“Did you read the journal and letters?” The envelopes were addressed in his great-great-grandfather’s bold scrawl.
“No. If it had been anyone besides Aidan, I probably would have. I’m a historian, after all. But knowing your family and caring for them the way I do, I couldn’t pry into such a personal matter.”
“So you brought them to me.” Irritation roughened his voice, making her eyes widen. “Why?”
“I didn’t know what to do with them. I can’t put them in the museum, but I couldn’t throw them away, either.”
“Why not?”
“That’s not a decision for me to make.”
“Why did you have to show them to anybody?” Tossing them was the easiest solution, but he knew it wasn’t what he would do. Not until after he looked at the journal and the letters. Now that he was aware of them, he had to know the truth, or it would gnaw on him like a dog chewing fleas.
“I don’t know. It just seemed wrong for me to throw them out.” She combed her fingers through her hair, shoving it back from her face. “The box and the things in it were precious to Margaret. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have hidden them away in the attic. I suppose I should have given everything to Sue, but I was afraid that would put her in a difficult situation. I don’t think your parents keep secrets from each other, and Dub has special memories of Aidan. Not just stories but memories of the man himself and the times they spent together. He saw how much everyone respected the Callahan patriarch, and that makes Aidan bigger than life in his eyes.”
He was bigger than life in my eyes too, Chance thought. Until now. “Why didn’t you call Mrs. Simpson? This was her great-grandmother’s.”
Emily closed her eyes, leaned her head against the back of the couch, and sighed. “Who knows how she would react if she got hold of this? She wasn’t close to her grandmother. She doesn’t care much about Callahan Crossing or the people here, either. Not in any kind of personal way. I’ve seen too many people tell tales about their ancestors at dinner parties, never considering that they might be maligning them or someone else who had been involved with them. Or that it might spread until it got around to someone who could be hurt by it. I didn’t want to risk hurting your family.”
“What about me, Emily? Just knowing about this hurts me.”
“I know, and I’m so sorry. I really struggled with this. I hate hurting you, but I didn’t know what else to do. I figured you could deal with it better than anyone else.”
“Well, I don’t like it. Not one bit.” Generally, Chance was slow to anger, but this had him plenty riled.
He’d come home tired and irritated from dealing with stubborn, irresponsible people. The thought of spending a nice, relaxing evening with Emily had kept him from losing his temper when he had every right to give a few people what-for. With her curled up in his arms on the couch, he could have set all his problems aside for a while and simply enjoyed being with the woman he loved.
Instead he got shoved into another kind of trouble.
“You need to go so I can sort this mess out.”
“All right.” She carefully controlled her expression, which told him he’d probably hurt her feelings. Hopping up, she disappeared into the kitchen before he could drag his weary body off the couch and follow her.
He decided to let her go. He wasn’t in the mood for a good-night kiss anyway.
And that was a mighty sorry state to be in.
After he heard the back door close, he left everything on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen without turning on the light. He peeked out the window but didn’t see Emily between his house and the ranch house. Frowning, he started to go outside, then noticed the light come on in the bunkhouse.
Wise woman. She’d already learned that his mother could sense when she was upset and would start gently asking questions. His mom wasn’t exactly nosy. She cared about people and had a way of getting them to unload their problems. The last thing he needed right now was for his mother to shift into pry-bar mode. Emily would be pouring out the story before she even knew it.
He didn’t want to read through the diary. Ever. But he knew he would. He had to. If she’d waited another couple of days, after he’d had a few good days at work, maybe he would have handled it better. Or not.
Taking a fresh glass of water, Chance went back into the living room. He picked up the journal and the letters and settled in his recliner. Aidan’s name was not on the envelopes, but Chance had seen his distinctive handwriting on other documents. Coupled with the portrait, he had no doubts that his great-great-grandfather had written them. He set the letters on the end table beside his chair.
“Lord, I wish I’d never seen this stuff, but I guess you want me to know about it for some reason. Give me understanding and wisdom.”
Running his fingertip around the edge of the journal, he finally opened it.
