“Can I get you anything?”
I saw Elizabeth turn to someone just outside the door and put out a warning hand. Broken parts of the conversation reached me.
“This is a bad time … too soon … not ready.”
“Thought she should know … criminal investigation … statement … finish the report.”
I recognized the voice. “Grant? Please let him in. What’s happening?”
Elizabeth stepped aside with a worried look.
Grant came in, looking tired but triumphant. He hadn’t shaved and his strawberry shock of hair was tousled. “Hey, Jenna.”
He looked at Michael, cleared his throat, and dropped his eyes. “Michael,” he said in a formal tone.
Michael nodded.
Grant looked at me. “Jenna, I’m glad to see you still all in one piece. How are you feeling?”
“Well, I’m …”
“She’s in a lot of pain, but the doctor says she’ll be OK in time,” Ann said, placing a hand on my uninjured leg.
“I saw the car.” Grant shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re even alive after that.”
“Well, I’m feeling more dead than alive right now.”
Grant opened his briefcase and pulled out a few papers. “When I learned about your accident last night, I was suspicious. I took a look at your vehicle and sure enough, your brake line had been cut.”
Michael’s hand tightened around mine.
“It was not an accident.” Martin emphasized. His face flushed as he clenched the bottom rail of the bed.
“I just don’t understand who would do this and why?” I felt Ann’s calming touch on my good leg.
Grant went on. “Jenna, we’ve been looking into the strange texts you’ve been getting and looking for a connection to the incident last week when the bison was killed at your uncle’s ranch. We were finally able to track down one of the phone numbers you gave us to a man named Louis Franklin Roosevelt the third. The guy has a record a mile long in Washington and Wyoming. He seems to have been following you around. Owns a red truck. And a black Mercedes. License plate number matches the number on the truck Michael got the night the bison was killed.”
Michael and I exchanged glances.
“I thought for a while there was some connection to Hunsaker, but it turns out Hunsaker was just a crazy guy who acted on his own for his own reasons. You were just unlucky enough to cross his path. But there has been another underlying story that goes back a long way. Before you were born, in fact.”
My head ached trying to follow what he was telling me. Who would hate me before I was even born? Who wanted me dead? What had I done to become a target?
I struggled to raise myself on the bed but winced with pain.
Martin put a hand on my shoulder. “Easy girl,” he cautioned.
Grant scratched his head. “Well, we still have a few more details to sort out, but there’s a long story leading up to your accident. I’ve been working on the case for the last couple of weeks. It’s pretty apparent at this point that it all boils down to a real estate deal. From what we can tell, Jenna’s probing into her family’s past threatened to dig up a few things that certain people had hoped would never come to light.
“In the late seventies and early eighties, a number of properties were sold and somehow ended up in the hands of a Bart Cromwell. He was a real estate lawyer who made it rich buying and selling land up Willow Creek. He acquired some extensive tracts of land—most of which he later sold. Upper-scale homes were built there. Still a nice area today, of course.
“But the biggest piece of land has a sketchier history. Well over a hundred acres belonged to Charles Walker Morrison. Who is apparently Jenna’s … ?”
“My biological grandfather,” I said, my voice cracking. Michael handed me a glass of water and helped me with the straw.
“So, Charles Morrison passed away a short time before you were born and his land ended up neatly in the hands of Cromwell. Cromwell’s wife, Sylvia, worked down at the courthouse. She still supervises down there. You might have bumped into her?”
I remembered the stern face of the thin woman with gray hair who had been so hostile when I went there for research. Now I knew why important documents that I needed had mysteriously disappeared from the files.
“They colluded on falsifying records and shifting the paperwork around to make sure they got the land,” he continued. “Your mom had married Charles’s son …”
“Married?” Ann looked shocked. “We never knew she was married while she was in Montana.”
Martin shook his head. “There was a lot we didn’t know about Kathy, at least during that time. Hardly ever saw her. Not that we didn’t try. She was tough to find.”
“It looks like your mom was pretty young when she married,” Grant went on. “Not much more than eighteen. The husband left the state—deployed by the military—before his father died.
“From the documents we gathered, it looks like the property was transferred the year you were born. In fact, your mother would have been pregnant with you at the time. Being so young we figure she probably didn’t realize what was going on or else she was blackmailed into helping in the real estate deal. We actually found a case in small claims court with her name on it. She was being sued for a debt of some kind. I think that indicates she owed a lot of money to these guys, and it looks like they just used her to go before a judge and say her husband was killed in the war, making her the only living heir to the property. Somehow, they hid the fact that there was a sister. Looks like your mom’s debt was paid off and she was given some money for a new start. She left the area just a couple of months before you were born. The husband, a William J. Morrison, was in reality missing in action for several months during one of the wars in the Middle East.”
I jumped at the name, then winced with pain from my hip.
“Relax, Jenna.” Ann placed a quieting hand on my shoulder.
