Catch Me If You Can

by Donna Kauffman

  “But I suppose his interests here came far too late for the two of you?”

  And it was the very understanding he saw in her eyes that provoked him to spill the real truth of it. “The time spent under his roof, from birth through my eighteenth birthday, was dedicated to one thing, and one thing only. Proving we were better than our past. Rogues Hollow was founded in part by a Morgan who was a thief and a scoundrel, and that was putting it mildly. I can’t say much about the intervening Morgans, but my father’s father, and the Morgan before him, were not men who led the kind of lives you boasted of, in public or private. Thieving continued to be a running theme in the Morgan line, as it happens. And somewhere along the way you can add in drinking and abuse.”

  Maura’s mouth dropped open, but he was on a roll and wasn’t about to let her try and step in with some understanding bullshit. “My father’s way of dealing with his personal history was to make a mark so big that the Morgans before him would be forgotten beside the glow of all he and his sons had accomplished.” Tag shot her a look. “He did it, too. He was the first Morgan to go to college, the first to go to law school and pass the bar. The first to become a judge, and most definitely the first to become an upstanding citizen in the community. He was a peer among peers with the most elite our county had to offer, and he could hold his own at the state capital as well. And he managed to do it all without the thievery and alcohol, so he definitely improved the stock for future generations as well.” It was clear on her face that she’d noted the absence of that last part.

  “I guess two out of three wasn’t so bad, right?” he added with mock civility. “And he was determined that his four sons would not only match his shining example, but outdo it. In the manner in which he best saw fit, of course. Trust me when I say that that path didn’t include any of the ones taken by any Morgan before him. And it certainly didn’t include any of us making a career out of digging up the past. Ours or anyone else’s.

  “So you’ll have to forgive me if I have a hard time believing he ever came around to embracing our Rogues Hollow heritage, or for that matter, our heritage on this side of the pond either. And even if the miracle did happen, and he realized just how hardheaded and hard-hearted a man he’d become in his single-minded pursuit to rewrite history, it was certainly too late to go back and undo the damage of a lifetime spent delivering pure, torturous hell upon his sons.”

  Chapter 14

  Maura was both stunned and mortified by his outburst. Mortified, not for herself, but for him, because she could see he was already regretting losing his control, letting go of what he’d surely kept well buried for so many years.

  At a later time, when she could think properly instead of merely reacting to the moment, she’d think about what he’d revealed of his father’s character, and that of the Morgan men who’d preceded them both. And ponder over how difficult it must have been, for Tag to prevent those traits from manifesting themselves in himself, living in places where adopting the barest veneer of civility was all that was necessary to get by. Where he could be whatever sort of man he wanted to be, and never be challenged by what others knew about his family or their turbulent past. Which, come to think of it, might be why he’d gone to such a distant land in the first place.

  At the moment, however, she was too busy trying to blend her mental portrait of the man she’d come to know and care for, with the alternate and quite vivid portrayal his oldest son had just painted for her.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, knowing it was too vague a sentiment for what he’d made her feel with his outburst. And yet they were the only words she had. “I… I had no idea.” Which was absolutely the truth. Taggart could be somewhat curmudgeonly, but imagining him as physically abusive—to his own children, no less—was beyond her ken. But she had only to look at the man before her, the haunted look in his eyes, the shame that so infuriated him, for being weak enough, in his eyes, to feel it… No, she had no doubt that his claims were true. It explained a great deal regarding his behavior toward her when he’d first arrived.

  And yet, now she had even more questions… with fewer answers.

  He turned away then, looking back up to the portraits that lined the staircase wall. “How could you have?” he said wearily. “That’s the benefit of having a pen-pal relationship, I suppose. You only know what the other person chooses to reveal. And even then it’s a one-dimensional revelation at best.”

  “What do you know of my relationship with your father?” She didn’t ask it defensively, but sincerely. She knew he’d seen the contracts, and spoken with Taggart’s solicitor, but beyond that she didn’t know much else. “How do you know we exchanged letters?”

  He didn’t say anything at first, then finally he sighed and turned back to her again. “He kept them,” he said, somewhat grudgingly. “All of them, as far as I can tell.” It shouldn’t have caught her so badly off guard. But that’s when it truly struck her, that he literally owned all the remnants of his father’s past. Including her part in it. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It certainly hadn’t been on her mind when she’d composed her monthly letters, not even when she knew Taggart was dying. She wasn’t one to censor herself anyway, but never once had she thought anyone would see those letters but him.

  Her mind spun out over the myriad things they’d discussed in three long years of correspondence, but it was too unwieldy a task to encapsulate so swiftly, and under duress to boot. Which was exactly what she was feeling at the moment, though it might not be fair. He’d legally come into possession of the letters, but that didn’t negate the vulnerability she felt. Part of her didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know, even as she knew she had to. “Did you…?” She trailed off, unable to ask without revealing just how exposed she felt.

  “Read them?” he finished for her. Holding her gaze, he nodded. “I’m sorry if that bothers you,” he said, quite sincerely. “It wasn’t something I had an intention of doing. What my father did with his time, arid with whom, couldn’t have interested me less. I came home to handle the details of his funeral and to put his estate in order. That was… difficult enough for me. For all of us.”

