The Kissing Tree

by Bice, Prudence

  Georgiana took another spoonful, savoring the taste of stew along with the memories of sitting at the table watching her grandmother chopping the vegetables and mutton while telling her tales and singing her Irish melodies. Before she knew it, she had consumed the entire contents of the bowl, as well as a thick slice of bread. Pushing the tray back, she looked at her mother.

  “Mother, tell me, when did you arrive, and how long have I been out?”

  “I’ve been here three days,” her mother answered. “I sent your grandfather a telegram almost two weeks ago, telling him we were coming. I wanted to surprise you. Your brothers are going to be very disappointed they weren’t here when you woke up.”

  “William and Aden are here too!”

  “Yes, dear, but I’m afraid they headed into town with your grandfather about an hour ago.” Georgiana was overjoyed. She couldn’t believe they were here. “They’ve been underfoot all morning. Your grandfather took pity on me. I’m sure they’ll come bounding in here as soon as they return.”

  “How long has it been since I was shot?”

  “Nearly five days.”

  “Five days?” She looked at her mother incredulously.

  “Yes, you passed out when the bullet hit you. For the first two days you were in and out of consciousness. You hit your head when you fell to the ground, but Doc Hansen didn’t think you’d hit hard enough to cause a concussion.”

  Instinctively, Georgiana reached her hand up and felt the tender spot on the right side of her head, a few inches above her ear.

  “You lost a lot of blood before they were able to get you to him,” her mother continued. “He thought perhaps between hitting your head and being shot, your body was just doing the best it could to try and heal itself.” Her mother smiled slightly. “The second night you woke up for a few seconds, do you remember?” Georgiana shook her head. “You mumbled something nobody could quite make out and went back to sleep. When you started to run a fever,” her mother paused, becoming more emotional, “I was so worried and . . . so afraid.” Georgiana reached over and squeezed her mother’s hand. It seemed to give her mother courage to go on. “You were delirious most of the time after that. Yesterday the fever finally broke. About all you’ve done since then is sleep.”

  “What about Samantha, Mother. Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine, dear. She’s come over every day to check on you, except today, that is.”

  “What about Dawson?” Where had he been through the whole ordeal? Georgiana wondered.

  “He’s been worried about you too. I’ll ask your grandfather to go back to town later and send Dawson a telegram, letting him know you’ve awakened.

  “Telegram?”

  “I’m sorry, dear. He had to leave for home yesterday afternoon. The doctor assured him you were going to be fine or he would never have left. Neither would have Samantha.”

  “Samantha? Samantha’s gone . . . but where?” She was getting the feeling she’d missed out on an awful lot while she slept.

  “Well,” her mother said, looking at her tentatively. “Dawson offered to take her with him to see New York.” Her mother smiled knowingly. “Even as a child that girl always dreamed of going to the city.”

  “I remember.” Georgiana pondered for a moment what that all meant.

  “He left you a letter.” Her mother reached into her apron pocket and withdrew an envelope with her name on it. “Would you like to read it now?”

  Suddenly, Georgiana was very tired again. What she really wanted was to know where Ridge was, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask. She had only mentioned Ridge to her mother in a few of her letters. Her mother couldn’t have any idea of how deep her feelings for him ran . . . or could she?

  “Can you leave it on the dresser for me, please? I think I’ll read it later. I’m feeling quite fatigued again.” Georgiana reached out and took her mother’s hand. “Thank you, Mother, for coming. I . . . I’ve missed you, have wished you were here.” Georgiana was on the verge of crying.

  “I’ve missed you too, love. When you wake up, we’ll talk some more. We have much to discuss.” Her mother’s words made her curious, but she was too tired to ask their meaning.

  “Mmm . . . ,” was all she managed before she was lost to sleep and to the musings and figments of her dreams.

  ◁ ◊ ▷

  Charlotte watched as her daughter drifted off. Gently she reached over and brushed away the wayward strand of hair that had fallen onto her sweet, beautiful face.