“Does that name ring a bell?” Grant asked.
“That’s him,” I said. “That’s the name I uncovered. My real father.”
“Anyway, by the time he walked out of the desert, the property deal was done. He brought an injured fellow soldier out of there with him. He was awarded the Medal of Honor. But by the time he got back to the states, the land was already scraped off and houses were being built. We have a source that said Morrison was told the property was lost to taxes. Looks like the sister may have been living out of the country at the time this all went down as well.”
Martin scratched his head. “Jenna, we had no idea all that had gone on. We wondered why your mother suddenly moved to Oregon. When you were born, she sent us a letter saying she’d married a man there and had a child. That’s all we knew.”
“I can’t believe it,” Ann said shaking her head. “All this time we never realized that Clark was not your birth father.”
“Do you know where he is, Grant? Have you found him? My father?” I held my breath.
“Yeah. We did a quick search. Looks like he’s living in Colorado. Coach at University of Colorado. Well, I’m sure he’ll be surprised to hear about this land deal.”
He handed me a piece of paper with my father’s name and address on it. I clutched it between my fingers like it was a rope that dangled from a mountainside, suspending me in midair. Black letters danced on a white page. Where would they lead me? Were they drawing me toward a father who would accept me, or were they leading me to a door that would slam in my face? I tried to imagine him. Would he have a kind face? A distant look?
Grant flipped through his binder. “Just to be sure, does this look like the man you saw in the Mercedes?”
He held up a photo between two plump fingers like he was dangling a rat by the tail.
I blinked. Long shocks of tawny hair, goatee. I was sure it was the man I saw through the window of my car, the driver who almost ran me off the road.
“That’s him! That’s the man who tried to put me in the ditch.”
Michael’s face was grim. He shook his head.
“And the Cromwells are being arrested …” Grant looked at his watch and gave a nod, “as we speak. Well, they will all have a nice party down at the jail.” He gathered his papers and stuffed them into his brief case. “I’ll come and get an official statement from you tomorrow. Glad you are alive, Jenna. I’d say that was pretty close.”
“Thanks, Grant. Thanks so much.” Relief washed through me.
Grant flushed red and grinned. “Sure. No problem. Glad to do it.” He glanced sidelong at Michael and retreated toward the door but was bombarded with questions from Martin and Jack.
I sank back into the pillow and stared at the ceiling, a white blank space to project the drama of my thoughts. I saw all the players in that drama and wondered what had jettisoned them into the role they played. My mother, the Cromwells … and my father. If he knew so little of my mother’s part, did he know anything about me? Had he walked away from us both? Was he the kind of person who would cut himself free from what must have been a life of fighting with my mother, intentionally leaving me behind? Had he left one war just to enter another?
And if I saw him now, would he be able to reach so far into the past and snatch me from such a scorching loss?
My family huddled into pairs, heads together, trying to make sense of what had happened. Ann fussed about my blankets, tucking them in.
I turned to look into Michael’s face, the precious paper still clutched in my hand. “What if … ?” My question trailed off into a gray haze.
If. It was the biggest word in the world.
His eyes were clear. “I’m with you, Jenna. Whatever you decide to do. I’ll be there.”
Chapter 42
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I read a quote once by Harriet Tubman, the great woman who helped people escape from slavery. She said, “Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world.”
I have learned that loss is a part of our lives. There is a law of physics that says no two objects can exist in the same place at the same time. If we want something different than what we have—if we want to be different than who we are—we have to be willing to give something up for something better. We have to give up who we are to become something more. Fear of change can be handed down to us on a rusty platter from someone else in our lives. It’s for us to dash it away, to serve up a better life for ourselves.
It takes courage to open new doors. It takes courage to change, but the upshot is we can’t let others write our story for us. It’s for us to write. We write it in spite of them. We write it because of them. And we make it better if we chose it.
I had a long drive in the car to think about this. As the physical miles passed beneath me, I realized I had been on a journey of the soul, traveling from who I thought I was to the person I knew deep inside I was now free to become.
When you sort through the devastation of your past, you have the ability to resurrect a better future for yourself and others. You don’t carry on an extinguished baton. You stop the madness.
Michael pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. He looked at me with concern and laid his hand on mine.
“Are you ready for this?”
I took a deep breath. “I’ve been waiting for this my whole life. If I’m not ready now, I never will be.”
He went to the rear of the Explorer and pulled out my crutches, then opened my door. He held my arm as I gripped the door, swinging my heavily casted leg onto the asphalt. He shut the door behind me as I placed the crutches under my arms and walked toward the stadium gate.
It was cold, but the sun was brilliant. The wind had gusted across snowcapped peaks through nearly barren trees, whirling colored leaves across green fields.
Inside the chain-link fence, football players passed by us in twos and threes, headed to the locker room, their helmets dangling in their hands, hair matted with sweat. A navy-blue-and-gold wave of humanity.
