Shane drew a deep, thoughtful breath. Then he raised his eyes and his level Scorpio gaze transfixed the other man like a spear that went in one side and came out the other. He meant it to leave no doubt as to his opinion of John Weston.
“Doctor Weston, you do not have to apologize to me. What did you do but call me a few names I’ve heard before?”
“Oh, but I do have to apologize to you. I did something very wrong, and both honor and conscience dictate that I make amends.”
“Then I accept your apology in the spirit in which it was given, as you said, for Jenny’s sake, because no matter what occurs between her and me I love her, and despite the conflicts you and she have had, I know she loves you. I’d hate to see her torn between us again.”
“Thank you, sir. You are a gracious gentleman.” John extended his hand, and Shane gripped it after a short pause that plainly expressed his reluctance.
“And as for, as you put it, impugning my family honor? In point of fact, I am what is commonly called Métis. I am one-fourth Iroquois. My maternal grandfather, a French voyageur, married an Iroquois woman. That sort of thing was very common in the old days. My mother, their daughter, may or may not have married an Irish railroad worker. She had two children by him. My parents and my sister subsequently died in a smallpox epidemic. I was the only survivor. I was born in a railroad camp near River Bend, and my birth was not immediately registered. I had no birth certificate until I was sixteen years old and needed one to go to college, so one was issued for me, nunc pro tunc. The government accepted the testimony of a physician who certified that he attended my mother, and they recorded my birth as legitimate.”
“Then we must honor that. De mortuis nil nisi bonum, after all.” John paused again. “And, Inspector Adair, if you and my daughter decide to take up the thread of your relationship where I so brutally parted it, you have my blessing.”
“Thank you, sir.” His tone was cold. Nevertheless, John smiled.
“My father was a Brigadier General under Grant during the Civil War. He was an old-order gentleman, a member of the Grand Army of the Republic, and a military officer to the end of his days. Of course he had his shortcomings, but he did teach me about making amends. He always said when honor demands an apology, make it sincerely and make it well.”
“You certainly seem to have taken that lesson to heart,” Shane allowed.
“Another valid piece of advice I received years ago regarding the lady in your life is that if you truly love her, never be too proud to crawl. I did, more than once, and I was never sorry. My wife Catherine—Jenny’s mother—was a woman in a million. She was sweet and gentle and content to be a wife and a mother and let me make all the decisions. Jenny looks so like her that it’s difficult for me to realize she thinks like I do.”
“It surprised me when I learned she is a medical doctor, but I shouldn’t have missed it. There were simply too many clues that she is a cut above the ordinary.”
“Yes, truly. She may be many things, but never ordinary. Then, Inspector Adair, I will take my leave. I’m taking over Jenny’s practice for the time being, so she can remain here with you until you’re well enough to be discharged.” He held out his hand to Shane again.
“Goodbye, then, Doctor Weston. And I should thank you for helping me.”
“You’re welcome. I’m only glad that my skill was adequate. Yours was a challenging case. And I certainly do not blame you for disliking me. I’ll go a long way to go to prove myself to you. I intend to try to do so to the best of my ability. Not just for Jenny’s sake, either. I owe it to you after my abominable behavior toward you both. Well, then, Inspector, good day, and take care of yourself.” He took his leave, and Shane sat watching after him until Richard, Jenny, and Angus came back in.
“I just came to say goodbye to you for a while, Shane,” Richard began. He glanced down at a leather-bound book in his hands. “I know you’ll be bored now that you’re starting to feel better. This might help.” He handed over the volume. Shane took it and looked at the title. However, his thumb lay over the author’s name across the bottom of the front cover.
“Hmm. By the Grace of God. I’ve heard so much about it. I’ve heard that even as a work of fiction it’s quite historically accurate, and you know how I love history. I fully intended to read it, but I haven’t been here in River Bend long enough to pick up a copy. Thank you so much, Richard. It’s very thoughtful of you. I’ll return it as soon as I’ve finished with it.” He looked up at Richard and saw his wry smile.
“No need, Shane. I have several more where that came from. This copy is a gift. And rest assured that I have indeed read it thoroughly.” Then Shane set the volume down on his lap and his eyes went wide. The gold-stamped lettering across the bottom of the cover read Richard T. Weston, Ph.D. His cheeks colored violently.
“Richard, you actually…wrote this?” His voice went up, breaking like a teenager’s. With a cool smile worthy of a jade Buddha, Richard nodded slowly, spinning out the moment for all it was worth.
“It’s the reason I came out here to the wilds of Ontario. In New York I couldn’t even set foot outside my front door without being mobbed by autograph seekers.” Shane opened the cover. On the flyleaf, in Richard’s careful copperplate script, was the inscription, To my good friend Shane Adair. Best wishes for a swift and complete recovery. Richard T. Weston.
“Oh, my! Richard, you’re actually famous! I’m so embarrassed I could die right here and now,” he murmured. “This is the worst faux pas of my entire life.”
“Well, if that’s the biggest social blunder you’ve ever made, you’re still in tall cotton. At least it was among friends. And now I think we should all just turn our backs while you take your foot out of your mouth.”
“That will take me all afternoon and a crowbar,” Shane responded with no small chagrin.
Jenny had a hand to her face, melodramatically stifling laughter. “Well, then, we’ll give you your privacy,” she said, unable to control her huge grin. “I’m going to walk them to the depot. I’ll be back after the train leaves.”
“You know where I’ll be,” he sighed. She moved as if to follow the three men out the door but turned and came back to his bedside. He set the book aside and reached toward her as she leaned over and touched her lips to his. He took her hands, and she had no choice but to sit next to him on the bed.
“Remember the night in Richard’s kitchen? Every night for the next eighty years?” he said quietly, his breath brushing her cheek.
“You’ll propose to me properly, then?”
“Need you ask?” he responded softly. “Eighty years?”
“Eighty years. I promise,” she replied, and kissed him again to seal the vow.
A word about the author...
After a long and varied work life she began as an English teacher and ended as a computer support technician, Lael Neill retired to a new career: becoming a full-time author. She began writing somewhere around age eight, studied Creative Writing under (or rather, worshiped at the feet of) Dr. H. L. Anshutz at Central Washington University, and has finally fulfilled her lifelong dream. A transplant from the Pacific Northwest, she lives on two wooded acres in rural Central Texas with deer, bunnies, armadillos, hawks, the occasional skunk, and a resident roadrunner. In between stints of writing, she decompresses with volunteer work, knitting, and music.
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