by Brenna Todd
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
"Della!"
Erin's gaze swung to the woman who had shouted. She was decked out in a sleeveless satin gown and long pearls similar to the ones Della had been wearing. The woman handed her cocktail to the waiter and rushed forward, the long feather in her glittery headband bobbing.
"It is you! Wherever have you been? Oh, good Lord, you're bleeding!" The woman grasped Erin's arm, giving Erin's denim shirt and jeans a puzzled look.
"What in heaven's name have you done to yourself?"
"You," she instructed the waiter, who was gaping at Erin, "close your mouth and get J.B. over here!"
Erin shook her head and ran a shaky hand through her hair. "I'm...uh—I'm not who you think—"
The woman disregarded her. "J.B., there you are! Just look at Della! And look at the blood on..."
Erin looked up. My God, it was him!
Dear Readers,
I'm often asked where I get my ideas. That question has many answers, depending on which book one might wonder about. The Locket was inspired by a trip to the Marland Mansion in Ponca City, Oklahoma. It is a magnificent home, open for tours, and was built by the tenth governor of Oklahoma, oil baron E. W. Marland. The history behind the mansion is fascinating, and my imagination went wild as I toured Mr. Marland's grand home. Though my characters inhabit a similar mansion, in a small town much like Ponca City, Oklahoma, the tale I've told is fictional, of course. The real-life folks were quite interesting, don't get me wrong, but I'm rather fond of creating my own. I hope you'll enjoy The Locket and find the era as romantic and wondrous as I did.
Sincerely, Brenna Todd
This one's for you, Mom.
Because you love time travels,
and you didn't take me to a psychiatrist
because of the imaginary dogs.
ISBN 0-373-70621-9
THE LOCKET
Copyright © 1994 by Brenda Hamilton.
All rights reserved. Except for use In any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises B.V.
® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
Printed in U.S.A.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Golden Heart winner Brenna Todd likes a challenge. Each book she writes has a new yet distinctive flavor. Her heroes and heroines are men and women you could meet on the street—or on an adventure that takes you back in time. The Locket is just such a story, based on her winning approach—adding a magic "what if" to a real-life event, and then, of course, including a healthy dose of romance to keep readers hungry for more.
Brenna lives in Oklahoma with her husband and two children.
Books by Brenna Todd
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Without help from the following people, this book would not have been possible. I am deeply grateful, and will apologize now for taking "artistic license" with the facts you gave me.
Cliff Vermillion, of the Marland Mansion in Ponca City, Oklahoma, who took me and my video camera through the tunnels.
Judy Johnson, librarian at the Ponca City Library, who helped with the history of her region of the state.
Genevieve and Roy Higgins, my own dear grandparents, who "remembered the days" with me.
Joyce Anglin and Kathie Compton. Thank you, Joyce, for "the shadow." Thank you, Kathie, for the handy-dandy reference manual.
My virtual critique group and on-line buddies. You are all wonders! Special thanks go to Monica Catalbano for resurrecting Erin's father, and Judith Tarr, Callie Goble and all other horse experts.
James Davis of EMSA of Tulsa, for his knowledge of all things paramedic, and David "Doc Danger" Brockway for the information on heart attacks.
CHAPTER ONE
"UNIT TWO, PRIORITY-ONE chest pains. Your patient is an elderly male reported to be pale and diaphoretic. He is conscious and breathing with some respiratory difficulty. Patient has a cardiac history. See the caretaker of Munro estate, 300 West Munro Boulevard."
Erin Sawyer watched Chuck, her partner of two weeks, flip on the lights and throw the unit into Drive. As they shot into traffic, siren wailing, he whistled long and low. "That's old J. B. Munro."
Erin didn't question the fact that her partner knew who their patient was. He knew everyone in this town of twelve thousand. But then, so did everyone else in Munro, Oklahoma. Most were even related.
"City founder," Chuck commented over the blare of the siren as they wove through the sparse morning traffic. "He's Oklahoma's own version of a Rockefeller. He was a railroad magnate who planned and built Munro. Gotta be a hundred years old if he's a day."
"Subaru at two o'clock," Erin warned, and Chuck swerved deftly to avoid the small car. Then he punched the accelerator and whizzed through an intersection.
Chuck glanced sideways at her. "Guess this is more like what you're used to."
"What?"
"Well, you've been on the job here two weeks now and the most thrilling thing we've done is rescue Old Man Hixon's fat basset hound from that killer log he got stuck in," Chuck said with a grin.
Erin laughed. "You call that exciting?"
"Was for Hixon's dog." Chuck slowed for a corner. "Lots of exciting stuff in Detroit, huh?"
