fathered six children, not a one of whom lived beyond the age of four. His wife passed away before her fortieth birthday, many said from a broken heart, and Owen had lived out the rest of his life alone in that big house.

  A big house along with the remainder of Owen’s fortune that now belonged to Preston Chandler.

  Preston stood in the parlor of the Chandler mansion. Opening the drapes had revealed a thick layer of dust over everything in the room. The furnishings were ornate and somewhat worn, and he guessed the many knickknacks had been purchased by Owen’s late wife. He would have to decide what to keep and what to give away or throw out. But that could wait. For now, he wanted to see the rest of the house.

  The ground floor—in addition to the front hall, reception area, and parlor—had an expansive library, a dining room that could fit more people than he knew around its table, a spacious kitchen, and a laundry room. There were s
tairways at both the front and the back of the house. He took the back stairs up to the second story, where he found a bathroom and four bedchambers, all of them with built-in closets.

  The largest of the bedchambers sat at the front of the house. A door opened from that room onto a small balcony that overlooked the road leading into the center of town. Preston stepped through the opening and looked around. Mostly he saw trees, but there was a nice view of the creek for which the town was named. The air was crisp, and the breeze blowing through the pines created a soft melody of sorts.

  “Hey! You, there.”

  He stepped closer to the railing.

  “What you doing there? That there house is off limits.” The man on the road glowered at Preston. “If you was from around here, you’d know that. Now git out before I go for the deputy.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. No need for the deputy. I’m the owner of this house.”

  “That right?” The glower faded slightly. “Ain’t no owner. Owner’s dead.”

  “The prior owner is deceased. That’s true. But I am Preston Chandler, the new owner.”

  “Chandler, huh. Relative?”

  “A cousin.”

  “Huh.”

  He fought back a smile, enjoying the encounter perhaps more than he should. For some reason, he believed he and the man below would become friends, given a bit of time.

  “Well, I reckon you can prove it if’n you need to.”

  The fellow turned and went on his way.

  Preston stared after the departing stranger. Would everyone in Chickadee Creek meet him with similar suspicion? He hoped not. He intended to put down roots in this town, to call it home. He planned to build on his newfound fortune. He had ideas for mining the remaining gold from the land. And then there was the timber. With Boise City growing as it was, there was need for more and more lumber. He would need many employees as he expanded into other businesses. He wanted to get off on the right foot with the citizens of this little town.