  Charlotte finally understood why Georgiana had held herself back from Dawson. She cared for him, but she didn’t love him, not like a love between a husband and a wife should be, not like she had loved Michael. Why hadn’t she seen sooner that Georgiana had lost her heart long ago? Sadly, she knew the answer to that.

  For the thousandth time, Charlotte bemoaned the fact that she’d taken her children away from here, from this place so filled with love. As soon as she had walked into the house, she felt it rain upon her, saturating her soul. Why hadn’t she realized it then? While being so weak from the sorrow and grief . . . so lost in the loneliness, she had run away from this house and the sound of Michael’s laughter that still echoed down the halls. Run from the mountains and from her memories of days spent walking and meandering with him through their majestic beauty. Shamefully, she had even run from the sound of his father’s voice, so similar to Michael’s own. In that first year, sometimes when Angus would speak or call out, her heart would begin to pound, and she could almost believe it had all been a bad dream. She’d imagine Michael was still here, calling her from the other room. So, yes, she had run . . . run with their children . . . run straight into the arms of her cold and spiteful sister, who for so many years had not owned even an ounce of love in her heart.

  When she woke from her grief, it was too late. Cecelia had control over all the family’s money, even the little she’d brought with her, leaving her at the mercy of Cecelia’s wants and desires. None of them included Colorado or her husband’s family. Cecelia was only interested in furthering her own rank and social standing, and unfortunately for Georgiana, Cecelia had decided that she was her surest ticket.

  Charlotte’s stomach lurched at the knowledge she now possessed, the deceit and the lies her sister had succeeded in perpetrating for so long. She wouldn’t be returning to live with her sister, nor would her children. Not ever.

  Standing up, Charlotte bent down once again to place a kiss on her sleeping daughter’s head and picked up the tray from the bedside table. She still had one more important task she had to accomplish today, and she could no longer put it off.

  Once Charlotte finished up the dishes, she donned her hat and cloak and walked toward the far east corner of the meadow. To temper the rising feelings of nervousness and guilt, she busied herself picking wildflowers along the way.

  When she came upon the graveyard, she paused at the gate before entering. Only a dozen or so graves decorated the ground; most looked forgotten and neglected. Focusing on where Michael and now his mother lay, she was touched to see that their graves were well cared for—no weeds on or near them, and a bundle of flowers at each that looked to be only a few days old.

  With reverence, Charlotte slowly unlatched the gate and stepped inside. This was the first time she’d been back since the day they had placed Michael’s body in the ground. Even though they had remained in Colorado a year after his death, she had never been able to bring herself to return.

  Taking a deep breath, she first walked over and stood before Michael’s mother’s grave.

  “Hello, Mother McLaughlin.” She bent down, lying half of the flowers she’d collected next to the others. Tears wet her cheeks. “I’m so sorry we never came back.” The tears fell faster. “I’m sorry you and your grandchildren missed out on so many precious memories together. You were always so good to me, as if you were my own mother. I took so much joy away from you. Please . . . please forgive me.”

  After another mom
ent, she walked over to her husband’s headstone. Kneeling down, she released the last of the flowers and began running her fingers across the inscription. Michael Angus McLaughlin 1851–1892 Beloved Son, Husband, and Father. Drawing her hand back from the stone, she brushed at the profusion of tears with both hands.

  She had sought peace for so long, but it had always eluded her. Charlotte now prayed that she might find some solace here at his grave. She had somehow always known this was the only place she would ever find the peace she was seeking, but she had turned away, fearing if she let go of the grief, Michael would be lost to her, forgotten. So she had forced herself to suffer and, in turn, had caused her children to suffer as well.

  “Oh, Michael, I have made such a mess of things, not only of my life, but I fear I have caused our children unnecessary pain.” Lifting her hand, she once again traced the letters of his name. “It was not fair, you being taken from me the way you were. I was not ready to let you go. Our time together was too short. We were supposed to raise our children, grow old together, and—remember—you were going to take me to visit your homeland.”