  “All four of you came back, then?”

  He nodded. “Took awhile to track us all down, but yes, we eventually all made it in. It was hard for each of us in our own way, but none of us would have willingly placed more of a burden on the other.”

  “You’ve stayed close to your brothers, then?”

  “As close as our livelihoods allow.”

  She wanted to ask more, wanted to know, to understand Taggart’s children and what they’d done with themselves. But she knew it wasn’t her place. He was obviously uncomfortable with what he’d revealed already. Still, her curiosity was such that she couldn’t stifle all her questions. “How long had it been for you? Since you’d been home, I mean.”

  “Home.” He snorted softly. “Each of us left ‘home’ as soon as we were legally able to. Actually, Burke left even before that. All of us went a different way, none of us looked back. We knew we had each other, that if we ever truly needed anything, we could turn to each other. And that was enough. That bond was our home. Not the house in Rogues Hollow.”

  She didn’t know if he was aware of just how haunted he looked when he mentioned the mere word of the place of his birth. She rubbed her arms. “I’m no’ certain I could be awa’ from here for long, much less abandon it,” she said honestly.

  “We all have our burdens to bear,” he told her evenly, but not unkindly. “Yours were very different from mine.”

  “Yes, but ye see the difference is I was brought up to treasure and revere what the circumstances of my birth brought to me. I may chafe under the responsibility now and again, but I have no desire to leave here, to run away.” She held up her hand when he would have retorted. “But then, I had no reason to.”

  He visibly tamped down his temper, though she’d never seen his jaw so tight, the throb of the vein at his temple. It cost him,
and she felt badly she’d put him in that position. “So it was a reunion for you and your brothers then,” she said, turning the topic to one that was more uplifting and pleasant. “Despite the circumstances, that must have been a powerful thing for you. Or do you see each other often?”

  He shook his head. And the emotion she saw in his eyes as he spoke of his brothers, or even thought of them, was palpable. For a man who’d so cut himself off from others, he had such passion in him. She couldn’t help but think what a waste that was, to lock away something that powerful rather than embrace it.

  “No, we hadn’t been under one roof since—” He stopped, pinched the bridge of his nose, then blew out a deep breath. “In a very long time,” he said finally, lifting his gaze to hers again. “It made it all bearable. The memories…” He trailed off, then looked away.

  “Couldn’t have been easy,” she finished for him, her heart going to him for the suffering he’d been dealt. Though she knew he’d shun it if she offered him compassion any more directly.

  “Actually, the part I’d been dreading the most, being under that roof, reliving all those years…” He shook his head, his expression softening a bit, becoming more bemused. “We sat around the table and shared stories from our childhood. Memories that had nothing to do with our father, as those were best left unspoken. But it surprised me that we all had so many recollections that were good, funny, heartwarming in their own way.”

  She wanted to go to him, hold him, soothe the ache she saw still in his eyes. “That must have been healing,” she said.

  His gaze and his focus turned outward then, and he shifted that focus to her. The impact to her senses was tangible. “You’re quite a good listener,” he said by way of response. “And I have to take back something else that I said earlier.”

  Surprised, her eyebrows lifted in response. “Oh?”

  “When I said that communication by letters was one dimensional in what it revealed of a person. I was wrong. Written words can convey the meaning of one’s thoughts, but without seeing the expression, hearing the tone in which those words are spoken, the reader is at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to truly deciphering the real meaning beneath the words, learning with any real truth about the person wielding the pen. It’s easy to hide behind words, disguise the truth of who you really are. But not so easy face-to-face. One dimensional, instead of three.”

  “I think you have a point.” Obviously, she thought, seeing as what she knew of Taggart and what his son knew of him were so vastly different. “But I also think that that very anonymity allows the penman to open up in a way that they may never have were they required to look the person in the eye. It can be very freeing, having that veil in place. Perhaps in some ways, what’s written reveals more about the character of the person than any face-to-face meeting ever would. Somewhat like a confessional.”

  He nodded. “Which is why I said I was wrong.” He clearly intended to elaborate, but instead he fell silent, holding her gaze, but shifting his weight as if suddenly self-conscious.

  It was an interesting revelation, this sudden vulnerability, and wholly endearing. “What brought about that realization?” she asked, allowing a small hint of a smile to tease the corners of her mouth. He was a complex man, and she was becoming more and more fascinated with the idea of peeling away the layers of him by the moment.

  “Your letters,” he said, facing her squarely, almost rigidly, as if tensing against whatever retort she would volley back at him for his revelation. “As I said, I hadn’t intended to read them.”

  “But?” She still felt vulnerable, as she had moments before, but now she also felt… a bit excited by it. People read her words every day, in her articles and stories. And there was a vulnerability there, and an excitement, too. But this was vastly different. He’d read her letters, her private feelings and thoughts, and they had obviously moved him.

