The Locket

by Brenna Todd

  "I'll leave you now, Erin." She could barely hear J.B. over the noise that was growing louder by the moment. "Goodbye, dear. I'm most grateful." Then he kissed her cheek and was gone.

  Waite strode forward, a desperate light shining in the black depths of his eyes. "Not yet," she thought she heard him say. "Don't go yet."

  When he stood before her, the scent of leather and horse and the outdoors enveloped her, and memories came flooding back. That first day, the 101 Ranch, the sight of him at the dinner party, so devastatingly handsome in evening clothes. How can I leave you? she thought mournfully, but knew the choice was not hers to make.

  "I have to go now, Waite." She raised her voice to be heard. "You know that."

  "I know," he said loudly. "But I had to see you one last time. I rode Cherokee this morning and thought about ways I could make this not happen. I thought of carrying you away from here, taking you with me... somewhere... anywhere."

  She squeezed her eyes shut, the humming almost unbearable, her grief just as strong. "But you can't. I... love you," she said. "I'll always—"

  "What?"

  She opened her eyes, looked up at him with a frown.

  "I can't hear you, Erin. Say it louder."

  "Waite! Oh, God! You can hear it?" She grabbed his forearms. "J.B. couldn't hear it. But you can..."

  He frowned. "What is it? It's as loud as a damned train."

  It was. And he could hear it! Joy rocketed through her at the possibility. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. "I think it means you get to come with me!" she shouted. "Remember, history has it that you were never heard from again. Maybe it's possible. I can't stay, but maybe you can—"

  He gaped at her, then at the portrait.

  "Unless... Waite, is it what you want? You'd be leaving everything you've ever known, everyone-"

  He shook his head, still stunned, but smiling. "I want to be where you are." And he didn't have to shout it for Erin to hear every word.

  Her heart pumping wildly, she grabbed his hand and they walked toward the portrait. When they stood inches away, she glanced heavenward, sending up a prayer. Please. Please, let it work. She locked gazes with him. "Touch my locket, and the one on the canvas, Waite. At the same time." She swallowed. "If it doesn't work... If you stay behind... I lo-"

  He cut off her words with a blistering kiss, rife with promises of a love strong enough to survive the decades. "It will work," he said against her mouth. And she believed him.

  She looked back at the ballroom again. For the last time. Imagining it as it had been that first night, she heard the bright jazz music, saw the people mingling and laughing, dancing beneath the Wa-terford crystal chandelier. She shook her head in wonder. A place out of time, out of history books and museums—J.B. and Della's world—and she had been allowed to experience it, to live it, if only for a little while.

  She turned to Waite, ready now. Lifting his hand to her locket, she placed her own fingertips there, as well, then felt the compulsion to touch the canvas. Waite felt it, too, she could tell. Just before darkness took her, she thought she heard the faint voice of J.B. Saying goodbye.

  EPILOGUE

  IF THERE WAS A SIGHT more breathtaking than Waite MacKinnon in jeans and a chest-hugging Western shirt as he rode a stallion that loved racing over the Oklahoma prairie as much as his rider, Erin had never seen it. She loved watching her new husband take the horse through its paces, loved the gift of time they'd been given. It was a gift she gave thanks for every day of her life.

  Waite needed the outlet his morning rides gave him. Though he never complained, the strain of adjusting to this strange new world was beginning to get to him. He was doing well in the business courses he'd enrolled in at the community college, but only Erin and the few members of her family who knew Waite's true birthdate understood what a struggle it was for him. He labored long and hard over the books, grappling with assignments made more difficult because his knowledge of business was from another era. He spent hours at the library, soaking up history, technology and science—all the advances and events that had come after the 1920s.

  He claimed it was fascinating, and Erin knew he was being honest for the most part. But she also realized he wasn't doing it for himself. He was intent upon making a good living for them, and he'd learned quickly that in 1994, farming or ranching would require a huge amount of capital for startup. And his chances of becoming a success, or even making a decent living for her and the family he so desperately wanted were tenuous at best. So he'd decided his future would be in business. Never mind that it wasn't what he loved doing, he'd insisted; it was what he was good at.