  She smiled for a moment as she remembered how he would gather her in his arms and say, “Charlotte, me love, ever it is when I look into the green of yar eyes I remember the green hills of Ireland. One day, I’ll be takin’ ye there.”

  “When you left me, Michael, I couldn’t bear it and . . . and I ran. It was wrong, but I was lost without you.” Charlotte lowered her hand from the stone and picked up one of the flowers she had laid before it, bringing it to her nose and breathing in the deep, rich scent.

  When she heard footsteps behind her, she instinctively knew who it was.

  “Hello, Father McLaughlin.”

  “Hello, lass.”

  Angus approached his son’s grave. He knew she would come. He had prayed for it.

  They remained silent for some time before she spoke.

  “You know, he was alive that day when I found him . . .”

  Angus held his breath. Long had he waited to know the last moment of his son’s life. To know whether he had died alone or whether when she had found him, there was still breath in him. He had prayed it was the latter, that his son had died held by the woman he so loved. When she spoke again, her voice was low, wrought with emotion. He knew this would cost her dearly.

  “But only barely.” Her voice trembled. “I knew before I arrived something was wrong. You remember I had gone over to the Thompsons’ to check on Marva. She was near her time and after losing her last child, she was sore afraid. I had just started checking her when I thought I heard Michael call my name. ‘That’s impossible,’ I thought, ‘Michael’s at home waiting for you.’ I looked out the window anyway to see if maybe he had ridden over, but I saw nothing, so I continued with the examination.” She paused and took a deep breath. “It was a few minutes later that I heard him call my name again, but this time his voice sounded weak . . . pleading. I immediately began packing my things. Marva begged me to stay a while with her. I could see she was frightened, so I quickly made some tea to calm her and hurried to the wagon. I knew somehow Michael needed me.

  “When I got to the ranch, the horses were milling about, acting strange. I didn’t see Michael anywhere. Then I thought I heard his voice calling me again.” Tears were flowing down her face. “His voice was weak and laced with pain. I couldn’t see him, but I knew where he was. I ran to the corral, screaming for him that I was coming, and threw open the gate.” Her breath caught in her throat. “Then I saw him. He was lying on the ground, in the middle of the horses, not moving. When I got to him, he was bleeding everywhere. I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t. I . . . I tried . . .” She began to sob. It took a moment before she could continue. “He was unconscious at first, and I was afraid he was already lost to me, but then he opened his eyes and looked straight into mine.

  “ ‘Char . . . ,’ he said, and I could see his pain.

  “ ‘Shhh, Michael . . . save your strength,’ I said, carefully lifting his head onto my lap.

  “ ‘Char . . . I’m sorry.’ His chest began to heave hard like he couldn’t draw breath. ‘I . . . I don’t . . . want to . . . leave ya.’

  “ ‘Shhh, don’t say that . . . you’re not going anywhere. Someone will come to help . . . get the doctor.’ I prayed it was true.

  “ ‘They’re calling me, Char . . . the pain is too much fer me, darlin’.’

  “ ‘No, Michael . . . don’t listen to them . . . stay with me. I need you. The children need you,’ I pleaded with him.

  “He closed his eyes,” Charlotte continued. “I could see his chest rise and fall slowly and hoped he was trying to save his strength. He seemed to be breathing easier . . . I had hope.” A deep sigh of anguish escape her lips. “When he opened his eyes again, I knew. I knew he was leaving me.” She was sobbing harder now, and her body shook with emotion. Angus dropped to his knees and put his arms around her, his tears mingling with hers. After a few minutes, she was able to continue. “He lifted his hand and placed it on my face. His hand was trembling hard, so I helped him to hold it there.

  “ ‘I love ye, Charlotte Anne McLaughlin . . . ever have I loved ye. From the moment I first looked into yar eyes, I have loved ye with me whole heart and with me soul.’

  “I couldn’t speak. My voice was seized with the fear of knowing he was leaving me.

  “ ‘One last kiss, I would ask of ye. One last heavenly kiss . . . so that the last thing I feel on this earth will be the touch of yar sweet lips to mine. Will ye give it to me?’

