Legacy of Love

  The door opened. Graves, the Neideckers’ butler, lifted an eyebrow before greeting her with stiff decorum. “The family is dining, Miss Simmons.”

  In her short tenure as housemaid, Anna had never got Graves to warm to her. He’d been with the family forever, at least as long as she could remember, and was loyal to a fault. Alas, that loyalty now stood in the way.

  “May I wait in the parlor?” she asked, blowing again on her fingers for emphasis. “It’s rather important.”

  He hesitated but at last stepped aside to allow her to enter. “I will inform Mr. Neidecker that you are here.”

  “Actually I need to speak to Mrs. Neidecker.” Her face prickled when she stepped into the home’s cozy warmth.

  He closed the door behind her and glared at the clumps of melting snow that dropped off her coat onto the floor. Someone would have to clean up the mess. In the past, that someone would have been her.

  “Your coat?” Graves barely lifted his hand, clearly affronted that he must handle her threadbare attire.

  “Thank you, but I know where to hang it.”

  He sniffed, as if to say that her coat did not belong in the guest closet but ought to hang with those of the servants.

  “I will let you know what Madame says.” He waved her into the parlor before heading toward the dining room at his usual plodding pace.

  Once he’d left, Anna pulled the newspaper clipping from her apron pocket and examined the photo again. It was blurry, but she was sure the third man from the left must be Edward Naughton. The article didn’t name the men, but it had to be him. That would explain everything. It also offered the slimmest chance to help Brandon make peace with the past. She nibbled her lip and prayed that Mrs. Neidecker would listen and understand.

  Her hands shook, and she had to put the article back in her pocket. Lord, help me find the words.

  If she failed, Brandon might never come out of the abyss.

  * * *

  Where would Anna go?

  Brandon scanned the space between the house and the gate, but he could barely see ten feet ahead. The swirling snow and darkness obscured all but the intermittent twinkle of the light in the parlor window as he plowed toward the house.

  He’d parked the car by the front door. If he could reach it, he’d have a chance of catching Anna, but the deep snow sapped his strength. Each step was an exercise in balance. By the time he’d taken a dozen steps, he was winded. Sir Edmund Hillary must have felt like this scaling Mount Everest. The wind, the snow, the bitter cold. His hands ached.

  Ahead, a dark shape emerged from the wildly swirling snow. His car? He squinted as melting snow trickled into his eyes and stumbled forward until he bumped into the side of the Cadillac.

  Thank God. He leaned against it, catching his breath.

  Only a few steps more and he’d reach the driver’s side. Halfway around, his good foot slipped and only the cane prevented a fall. Sharp pain burned up his leg to the hip. He bent over his cane to gather the strength to make the last few steps.

  The snow pelted him. Large, wet flakes soaked his coat and numbed his hands. He turned and grabbed on to the car’s roof before lowering himself into the driver’s seat. Again, pain shot through his leg. He ignored it. Anna needed him.

  He depressed the ignition. The car backfired violently.

  He stifled the curse that wanted to come to his lips. This wasn’t a time for the coarse ways of man. To save Anna, he needed higher help, God’s help.

  Please let the car start, Lord. It was a poor prayer, but the first one he’d tried since the day his men died.

  Taking a deep breath, he tried the ignition again.

  Bang!

  Same result. Apparently prayer still didn’t work.

  He beat on the steering wheel in frustration. Worthless invention. Why wouldn’t it work when he really needed it? He leaned his forehead against the cold wheel and felt the poke of the throttle and spark controls. He’d forgotten to set the throttle and retard the spark. What a fool!

  This time the car started. He put it in gear, switched on the headlamps and inched forward. He couldn’t see a thing. The headlamps reflected off the snow, illuminating a wall of white. At this rate, he would drive into the stone fence or the carriage house. He could put the car into a tree. Still, he pressed on, hoping he’d found the driveway. The mission must proceed. Anna must be found.

  Thump.

  The car rolled over something solid.

  He stopped breathing. What if he’d run over Anna?