  Stubborn, stubborn man, she thought, smiling as she watched him head the stallion back to the corral for the hundredth try at teaching the horse various tricks she'd seen at the Wild West show. Cherokee, The Sequel, as she had dubbed his stallion, was having none of it, but Waite wouldn't give up. Waite MacKinnon, she had learned, gave the word stubborn a whole new meaning. He spotted Erin standing near the railing of the corral and his lips split in a roguish smile. He trotted Cherokee over and did a fancy trick-rider dismount, then bowed with a flourish. "Bow," he muttered out of the side of his mouth to Cherokee. "Come on, bow!"

  Erin laughed. Waite dropped the reins and sauntered over to her. He pulled her up on tiptoe, and she ran her fingers through his sweat-damp hair, pulling his head down for a deep, lusty kiss. "You are such a show-off," she murmured against his lips, then dropped her hands to the first mother-of-pearl snap on his shirt. "And too sexy for this shirt."

  He chuckled, and tipped her chin for another morning kiss. "Do you plan to undress me in public, woman? In my day, flappers and bathtub gin were shocking. Dresses above the knee and rolled-down stockings, petting parties at college. But I'm telling you, the world's gone to hell in a handbas-ket. I like rock and roll, but why they have to sing it in their underclothes, and dance around imitating—well, you know—I'll never understand. And stop laughing. It would be a culture shock to anyone who—"

  "Came from my day," Erin finished for him, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "Do you know how funny it is to hear my father's words coming out of your mouth?"

  "I live to amuse," he said dryly, trying out a smart-aleck comment she'd taught him just that week. "How was that?"

  "Very good," she praised. "I'll have you caught up to the nineties by the end of the decade, I think."

  "Straight up?"

  She giggled and gave him a thumbs-up sign, then melted when he dragged her into his embrace and lowered his mouth to hers. Rock and roll and modern lingo was forgotten, Cherokee was ignored, the rest of world faded as the kiss quickly changed from teasing to sensual. Erin was unsnap-ping more mother-of-pearl snaps, when the sound of a car engine interrupted.

  Waite broke the kiss, frowning curiously at the expensive car as it bounced and jutted along the dirt road that led to the small farmhouse and acreage outside Munro that Aunt Shirley had given them as a wedding present. The man who climbed out of the sedan was dressed in a suit and balanced a huge arrangement of flowers and a briefcase in his hands.

  "Are you Erin MacKinnon?" he called out as he walked toward them. Erin eyed the flowers in puzzlement, then turned to Waite with a smile. "You sweetie, you. What's the occasion?"

  Waite shrugged. "Not from me," he replied, his forehead creasing. "Maybe they're from your mom and pop. Strange, though. He doesn't look like a deliveryman. He looks more like one of those Yuppie businessmen you're always warning me I'd better not turn into."

  Erin nodded. "He does, doesn't he?" she whispered. "And Pop wouldn't send flowers, he'd bring some out of his own garden." Her pop was in the best of health these days, having recovered from the last attack quite well while Erin had been "gone." He'd become an avid gardener since recuperating, as well as a genealogy hound. Erin and Waite's story had been difficult to believe at first, but once they'd convinced him, he spent all his free time away from the garden researching the family he'd never k
nown he belonged to.

  "Yes, I'm Erin," she said finally, and took the bouquet out of the man's hands, poking around for a card.

  The stranger chuckled and shook his head. "Oh, you won't find a card in there." He held out his hand and Erin shook it. "My name is Bradford Tompkins. I'm one of the partners in the legal firm of Tompkins, Tompkins, Tompkins and O'Brien." He turned to Waite, shaking his hand, as well. "I'm hoping you're her husband?"