  “The reality of what he was asking released my tongue. He was asking me to say good-bye.

  “ ‘Please, Michael, I love you so much. I cannot bear it if you go,’ I said.

  “ ‘A kiss . . . me love . . . a kiss.’

  “And so I kissed him, and he closed his eyes . . . and was gone.”

  Charlotte collapsed into Angus’s arms, her emotions fully spent. For a long time he just held her, his hands too busy trying to soothe her and to wipe away his own tears. Then she sat up slowly and looked him in his eyes.

  “If . . . if I had gone to him when I first heard him call, if I had left right then . . . maybe—”

  “No, me lass, it was Michael’s time to go. I prayed hard after losin’ me lad. God granted me the knowin’ of it. It has been a little comfort, as it was to Shannon too.”

  She looked away, doubt clearly visible on her face. He reached over, taking her chin and turning her head back to him.

  “It was no fault of yers. It was his time.” Angus took his other hand and wiped at the tears trailing her cheeks. “I’m glad to be knowin’ ye were with him at the last though. It does me old heart good. He loved ye true, he did—a powerful love. I’ll never ferget the smile on his face and the look of pride as he came totin’ ye home with him from the city.” Angus grinned. “And the love-struck look in yar eyes too.” Finally she gave him a small smile. “He would want ye to be happy, lass. You need to start livin’ again.”

  “I still miss him . . . every day.”

  “I know . . . I know. I miss me lad and me Shannon too. But they are ever with us, in our hearts and in our minds. The memories will never be leavin’, even if ye find another to settle with, Michael will always be yers.”

  Charlotte reached out and hugged him then. When at last she let go, she lifted her apron and dried her tears.

  “We should be getting back. Tiny brought me in a bucket of berries, so I baked a pie. It will be done about now. The men will be waiting with plates and forks ready, I’m sure.”

  “Aye, then we best be hurryin’ on back now.” Standing quickly, Angus feigned a grin while patting his stomach and helped her to her feet.

  “Come, Father McLaughlin,” Charlotte said, lacing her arm through his as they headed back to the house.

  23. Dear Ridge

  Ridge bent down and picked up his hat, dusting it off before placing it back on his head. The wind had picked up again, but thankfully the
skies were still clear. There was no threat of a storm, at least not tonight.

  Walking over to the campfire, Ridge sat down and began to warm his hands in front of the fire. The nights were getting cooler, but he was glad he hadn’t opted to stay the night in town.

  As Ridge absentmindedly watched the wind fight with the flames, he conjured up a vision of Georgiana.

  He hoped she was awake by now and doing better. He still cringed at the memory of her lying so lifeless in his arms, red blood dominating the blue satin she wore. He had never been so frightened of losing something in his life, had never prayed so hard.

  He hadn’t left her side for the first three days she’d been unconscious. Angus had tried to convince him to take a break, get some sleep, but he had this immense fear that if he let go, she would slip away. Dawson and Samantha had come and gone, but he had stayed.

  Then the sheriff had come to speak with him. They wanted him to help transport the outlaws over to Castle Rock for trial and also to make a sworn statement. He didn’t want to leave her, especially not before she’d woken up, even though Doc Hansen swore to him Georgiana would be fine. Ridge knew that his testimony to the judge was needed. So, relying on faith that she’d still be there when he got back, he left with the sheriff the next morning.

  Ridge pondered a moment about the questions the judge had asked him. It had been difficult, especially where Cordelia was concerned. He kept picturing Georgiana throwing herself in front of the woman in order to protect her unborn child. He’d recalled the frightened and ashamed look on Cordelia’s face as he had held Georgiana’s limp body in his arms. He knew somehow, Georgiana’s act of pure selflessness had impacted Cordelia deeply. He was actually relieved when the judge decided to give her a second chance. It was her first attempt at robbery, and she had shot the man Slash in self-defense. Cordelia had been sent to live with an aunt in California to bear and raise her child. Ridge truly hoped she would turn her life around with the second chance she had been given.