Margaret Bradley. 1906
January 1. Another new year, but I have no hope this one will bring us the blessing of a child. Since the last miscarriage in October, Kenneth fears for me to become pregnant again, though I am only twenty-five. He is truly concerned for me, but I don’t believe that is the only reason he has grown distant. His disappointment in my inability to carry a child has expanded to most other areas of our lives.
We are such great actors in front of everyone else. We should go on the stage with our witty repartee and reserved but obvious affection for each other. Obvious but false.
Perhaps it is but the march of time that has dampened the flame of our love. Does all love grow cold when a marriage passes the five-year mark? Miss Olivia thinks not. I hope she is wrong. I do not wish to be the singular failure. It would be easier to bear if ours was but one of many.
January 5. Kenneth left two days ago on an extended trip to the East. For months he has focused more on the ranch and his business dealings than his medical practice. Perhaps he needs to since he built this grand house, and many of his patients cannot pay. He declared I was too delicate to make the arduous journey to New York. It is only an excuse. He cares naught for me. He is ashamed of me.
Miss Olivia tried to offer comfort, assuring me that he will soon grow lonely and hurry home, eager to regain the happiness we once shared. I hope she is right, but I have little faith in such a wish.
I thought I would welcome his absence – better not to have him here at all than to endure his frowns and criticism or alternately, hours of silence. Yet the house seems so empty, and I am lonely. Thank goodness I can spend time with my dear Olivia each day.
Chance paused and took a drink of water. It was easy to see how Margaret would be vulnerable to the attentions of another man. But why had Aidan pursued her? He had a reputation as an honorable man. What changed? Or had his uprightness been a charade and his sins well hidden?
He was ashamed the instant the thought crossed his mind. Aidan’s integrity, strong faith, and Christian walk had shaped their family for four generations. He would not accept the possibility that his great-great-grandfather had lived a lie.
So far there was no mention of Aidan. Obviously, there had been something between them at some point, but maybe she had blown everything out of proportion, indulging in the fantasy of a lonely young woman.
He read several more entries, and the tone grew lighter. Margaret no longer talked about Kenneth and her loneliness. She and Miss Olivia, a dear elderly friend who lived next door, were busy organizing a project for the Ladies’ Aid Society. That, along with her drawing and painting, seemed to occupy her days. She mentioned a dinner party she had attended and commented on the weather a few times. They had a warm spell, followed by a cold one, which was common for West Texas.
Then the journal entries changed.
January 15. Aidan Callahan stopped by this afternoon. How I was filled with trepidation when I saw him walk up the steps! The most powerful man in Callahan Crossing, whose stern visage and dark scowls make grown men quake. I thought perhaps something had happened to Kenneth, and he w
as the bearer of horrible news. Or that I had committed some unknown transgression, and he was there to chastise me in the name of the town.
He said Kenneth had asked him to check on me occasionally to see if all was well or if I needed anything. He was nothing but kind to me, as a father would be to a daughter. Though I daresay, I do not think he is old enough to be my father. He was ever so polite and stood on the porch the whole time. He is a handsome man, despite his rather stern manner. He promised to come by again when he is in town.
The next several comments talked about the Ladies’ Aid project and a portrait of Miss Olivia that she was working on. She also received a short letter from her husband advising that he was traveling to Philadelphia, where he planned to remain for a month. From there he would go to Chicago for another few months. If he expressed any loving sentiment, she did not note it.
On the afternoon of the twentieth, Aidan came by again. That time he accepted some lemon cakes and a cup of tea – which made Chance raise an eyebrow. He had a hard time picturing Aidan with a delicate teacup in his hand. They spent a delightful hour in the parlor, discussing the Scriptures. Margaret found him to be as much of a Bible scholar as their minister, providing insights that she had never heard before.
January 30. Received a letter from Aidan, delivered by one of the cowboys. He has been tied up at the ranch but again tells me to send for him if I need anything. I am tempted to do so, but I fear loneliness would be a poor reason to summon him. His concern is endearing, but he seems only interested in my physical welfare – that I have enough coal for the fire, ice for the icebox, kerosene for the lamps, access to our funds at the bank to buy food, or whatever I require.
Does he not see that I need companionship? Conversation and laughter on a cold winter’s eve? Tenderness and strong arms to hold me? Alas, I yearn for what I must not. I long for what I cannot have.