  "Yes," Waite answered, his tone uneasy and his gaze narrowed. Aunt Shirley had solved Waite's identity problem, but not through legal channels by any stretch of the imagination. He now had a social security number that allowed him to attend college.

  "Good, good." Tompkins opened his briefcase, drawing out a sheaf of papers. On top of it was a sealed envelope bearing Erin's name, printed in bold letters. "I've gotta tell you, I've looked forward to today for some time now. I'm not good with surprises or mysteries. I was always the kid who couldn't resist sneaking a peek at the Christmas presents when my parents weren't home."

  "Mysteries?" Erin asked. "What's this all about?"

  He smiled. "These flowers are from J. B. Munro."

  Her sudden intake of breath matched Waite's stunned expression. "How... I mean..."

  The attorney nodded. "I know. He died more than two years ago. My firm represents his estate. We were his legal representatives before his death, too. In fact, he's responsible for my grandfather starting the firm in the first place. Paid for his education, but that's another story.

  "Anyway, the estate was settled two years ago except for one matter. This envelope. He instructed that it remain sealed until you married."

  "Oh, my God," she murmured, locking gazes with her husband. Her fingers trembled as she took the envelope from the attorney. "From J.B., Waite," she said, barely able to open the envelope. Finally she managed it, pulling out a handsome, yet brittle, sheet of stationery. She grasped Waite's hand and they both read the letter.

  Dear Erin and Waite:

  I have spent many years with you in my heart and my thoughts. I have wondered how I might help you both and have, I hope, come up with a solution. I instructed my attorneys not to deal with this last portion of my estate until you, Erin, had married. I felt quite certain that would happen fairly soon after you and Waite returned. I want you to set aside your pride and accept this gift. It is my only way to thank you both for the gifts you have given me. Waite, I know you, son. And I have finally come to understand that you weren't happy in the world I brought you into. Take the money and start that ranch, my friend. And Erin... be happy, dear girl. You wished the same for me. And I was. Jonathan Bartholomew Munro, Munro, Oklahoma, 1980.

  Erin folded the letter and met Waite's eyes, hers misty with tears and his moist, as well. He glanced over at the attorney.

  Tompkins handed Erin a check, then grinned when her eyes widened at the amount. More than enough, she thought, to start five ranches.

  "I was curious to meet you, Mrs. MacKinnon. I knew most of Mr. Munro's friends and acquaintances, but hadn't known about you. I was especially interested because of the amount of that check."

  "Her... grandmother," Waite said, "was someone very important to J.B."

  "Ah." The attorney nodded. "He was quite a generous man. As I said, my grandfather didn't know him well, yet Mr. Munro paid for his education. Well... congratulations on your marriage." He shook their hands again. "It's off to a good start, eh?"

  When Tompkins left, Waite enfolded Erin in his arms.

  "He was happy," Erin said, and held her husband closer. "I was worried about that, you know."

  "Me too. Me too."

  Erin glanced up at him. "Tompkins... Tompkins ... That name sounds so familiar."

  Waite smiled. "Does it?"

  "It does to you, too?"

  "Yep. The woman who came the night of the dinner party... remember her?"

  "Yes."

  "Her husband worked for Munro MacKinnon. Roy Tompkins."

  Erin frowned. "But I thought he took a powder. .. left the family. I can't imagine J.B. sending the jerk to law school."

  "He wouldn't have. But you said J.B. assured you he would take care of the woman and her children. I'll bet it was one of her sons he put through college."

  "Yes... of course. And you," she said, pointing a finger at Waite's chest. "I know you. You're just like him. The wheels are already turning in that brain of yours. You're trying to figure out who to give this money to, aren't you?"

  He grinned. "Some of it. But you know what else I'm thinking?"

  She shook her head.

  He lifted his face heavenward. "Thank you, J.B. You knew what hell computers would be for me!"

  And with that, he handed Erin the check and lifted her in his arms. "Come on," he said, "let me teach you how to ride a horse. You're going to have to learn now."