  He braked. The car slid. He braked harder, and the vehicle finally came to a stop. He threw open the door and called for her.

  No answer.

  Dear God. What if he’d killed her?

  * * *

  Mrs. Neidecker strode into the parlor, her expression coldly reserved. “Your former position is no longer available. I’ve already hired Minnie Fox.”

  “I know.” Anna managed to stand, though her legs felt like gelatin. “That’s good.”

  Mrs. Neidecker stared at her as if she were mad.

  Anna tried again. “I mean to say, that’s not why I’m here.” She struggled to pull together her thoughts. “I owe you an apology. I should never have resigned so suddenly. You needed my help for your party, and I—” Oh, how it hurt to admit fault. “I acted selfishly. I’m sorry. It was inconsiderate to quit without notice.” Oddly, once the last word was out, the humiliation vanished, and a calm strength infused her with courage. She could do this.

  Mrs. Neidecker’s icy demeanor thawed a little. “Yes, you did leave me in a bind, but thankfully Minnie helped at the last moment. I must say, though, that you’ll have difficulty finding real work with such an attitude.”

  She clearly felt Brandon had given her work merely from sympathy. Anna bit back the retort that rose to her lips. Once again unemployed, she couldn’t risk further alienating Pearlman’s elite.

  Mrs. Neidecker glanced at the darkened window dotted on the outside with snow. “Surely you didn’t come out of doors on such a night simply to apologize.”

  “No.” Anna’s heart inched up her throat. She forced it back down. Whatever the cost, she must try to help Brandon. When she’d left the house, she’d been certain this was the way, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  “Well, what is it? We are dining.”

  Anna swallowed hard and groped in her apron pocket until her fingers landed on the newspaper article. “I found something at Brandon’s—the Landerses’—house today that I hope you can help me with.”

  Mrs. Neidecker looked at her oddly. “Wouldn’t you go to Mr. Landers with that information?”

  “Certainly not.” Then, as Mrs. Neidecker’s expression turned to confusion, she understood what the woman was thinking. “I’m not talking about the lost fortune. I found something else.” She pulled out the newspaper clipping. “I think it’s about Edward.”

  Mrs. Neidecker paled, and her hand clutched at the pearls around her throat. “My nephew?”

  Apparently Edward had meant a great deal to her. Anna hesitated. Seeking forgiveness for Brandon wouldn’t be as easy as she’d thought.

  Mrs. Neidecker said, “Please have a seat on the sofa.”

  Anna fought the sensation that she was going on trial and sat at the far end. Hopefully Mrs. Neidecker would choose a seat across the room from her. Alas, the woman settled beside her, so close that their legs nearly touched.

  “Now, what is it that you’ve found about my Edward?” She reached for Anna’s article.

  Not yet. Not until she’d explained. Anna shoved the clipping back into her pocket. “I think we should talk.”

  “Talk about what? Just show me what you’ve found. Is it about how he...died?” The last word was barely audible, and Anna could see the pain that she kept s
o well hidden the rest of the time.

  “You loved him, didn’t you?”

  For a moment, Anna thought the woman would cry, but Mrs. Neidecker blinked rapidly and forged past the emotion.

  “He was—” she cleared her throat “—like a son, the son my Ralph always wanted. Not that we don’t love Joe, but he has no interest in the business, and, well, he lacks a bit of direction. Our nephew loved everything about business, had a head for it. He adored touring the cannery.” She knit her fingers together. “He would be so upset to see how poorly it’s fared since our competitors opened their cannery.” She raised a handkerchief to her eyes.

  Anna had never considered that the Neidecker cannery would suffer once the newer, more modern one opened in Belvidere.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  Mrs. Neidecker shook her head just once. “Edward would have found a solution. He was brilliant that way. Ralph had set his heart on Eddie following in his footsteps.” She paused again to gather her composure. “Why did he have to go to war? He could have gone to college or at least gotten a commission, but he insisted on enlisting. A private. He should have been an officer. He could have been placed somewhere safe, but he wanted to prove he was no better than anyone else. But he was.” She stifled a sob. “That wasn’t Edward, though. So he went to France as a private, and he died.” She crumbled on the last word, and the tears flowed.

