Chapter Eight
They followed the sound of jingling bells to the barn.
It had been years since Emma had been out there.
Maybe decades.
She hadn’t been back during the time she’d been taking care of Daniel. She knew that. She did remember playing hide-and-seek in the shadowy interior of the barn. She remembered boxes filled with stuff. She remembered her mother taking her up into the loft once. Emma might have been six or seven, and they’d been looking for something.
She couldn’t remember what.
She just remembered climbing the rickety ladder, her mother cheering her on, and then sitting in a pile of dry hay as Sandra dug through a leather trunk.
“This place is huge,” Jack said as he used his free hand to open one of the large doors.
His other hand?
It was still holding hers.
She didn’t pull away as they stepped into the barn together. The air seemed hushed there. No soft rustling of hay as mice or barn cats ran for cover. No whistling of air through open slats in the barn’s side. The place was quiet as a tomb, the air just as still.
She edged closer to Jack, her heart thrumming with anxiety and a little bit of fear. She wasn’t sure where it came from. Maybe old memories lingering at the back of her mind.
“It’s quiet,” she whispered, more to break the silence than to actually impart information. Jack could absolutely figure out for himself that the place was quiet.
“Is there a light?” he responded. “I’d think your father or grandfather would have run electricity out to the place at some point.”
“There is, but I don’t think the bulb has been changed in years.” She slid her hand along the interior wall until she found the switch and hit it. To her surprise, dim light filtered from a bare bulb above their heads.
The place was exactly like she remembered—a huge empty room with stall doors lining it. Clean as a whistle except for a few pieces of dried hay that littered the floor.
No sign of a sleigh.
Or a harness.
Or bells.
And she realized that she’d really expected there to be. That she’d thought that maybe her father had purchased an old Victorian sleigh and left it out there.
“Looks pretty empty,” Jack said.
“They used to host parties out here. I’m sure you saw the photos at town hall and at the local historical society.”
“And the library,” he added. “This used to be a fun place. I wonder when that changed.”
“Probably my grandparents. From what I heard, they weren’t very happy people.”
“Who’d you hear that from? Your aunt?”
Her aunt . . .
She was still rolling that word around in her head, still trying to fit it into her life. Her entire childhood, she’d been told that there was no family left. That her mother and father had been only children, their parents dead.
She did have a few vague memories of her mother’s mother, coming for Christmas when she was very young. She’d had a stroke the year Emma turned eight. Two years before Sandra’s diagnosis.
“Some of my older siblings remember my father’s father. He lived with us until he died, but that was before I was born.”
“A mean bastard like your dad, huh?”
“Probably meaner. My dad had to come from somewhere, right? Mean doesn’t just spring up onto the earth without someone watering and feeding it.”
She walked to the first stall and peered inside, was surprised to see an ancient tractor. “Look at that. I guess it isn’t as empty as I thought.”
“It’s in pretty good shape for its age. In the spring, you could set it out on the little hill that overlooks the road. People would love it.”
“People never come out here. That’s the thing about unhappy places. They get left behind. Besides . . .” I’m not going to be here in the spring. That’s what she planned to say, but the bell jingled again, the sound coming from somewhere above.
“The loft.” Jack strode toward the ladder that sat against the far wall. Above it, a square opening led into the upper level of the barn.
Years ago, hay had been stored there and tossed down into the yard through double-wide doors on the barn’s north face. That had been when there were cows and horses and field hands who harvested food for the house and for the market.
“Be careful,” she warned as Jack started up the ladder. “It might not be very sturdy.”
“It’s built to last,” he responded, his voice muffled as he pulled himself through the hole.
She didn’t really want to follow him, but she did, because this was her property, her barn, and whatever was in it, she was responsible for getting rid of it.
Getting rid of it?
She made it sound like the bell was possessed by some otherworldly being, jingling happily as it led them to their doom.
“Geez,” she murmured as she clambered up the ladder. “Get a grip.”
“Talking to yourself, Em?” Jack grabbed her hand, pulling her through the opening and setting her on her feet.
There was plenty of room to stand, but not a whole lot of room to move. The place was packed with boxes and trunks, all of them black shadows in the darkness.
“I don’t know if there’s a light up here,” she said, but Jack was a step ahead of her, his phone in hand, a light suddenly illuminating the loft.
“Wow,” he said with a quiet whistle. “Your family packed this to the rafters.”
“That bell could be anywhere,” she replied. She still felt creeped out by the place—the sheer volume of stuff that filled it, all the dark shadows that anything could be hiding, and that endless jingling bell.
“One thing’s for sure,” Jack responded. “The bell has no reason to be ringing. There’s no wind up here.”
Okay. That made it even creepier.
“Well, it’s ringing anyway.” She pointed out the obvious.
“Let’s figure out why. We can start at the far end. That seems to be where the sound is coming from.” He seemed excited.
He probably was.
This was what he did, right?
Digging around old buildings looking for family treasures?