I stopped beside the bleachers and steadied myself on the metal railing. Michael put his arm around my shoulders.
The man stood at the edge of the long green field, a hand on the yellow-padded goal post, the other on his hip. His shoulders were broad beneath the gold jacket, and I could see his auburn hair fringed with gray beneath the blue cap.
He stooped to pick up a football at his feet and turned to walk in our direction. And then I saw his face. A spray of freckles lightly dusted his cheeks and nose. His eyes were green.
I took a deep breath and with Michael at my side, I stepped forward to meet him.
Epilogue
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Michael drove to the edge of the meadow and set the brake. “Here we are.”
A soft haze nestled along the river below us, a long, thin, white blanket hovering over the water’s surface like a protective angel. The morning sun slanted along the trees at the river’s edge, painting the flickering birch leaves a pale gold.
“This is beautiful. What a glorious view,” I said as I got out of the car. The sweet smell of spring grass greeted me, and a gentle breeze tousled my hair. I shaded my eyes. “Hey, the land we looked at a few weeks ago is just to our left, isn’t it? Too bad it sold so quickly.”
Michael opened the back door and helped Emma out of her booster seat. “Here we go, Princess. Jump!”
I walked out into the field as soft strands of tall grass whispered against my legs. I shielded my eyes from the sun and gazed into the distance where the Sapphire Mountains rose, fading into blue against the crystal sky.
Michael and Emma came to stand beside me. She reached up and wrapped her warm fingers around my hand.
“You like?” Michael asked.
“It’s wonderful,” I said. “Wouldn’t it be great to wake up and see a view like this every morning? I wish we could have bought up here.”
Emma darted away to chase a butterfly, and Michael pulled an envelope from his pocket. He handed it to me with a mysterious look.
“What’s this?” I asked with a tilt of my head.
“Anniversary present. A little late,” he said apologetically. He plunged his hands into his pockets and peered over my shoulder as I lifted the flap.
“We had dinner out for our anniversary at Canyon River Restaurant. That was fine. You didn’t need to …” I stopped midsentence as my eyes scanned the page. It read “Title of Deed” and bore an embossed seal.
I caught my breath and looked up to see his mischievous grin. “You … This is ours?” I asked.
“I called in a few favors, twisted some arms,” he replied. He pulled me close and laid his hand on my growing stomach. “We are going to need more room for the baby.”
I gazed speechless from the mountain behind us down to the shimmering river below.
“Plus, we are going to have to build a bigger toy room for all those presents your father keeps sending,” Michael went on. “Can’t blame him. Since he never knew about you, he’s making up for lost time, I guess.” He pointed toward the river. “I’m thinking he will like fishing off the bank here when he comes again and …” he broke off as I threw my arms around his neck.
Land. A place to flourish. A place where children’s feet and voices of family would echo in the walls of a home built with love. I felt the baby kick inside me and laughed to think he somehow knew about the days ahead in such a place.
“Hey! Hey you guys!” Emma came running toward us, eyes shining. “Look what I found!” She took us by the hands and pulled us to where a cluster of small flowers grew close to the ground, their delicate pink petals fanned to catch the sun’s rays.
I stooped beside her, my arms wrapped around my knees, my face close to the bi
tterroots. A remarkable flower growing here independently, fiercely facing wind and rain, hiding underground during the bitter onslaught of winter and breaking forth again in the spring. Midsummer they would cast their impossibly tiny glossy seeds of black out onto the earth, tiny vessels ready to create new life.
I touched the fragile threads of gold nested at the base of the pale petals. I remembered the tiny pink heart that lay beneath them that Aunt May had told me about. Native plants so delicate yet so strong and resilient. They graced the world with their beauty while storing away life-giving nutrition in their crooked orange roots. How fitting that they flourished here on this slope where my home—our home—would stand.
“Aren’t they pretty? Just like you,” Emma said and laid her arm across my shoulders.
I rested my cheek against her soft hair. “Just like you,” I said.
Michael laid his hand on my shoulder and bent to look at the blossoms.
“Just like you both,” he said.
I faced Michael, tears flowing from my eyes.
“Thank you so much. For this.” I waved my hand across the plot of ground, my voice breaking. “And for everything.”
He smiled, cupping my face in his hands. “Welcome home, Jenna.”
Discussion Questions
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What are the subconscious beliefs that Jenna has about herself from her childhood that keep her from having a lasting relationship with a good man who respects her?
Why does Jenna hold back from getting involved with Michael?
How is Derek different from Michael?
Uncle Martin gives Jenna a bitterroot flower in a glass paperweight for her birthday. Later, she goes to visit her great-aunt and learns more about the flower. What does the bitterroot come to represent for Jenna?
How are the natural instincts of the bison herd representative of how strong family values can impact the lives of humans? How have the family values exhibited by some of her relatives been an asset for Jenna? How has the lack of those values held by other relatives been a problem for her?
Heartbeat of the Bitterroot Page 30