  Something urged Anna to reach out and hold the woman’s hand, but it meant letting go of the article and allowing God to take control of what happened next. Either Brandon would be hurt even more, or he would be released from the past that tormented him. Whatever the result, he probably would never forgive her for bringing the article here today.

  Courage and faith. Every woman of the Bible had acted with courage and faith.

  She unfolded the article and handed it to Mrs. Neidecker. “I found this today. I believe it’s about your nephew.”

  * * *

  The bump Brandon had run over with the automobile turned out to be a stone that had tumbled out of the fence. Five more feet, and he would have run into the wall. The car was useless in such weather, so he abandoned it and set out on foot.

  Not two paces away, he found Anna’s red knit mittens and scarf. Fear knotted his stomach. Not only was she out in this weather, but she had no protection from the cold.

  The temperature had dipped, and the snow had lost its greasiness. The smaller, finer flakes filled the air, howling around him with the increasing wind.

  Anna could freeze to death.

  He shoved the mittens and scarf in his pocket, hunched his shoulders and headed into the biting wind. She would have gone down the hill into town. Mrs. Simmons had told him Anna intended to rent a room at the boardinghouse before he offered the carriage house. She’d either head there or to her brother’s house, which was only six blocks away. Any man, even one with a bad leg, could hike six blocks.

  He made his way along the stone wall and, once through the gate, headed left and down the hill. The slope told him he was going in the right direction, though he could see nothing. Snow stung his narrowed eyes. It melted and ran down his neck. It crusted his eyebrows and coat.

  Panting from exertion, he struggled against the wind. Once again he had a cause. Once again he was fighting against insurmountable odds.

  “It’s a trap,” Pvt. Naughton had said. Edward Naughton had been a good man, the best. Every man who’d died tore apart his soul, but none more than Naughton. The private had the sense and courage to speak up. Brandon hadn’t enough of either to act.

  Naughton had been right. It was a trap. Worse, Brandon knew it. Or rather, he should have known it. He recognized the effects of excessive alcohol use: the too-bright eyes, the slight stagger, the belligerence. His commanding officer had exhibited all of those when he gave the order to drive deep into the ruins of that small town. Brandon should never have obeyed. Court-martial would have been better than what had followed.

  The roar of artillery barely concealed the screams of his men as they died around him. Why hadn’t he died too? He was supposed to die first and end this miserable life.

  That day, the rain had chilled him to the bone. Today the snow did. Something caught his worthless right foot, and he stumbled. The pain knifed through his hip, and he fell forward into a drift. Though the snow cushioned some of the blow, the impact still shivered up his arms.

  His cane skittered out of reach. Once the shock wore off, he groped around in the snowy darkness until he found it, but his fingers were so cold he could barely grip the thing.

  If he, a grown man, was succumbing to frostbite, how much more so would a slight woman in a threadbare coat? Tangled emotions—fear, love and despair—welled, threatening to freeze him to the spot. He could not give in to this. He must find her, help her, save her.

  “Anna,” he called out.

  The snow muffled all sound. Pulling his coat shut against the cold, he listened harder. What if she lay near? What if she was calling out for him?

  “Anna,” he yelled with all his might.

  In the silence that followed, he thought he heard something. It sounded dull and far away, soft thumping, like heavy footfalls or the distant thud of shells.

  How could that be? He was in Pearlman, not the war. It was winter, not autumn. Yet that thump, thump, thump continued.

  He drew in an icy breath, trying to calm the pain and the terror. When his platoon fell into the ambush, his men had scattered. He’d yelled out the order to hold formation, but only Naughton held. For that act of obedience, Edward Naughton had been the first to perish. Then the shells had torn through the rest, tossing them like leaves.