“I take it you’ve been in a lot of old barns?” she asked, as he stepped around several trunks and headed toward the doors. There was so much stuff, it was difficult to navigate, but he moved with ease, lifting a few items and shifting them out of his path.
“Old barns. Old houses. Old churches and schools and train depots. Look at that.” He shone the light on a tarp that lay over something.
“What is it?”
“What I hope it is is that old sleigh. The one from the photo. With the way your father’s family collected things, it doesn’t seem possible they got rid of it.” He shifted another box, and the bell stopped jingling, the loft going silent.
Surprised, she grabbed the back of his jacket, took a step closer, heard him chuckle. Which should have pissed her off, but she guessed he had a right to be amused. This was her barn, her property, her bell jingling and then not.
She had nothing to be afraid of.
“It’s not really funny,” she said anyway, and he took her hand, tugging into place beside him.
“Yeah. It is. Look.” He flashed his light, and she saw it. Not some phantom sitting in an old rocking chair with the bell hanging from its bonelike fingers.
A kitten.
Fuzzy and gray with little white tufts poking out of its ears, it stood frozen in the light, one of the harness bells just a few inches away, dangling out from under the tarp.
She thought it was attached to a harness, but she was too busy looking at the kitten to pay much attention.
“What are you doing here?” she said, kneeling down and patting the floor, trying to tempt it into coming closer. The kitten eyed her for about three seconds and then went back to batting the bell.
“He’s obviously impressed by us,” Jack said, a hint
of laughter in his voice. He lifted the kitten by the scruff. “He’s a scrawny little thing. We’ll have to get some food in him.”
“I’ll go get some.”
“Or,” he suggested, handing her the fuzzy little bundle of warmth, “you could take him in the house and let him eat there.”
“He’s a stray.” And her father would roll over in his grave if he knew she’d brought an animal into the home.
Which shouldn’t matter.
Didn’t matter?
But . . . a kitten?
She didn’t have time, and she was planning to move. Probably into an apartment in Seattle or New York. Somewhere different and far away from Apple Valley.
The kitten purred, a little rumbling-motor sound that would have made the hardest heart melt. As much as Emma liked to pretend, she wasn’t hard-hearted, and her heart had melted the second the fuzzy little guy got placed in her hands.
“I’m going to regret this,” she said, and Jack laughed.
“What’s to regret about loving something that needs to be loved?”
There he went again.
Being absolutely perfect.
She might have commented on that, but he’d pulled the tarp away, and her heart just about jumped out of her chest, because, there it was—the old sleigh.
Pristine and beautiful.
Glossy old wood and red velvet seats, an old fur blanket hanging from the back, a leather harness trailing from the front.
She touched the wood, felt something odd and familiar welling up—a memory that she shouldn’t have, of sitting in that velvet seat, looking out the wide doors that opened from the loft, seeing the fields and the farmhouses way beyond it.
“One day,” her mother whispered in her ear, “it’s going to be yours, Sweet Pea. The house. The fields. The barn. The neighbors and town and memories. All of it, and you’re going to make it happy again.”
She shuddered, not sure if the memory was real or some long-ago dream, or if the words had floated out of the dark shadows and drifted into her ears.
“You okay?” Jack asked, touching her free hand, his fingers rough and warm against her chilled skin.
“I just . . . thought I heard something.”
As if her words had conjured it, a voice called from below. “Emma!”
She screamed, the kitten bolted, Jack muttered something, and all hell broke loose.
* * *
Years of combat had taught Jack everything he needed to know about quick and decisive action. He snagged the kitten before it could crawl into the barn walls, stepped between Emma and the ladder, and flashed his phone light down into the darkness below.
A woman was there.
Older. Pretty. Her eyes the same dove gray as Emma’s.
“Emma?” she called again. “Is everything okay? I saw a light out here and got worried.”
“Leigh? You nearly scared the life out of me,” Emma responded.
“I’m sorry about that, dear. The mother in me just wouldn’t allow sleep while you were wandering around outside.” She headed up the ladder, and Jack grabbed her hand as she cleared the opening, helping her into the loft.
She was small. Light. Her build similar to Emma’s. Other than that and the color of their eyes, they didn’t look much alike. Leigh had stronger features, a softer jawline, and thinner lips. She looked more haughty than cynical, more aristocratic than girl-next-door.
“You must be Jack,” she said, brushing dust from her hands and glancing around the loft. “Emma has told me a lot about you.”
“Hopefully good things,” he responded, because he thought that was what she expected.
She smiled. “Are there other things that I should know?”
“Depends on who you ask.”
She laughed, patting his shoulder.
“I’ll ask Emma. Later. What are you two doing out here? And what in God’s name is that doing here?” She pointed at the kitten. “In all the years I was here, a living creature never stepped foot in this barn. Human or otherwise. My father wouldn’t allow it.”
“Why not?” Emma asked, lifting the kitten from Jack’s arms and cuddling it close.