Erin nodded and watched as they whizzed by small, quiet homes. She missed the adrenaline rush, the excitement of being a paramedic in Detroit, where nearly every call had been a life-and-death situation. But it was difficult explaining that to the other paramedics in Munro. They just smiled and shook their heads whenever she discussed big-city emergency calls, then proudly quoted their nearly nonexistent crime stats. There hadn't been a murder in Munro in ten years. Three had been committed in the preceding fifty. Liquor stores weren't robbed. Car-jacking and street corner drug deals were unheard of. The only rival gangs in Munro were the two quilting circles—one at the First Methodist Church and one at the Free Will Baptist.
"The slower pace here will be good for Mom and Pop," she told Chuck. For her, too. She'd just keep telling herself that until she believed it. "They grew up here."
"Did your daddy ever tell you about J.B.? The scandal?"
"No. I think it was always painful for him to talk about Oklahoma. He missed it so much." But he was home now, and on the mend, recovering from a near-fatal heart attack.
"What was the scandal about?" she asked.
"Well—this was years and years ago, mind you, back in the twenties—J.B. and his first wife, Virginia, took in her poor relatives' daughter to raise. Made her their ward.
"Virginia died eight or nine years later, and old J.B. waited about a year, then took the ward as his second wife. She was only eighteen or so at the time. Name was Della."
Erin raised a brow. "Married the girl he was raising? I'm surprised the good citizens of Munro didn't change the name of their town."
Chuck grinned. "But that was only the half of it. Della was murdered some years later and they never found out who killed her. Rumor had it she was fooling around with J.B.'s business partner and the partner did her in. But some suspect it was J.B. himself, since he didn't take kindly to their little affair."
Within minutes they arrived at the huge estate Erin had seen from the road several times since moving to Munro, and Chuck turned down the tree-lined drive. Though it was now a small farming community, Munro had once boasted an impressive number of millionaires who'd struck it rich in oil. Some of them had built homes on the land surrounding J.B.'s, but his residence greatly overshadowed theirs in size and magnificence.
It stood proudly amid tangled vines and undipped shrubbery, looking more like King Arthur's castle than a railroad entrepreneur's mansion. Turrets were positioned at all four corners of the stone facade, and stone-carved griffins snarled from each of its four stories. A huge coat of arms emblazoned with the name Munro hung next to a set of heavy wooden doors. But for the lack of a drawbridge and moat, the place made Erin feel as though she'd stepped onto British soil.
"If s something else, isn't it?" Chuck observed, his awe and pride unabashed.
"Yes. Looks like it could use a regular gardener, though."
"Oh, sure, it could stand a little sprucing up, but in its day this place was a showcase. The townsfolk called it the Palace on the Prairie. They'd never seen anything like it out here."
Chuck pulled the unit to a stop under the portico that shaded the front steps, and Erin grabbed her kit, then swung out of the van. He passed her as she vaulted up the stairs. "Looks deserted, doesn't it?" he said, as he reached the door and pounded the heavy wrought-iron knocker. Stopping next to Chuck, Erin waited in silence while he tried to open the door. Finding it locked, he banged the knocker harder, then harder still. With a frown, Chuck leaned over and pounded on a window beside the door. "EMS!" he shouted. "Can someone let us in?"
Bracketing her eyes with her palms, Erin peered through the window on her side of the door. All the furniture was covered with sheets. No lights shone in any of the rooms. "There's no one in there." She stepped back. "It looks all closed up. Think he could be upstairs?"
"Could be. But you'd think the caretaker would be on the lookout for us." Chuck turned and started down the steps. "I'm going to call Dispatch to reconfirm," he said over his shoulder.
Erin made for the doors again, banging the knocker and still getting no response. She darted down the steps and circled the house, trying each ground-level window, shouting Mr. Munro's name every few seconds. When she returned to the front steps, she noticed Chuck was still in the van, waiting for the reconfirm. Frustrated, she headed for the doors one last time.
But at the top step she froze, overcome by a sense of foreboding. She shivered as she heard an eerie humming sound. Staring at the double doors, she focused her gaze on the faint carvings just below the iron knocker. A Celtic design surrounded an ornate set of initials: J.B.M. Despite her inexplicable uneasiness, she stepped forward, unaccountably compelled to touch the carvings.
When the pads of her fingers made contact with the wood, she experienced a strange sense of deja vu. How bizarre. She'd seen this house from the road, but had never set foot on the property. So why did she feel as if she'd touched these doors before?
Could she have seen the house closer up as a child? She and her family had made plenty of summer trips to Munro to visit relatives. Maybe she'd seen them then—
"He's in the guesthouse!"
Erin swiveled to stare in Chuck's direction. Guesthouse—? Instantly her presence of mind returned, and Erin raced down the steps. Hopping into the passenger seat, she buckled herself in.
Chuck didn't even glance her way as he threw the van into Drive and sped off to the back corner of the estate.
"HURRY! HE'S RIGHT in there, sittin' on the couch."