  “No,” he sobbed, pressing his frozen hands to his eyes. Why wouldn’t it stop? Why must he lose everyone he ever cared for? His mother had slipped away with barely a protest. His father had stopped giving any affection when Reggie was born. His men had trusted him. And now Anna. He’d lost her too.

  “Why?” he yelled at the fierce emptiness. “Why do I have to lose everyone?”

  He heard no reply, just like in the war. But this time he felt something. Peace. It came from nowhere, pierced through the pain and misery as clearly as a regulation thirty-ought-six bullet.

  Was it true? Had God always been with him, even when he’d turned his back on God? Is that why he’d struggled with whether or not to disobey the fateful order? Was He the small voice that pricked his conscience? Was He here now? Was He with Anna?

  It didn’t matter what Brandon wanted or needed, as long as Anna was safe. He bowed his head, unsure how to say a prayer that God would actually answer. This was too important to do wrong, but he didn’t know how to do it right.

  “Help me,” he finally cried out. “Help me find Anna. I can’t do it myself. I can’t do anything myself, but Mrs. Simmons says if I just ask, You’ll forgive me. So I’m asking.” He sucked in a ragged breath. “I’m begging. Please. Please. Take me, if You want, but let Anna live.”

  Then he dropped into the snow, prostrate and sobbing like a boy. He could do nothing. Nothing. If God was gracious, death would come quickly.

  It did not.

  Gradually, after the anguish spent its fury, calm replaced the hopelessness, and the pain in his hip subsided. He opened his eyes and saw in the distance a lone light shining.

  An answer to prayer?

  He didn’t know, but he had to trust it was. Using the last of his strength, he got to his feet and trudged toward this beacon.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Anna waited nervously while Mrs. Neidecker read the article. Apparently, she’d never seen it before. Maybe she didn’t know that Brandon had been Edward’s commanding officer, that he had led his men into the ambush that cost Edward his life. If so, Anna’s task would be much more difficult.

  Her heart
pounded in her ears. She could hear nothing else in the deathly quiet room. Mrs. Neidecker’s expression never changed. Perhaps the article told her nothing new.

  At last Mrs. Neidecker set down the article, leaned back with a sigh and closed her eyes.

  Anna was dying to know what she was thinking, but she had to wait for the woman to collect her thoughts. Her beloved nephew had died. According to the article, Brandon was at fault.

  When Mrs. Neidecker finally spoke, her words came so softly that Anna could hardly hear her. “Why did you bring this to me?”

  Anna hesitated. This wasn’t about her or even Edward. It was about finding peace. She prayed God would give her the right words. “I hoped you could forgive him.”

  “Forgive who?” Mrs. Neidecker looked genuinely confused, and Anna wondered if she’d misinterpreted the article.

  “B-Brandon.” As she said his name, she felt the old heat suffuse her cheeks. “Mr. Landers, I mean.”

  Mrs. Neidecker didn’t answer.

  So Anna added, “He’s hurting, and I think this is why.”

  “Survivor guilt.” Her words carried no condemnation.

  “What is that?”

  “The survivor of a tragedy wonders why he didn’t die too.”

  Anna marveled that Mrs. Neidecker could speak so calmly. “Where did you learn about this?”

  Mrs. Neidecker glanced at the empty parlor doorway before answering. “Joe had promised Edward he’d enlist with him but changed his mind at the last minute. You can imagine how he felt when the news came back that Edward had been killed.”

  Anna had always thought Joe Neidecker lacked a moral compass, but after hearing this, she began to understand why. “He’s trying to escape what happened, just like Brandon.”

  The woman’s cheek twitched. “Survivor guilt.”

  Anna shuddered to think that Brandon might fall as deeply as Joe Neidecker if he couldn’t get forgiveness. She had to get it for him at any cost. “Do you blame Brandon?”

  “I did for a long time, but Ralph asked some questions, checked into the matter and learned the fault lay elsewhere. Even if he hadn’t, what good would it have done to hang on to the anger? Edward was gone.”