“The truth?” Leigh walked to the old sleigh, her face soft with some distant memory. “Because, he was a bitter old man who’d nearly run the farm he’d inherited into the ground. Everything his grandfather had built and his father had maintained, he’d ruined it. So, of course, he took his anger out on things that were smaller and weaker than he was, and he held on to everything he had left with such tight-fisted zeal, that the neighbors pitied him. And us. Me, your father, and our mother. He’d married her for her money, you know.”
“No. I didn’t.” Emma had moved closer to Jack, and he dropped an arm around her shoulder, tugged her into his side. She fit there perfectly. Just like she always had.
“Because your dad was cut from the same cloth, Emma. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but it’s the truth. Daniel clung to everything so hard he lost the things that were most important.”
“I know.”
“So, you’ll understand when I say that my father was a bastard of the first order. He was an only child, and I think my grandparents must have spoiled him rotten. He thought the world revolved around him. He didn’t know how to share, and he sure as heck didn’t know how to love. Which is probably why he was single until he turned fifty. Right around that time, he realized that he was running out of cash. Gambling trips and boats and fancy cars . . . they cost money, and he’d bought a lot of all of them. So, he set out to find a woman who could bring something to the Baily family. Something, of course, being money. Enter my mother. Thirty-five. Still single. Desperate for love. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“Your mother had an inheritance?” Jack asked, and Leigh nodded.
“She gave him every cent when they married, and he gave her two kids and a house. She always told me it was a fair trade. I don’t know. I got pregnant at eighteen, and my father kicked me out. It was probably the best thing that ever happened to me. It forced me to grow up, get a degree, get a good job. I’ve lived a good life, but I’m not going to lie, there are things about this place that I’ve missed.”
“Is that why you’re here? Because you feel like it’s your inheritance and you want it back?” he asked bluntly, and Emma stiffened.
“Jack—” she began, but Leigh raised her hand to stop the protest.
“It’s a valid question, and if you weren’t your mother’s daughter, you’d have asked yourself. If I wanted this place, I’d buy it when it went on the market. I came here to meet my niece. My husband died three years ago. My kids are grown and living in other states. I have a couple of grandkids that I see a few times a year, and unlike my father and my brother, I value the people in my life. I want to get to know all of my nieces and nephews, but Emma’s is the only address I had. Of course, there’s also Apple Valley. There’s just something about this place that makes me long for it.” She shook her head, and Jack thought he understood what she meant.
Small towns called their people home.
No matter how far they went. No matter how long they were gone.
“I felt the same way about my hometown,” he admitted, and Leigh smiled.
“There you go. Then you understand. My kids think I’m crazy, but I’ve been thinking about relocating.”
“Back here?” Emma said. She sounded surprised, and Jack thought, pleased.
“Sure. Two of my kids ended up in Seattle. It’s not too far for them to come visit, and I’d be back in a town I always loved. Of course, I thought that I’d have a niece here. I didn’t realize you weren’t intending to stay.” She lifted the old fur from the back of the sleigh. “Your mother and I used to sneak in here when we were little. We’d sit in this old sleigh and look out into the fields, and she’d tell me how lucky I was. She came from nothing and no one. Just a girl born to a girl and raised in a little trailer on the farm behind ours. That was before either of us notice
d boys, and my brother was just an annoying pest. We’d ring these old bells while he was out in the yard, but he never did figure out where the sound came from. He was too afraid to break the rules and explore the barn.” She shook the harness and smiled.
“That was years ago, but I can still remember giggling with Sandra. I can still remember the way we’d huddle under this old fur in the winter and talk about how rich we’d be, how loved. I hope she got what she wanted. I really do, but my brother . . .” She sighed. “They’re both gone now. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. And I’m an old lady. Too old to be out so late. I’m heading back to the house. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning, Emma. I know you have a lot to do to get ready to sell the old place.”
“If you want to buy the place—” Emma began.
“For what? For who? My kids have their own lives. This place is meant for someone who can value the legacy.”
She eased through the opening and back down the ladder.
Gone as quickly as she’d arrived.
Chapter Nine
Leigh didn’t leave in the morning.
Mostly because Emma had begged her not to go. She wasn’t sure why she wanted her aunt to stay. Maybe she needed family more than she’d realized. Maybe she longed for connection more than she’d thought, but having an aunt felt good, and she wasn’t ready to give it up.
She wasn’t sure if she was ready to give up the house, either. All night, she’d lain in bed thinking about the barn, the sleigh, the dreamlike memory of her mother, whispering in her ear: “One day, it’s going to be yours, Sweet Pea. The house. The fields. The barn. The neighbors and town and memories. All of it, and you’re going to make it happy again.”
The more she’d thought about it, the more she’d wondered if Sandra had known she was going to die. If she’d known . . . even then . . . that eventually Emma would come back to the house and the land and have the opportunity to make all the wrong things that had happened there right.
Was that why Sandra had made Emma promise to take care of her father? Because she’d thought that out of all of her children, Emma would value tradition the most?
And she did.
She hated to admit it. She wanted to deny it, but it was the truth. Emma loved the idea of continuity. She loved the thought of one family passing on a heritage from generation to generation.
The Most Wonderful Time Page 32