  “First, you have to understand the situation,” he said, with a bit more intensity than she’d expected. ‘“We’d already adjudicated the will. I was grappling with the reality that my father had left the house and our share of Rogues Hollow to me. I felt trapped, even though it hadn’t been unexpected. I was angry, and restless. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there. Again. Never look back. Again. But, despite what you believe of me, and my father notwithstanding, I do understand the importance of my heritage. For three hundred years, a Morgan has always owned that piece of land, and I knew it was important to continue that, to leave the chain of ownership unbroken. And yet there was a part of me that was undeniably interested in thwarting everything my father had done in his lifetime to change the course of Morgan history by handing it away, ending the Morgan legacy once and for all.”

  “Did your brothers feel the same?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Yes. And no. They understood my dilemma, just as they felt remorse for being relieved it hadn’t been left to them. But in the end, they all pledged they’d support whatever I decided.”

  “Which was?”

  He blew out a deep breath, turned once again to the paintings on the wall, began to pace the perimeter of the tower. “I wasn’t sure. I was still undecided on what to do. That’s when I got a visit from Mick Templeton. I didn’t know about this…” He waved his hand about. “Until that visit. Burke and Austin had already taken off. It was just Jace and me. Jace was moving back to Highland Springs, he’d taken on a teaching position in town. But he was looking to build a new life, not return to his old one.” His lips quirked a little. “Maybe it was his own way of besting the old man. Be a fine upstanding Morgan, but on his own terms. And not burdened by the past.” He shoved his fingers through his hair. “I couldn’t saddle him with the Rogues Hollow legacy, not our particular legacy anyway. He needed to make his own mark, free and clear from our dear, departed dad. Frankly, I didn’t know what in the hell I was going to do.”

  “How did learning about Ballantrae change anything?” She thought back to how she’d felt about contacting Taggart’s supposedly heartless sons, and contrasted that to what she knew now. Listening to him, knowing just from looking at him now what a difficult time these past months had truly been for him, for reasons she could empathize with, even if she couldn’t truly comprehend. She couldn’t imagine going through what he had, becoming the man he had, with such a passion for his work… coming back to face such a huge and painful dilemma.

  “Finding out about Ballantrae would seem to have been the least of your worries,” she added.

  “Did you know that my father had kept this—” he waved his hand, “—a complete secret from everyone back at home, trusting the information only to Mick?”

  “No. I didn’t. I—considering what you’ve told me about him, I guess I can understand why he didn’t make the news public. But…” She shook her head. “This must have come as a real shock to you.”

  “That would be putting it mildly, yes. For my father to want to have anything to do with a history he’d dedicated his life to wiping out, much less dump a ton of his own money after it, was so out of character, I wondered if he’d become addled from his illness.”

  “No,” she murmured automatically. “He was quite sharp, to the very end.” She glanced at him then, and hastily added, “I’m sorry. I’m no’ defending or condemning here. It’s a lot for me to take in as well, ye ken.”

  “Yes. And no offense taken. Mick told me as much himself when we went over the papers together, though I admit my mind was racing so far ahead, the details were all a bit fuzzy to me. But, to be fair, Mick wasn’t the first to try and tell me my father had changed as he’d gotten older. I’d heard it from some of the people in town, as they stopped by to give their condolences. I—”

  He stopped, shrugged, but without apology. “I didn’t really want to hear about it. But, as further proof that those people might have been right, Mick gave me this.” He swung the pack from his shoulders and slid it to the floor, so he could loosen the des and open it.

  She
gasped as he withdrew a beautiful carved cherry-wood box. “I sent that to him,” she said softly, touched that he’d passed it on to his son. “It belonged to Lillith Sinclair’s firstborn daughter, over a century ago. It held her family’s Bible, and… well, you probably haven’t read it, but it held some fairly important Morgan history. I thought he should have it.”

  “I didn’t want to look in it, didn’t want to care,” he said flatly. “Mick told me my father had very specifically requested I look at the contents, that I’d understand everything then. It was Pandora’s box to me. I wanted nothing to do with it.”

  “But you did eventually.”

  His lips quirked then and he nodded. “My father might not have approved of my chosen profession, but he certainly understood the nature that had led me to it. Yes, my curiosity got the better of me. I brought it with me because I thought you might want it back, seeing as what’s in it would mean more to you than anyone else.”

  “Even after what I just told you about it?”

  He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t hand her the box either. She thought it was a step, small though it may be, and let the matter drop. For now. “What was in the box?” she asked.

  “I haven’t looked through all of it. Your letters were on top. That was as far as I got.”

  She said nothing, merely held his gaze, compelling him to elaborate.

  “I was still trying to come to terms with why my father had made such a complete turnaround on his feelings about Morgan heritage. And I wasn’t sure of what to do with this property. Of course, there was a note from him as well, issuing a challenge to me.” He looked away, blew out a short, harsh breath. “I don’t know why I didn’t slam the box shut then, or burn it. I was certainly in no mood to be dictated to from beyond the grave. I’d had enough of that when he was alive.” He glanced over at her. “But I thought maybe the letters would help explain things. For all I knew he’d gone senile.”