Erin and Chuck rushed past the elderly gentleman standing in the doorway of the guesthouse. He followed them inside. "I check on him every day. Every day without fail he's up and around, just a-blowin' and a-goin'. But not today. He... he's in a bad way."
And he was. J.B. Munro's skin had the sickly gray pallor of someone who had suffered a heart attack, and his lined face was contorted with a pain-induced grimace. His thin white hair was slicked down with perspiration, and his clothes were soaked with it. He clutched his chest with an age-withered hand.
Chuck hurriedly set up an oxygen unit and hooked Munro to the heart monitor. Erin fastened a blood-pressure cuff around his arm.
"Mr. Munro, we're with EMS," she said as she checked his pressure and pulse. She shot Chuck a look indicating her findings were not good. "We're here to help you, sir. Can you talk to me at all?"
A tortured moan was her only answer.
Chuck flipped on the monitor and Erin winced inwardly when she heard the weak rhythm of Munro's heart. It matched the pressure and pulse reading she'd just taken.
Grabbing a sterile package from her kit, Erin glanced up at Chuck again. "Need to start a line with D5W." She ripped open the package and extracted a catheter. Tying a tourniquet around Munro's thin arm, she searched for a vein. Chuck squatted down next to her as she hooked the IV tubing to the catheter. When she'd taped down the tubing, Chuck found the site with a hypodermic, then pushed the plunger,
"Stretcher," Chuck said, then sprinted away to get it.
Erin reached into her kit for a small towel, then dabbed at the perspiration on Mr. Munro's forehead. He groaned again, and Erin's heart went out to him. Poor thing, he was so old. Chuck's estimate was probably right; the man had to be at least a hundred. He looked so frail, and as vulnerable as a child. A peculiar C-shaped scar near his left eye gleamed silver, and his eyes mirrored the shock and fear that had been in her father's the night he'd nearly died. She felt shaky at the thought and began talking to J.B. again to erase the memory.
"I'm with EMS, Mr. Munro," she repeated. "My partner and I are going to take you to the hospital."
He looked at her then, his pained expression giving way to one of confusion. A slight frown creased his brow and he mouthed a word over and over again—one that Erin couldn't make out.
She gave him a reassuring smile. "Don't be afraid, sir. You're going to be all right," she said, wiping his brow again. "Just lie as still as possible and-"
"Della?" he muttered, lifting a trembling hand to her cheek. "My God... it's you, Della."
"No, Mr. Munro," she said gently, lowering his hand to his side. Disorientation was another symptom of a heart attack. Her father had done the same kind of thing—looked straight into Erin's eyes and called her by her mother's name.
"I'm with EMS and-"
"Still so beautiful," he said, his voice rusty as a solitary tear wet the C-shaped scar, then rolled down his ashen cheek. "My beautiful Della."
She didn't know why, but Erin suddenly felt uneasy. The look of recognition in Munro's eyes seemed so lucid. "No, Mr. Munro, I'm—"
"Can you forgive me, Della? You know I never meant to hurt—" His voice cracked and more tears came. He found her hand with his and squeezed it, surprising Erin with the strength of his grip.
"What I did to you—" His agitation made his already difficult breathing worsen. "Dear God, what I did
-"
Erin wiped the tears away with the towel. "It's okay, Mr. Munro. Everything's going to be fine." She slipped her hand out of his. "Just lie still, please. Calm down and lie still."
He did as he was told, but the tears didn't stop. And through his tears, his gaze was trained on Erin with such intensity that a shiver darted up her spine. She jumped when he grasped her hand again and tried to sit up.
"No. No, I was wrong!" he exclaimed. "You're not Della."
"Calm down, Mr. Munro, please. You're going to tear out this IV."
"You're not Della."
"That's right," she replied in a placating tone. "I'm-"
"You don't have to tell me. I know who you are," he whispered. "You're the other one. You're Erin."
THE DOORS OF THE emergency room whooshed open and Erin walked through, leaving the placid, star-sprinkled Munro night to enter the deserted hospital wing.
What a difference several hours made. No swarm of doctors and nurses hovering at the entrance. No tension, no anxiety hanging in the air. Now the only sound was the faint hum of overhead lights and air-conditioning.
As always, Erin and her partner had immediately relinquished their patient to the hospital staff. The only difference was that the man they'd left this morning had paid for the building of this hospital. And he had known her name.
Coincidence, Chuck had said. Erin was new to Munro. She hadn't even heard of J. B. Munro before today. The poor old guy had been out of his head, mumbling names from his past. He'd called out to his dead wife, hadn't he? He had probably known an Erin, too. The name was not uncommon.
Erin paced in front of the desk, her crepe-soled shoes squeaking on the waxed floor. Though the thermostat was kept in the low seventies, she felt chilled.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her uniform slacks, then jerked them out again to rub her upper arms briskly. Taking a seat in the waiting area, she checked her watch, hoping that Janeen, the night nurse, wouldn't take a longer-than-usual coffee break.