An entry a few days later stated that Aidan’s wife, Clara, and their three children had gone to Boston for at least a month’s visit to care for her ill mother. It was the perfect setup for trouble.
February 4th. Aidan came for dinner today after church. He was highly complimentary of the meal, especially the apple spice cake. Since he had two helpings of everything – ham, creamed potatoes and peas, canned peaches and fresh rolls from the bakery as well as my special cake – I believe he enjoyed it all. He stayed the whole afternoon. What delight! He has such interesting tales of cattle drives and settling this country. He praised my piano playing, though I was nervous and missed a few notes. But when he started singing along with the music, I relaxed. His rich baritone wove golden chains of harmony and sweetness around my heart.
Chance shook his head and paused for another drink. He supposed Margaret’s prose was typical of her era, but it was way too flowery for him.
Aidan allowed me to do a quick sketch of him, though I think he found it amusing. His countenance – gentle, with a twinkle in his beautiful green eyes and an indulgent smile – is so different from his normal visage. The image is indelibly imprinted upon my mind and heart. I will not require another sitting to use the pastels, though I may request it merely to study him.
I shall never grow tired of watching him or listening to his voice. I could spend every minute of every day in his company and never grow tired of him.
Sadly, I do not think he feels the same for me. He talked about his wife and children with great affection. He says he greatly misses them, though how can he when he spends most of his time at the ranch and they live in town?
Yet, when it came time for him to depart and I slipped my arm around his, he did not pull away. Indeed, he pressed my hand against his side, thrilling my heart. Judging from the look in his eye as he took his leave, he was not unaffected.
Chance laid the journal on his lap and leaned back in the recliner, turning on the massage unit to work on his low back for a few minutes.
Miss Sally had shown him portraits of Margaret Bradley when she was in her twenties. She appeared delicate, the kind of woman who naturally made a man feel protective of her. She was also very beautiful, far more lovely than Grandma Clara had been at her age. In 1906, Clara was forty-one; Margaret twenty-five.
He believed Aidan started off with good intentions, but he suspected Margaret was something of a seductress. So far, she certainly had used her feminine wiles and talents to entice him to spend time with her.
Still, Grandpa Aidan should have been wiser and seen what she was up to. Maybe he did, but having a beautiful young woman interested in him must have been flattering to a forty-six-year-old man. Chance supposed it went both ways. Having the most powerful man in several counties attracted to her must have done wonders for her self-esteem when she felt beaten down by her husband’s disdain and lost affection.
It was certainly a lesson to keep in mind now and remember when he was older. Don’t befriend an unhappily married woman. And never be in a position where they would be alone. He didn’t think he’d ever heard a sermon on the subject. Might be a good topic to suggest to Pastor Brad. As long as he could do it without revealing how he came up with the idea.
Chance considered stopping there. He had the explanation about the portrait. He’d learned a lesson and gained something useful to protect him. But there was the locket and that strand of hair. According to Emily, women often kept locks of hair from those they held dear, even children. With that bit of gray mixed in with the brown, this was obviously not from a child. It matched the color of Aidan’s hair in his portrait. He would only have given it to her because she meant a great deal to him.
If Chance quit now, he’d always wonder what really happened. Wonder if he was assuming his great-great-grandfather had sinned when maybe he hadn’t.
He eyed the two letters on the table. The answer might be there. Opening the first one, he scanned it quickly. This was the one Margaret had mentioned earlier when he was asking about her welfare. He picked up the second one but couldn’t bring himself to read it yet. Maybe he was a sucker for punishment, but he needed to know the whole story.
Going back to the journal, he skimmed several days’ worth of notes. Much of it concerned Miss Olivia. Margaret loved her very much and cherished her friendship. She also relied on her counsel, even if she didn’t take it completely to heart.
Aidan stopped by a few more times, and Margaret talked to him about her problems with her husband. Though Aidan empathized, he encouraged her not to lose heart, to give Kenneth time to work through his grief about their inability to have a child. Chance doubted she said anything to him, but she vented in her journal about him taking Kenneth’s side and not hers. Aidan also kept his distance. There were no further opportunities to slip her arm around his or to touch him in any other way. That greatly annoyed her.
Chance thought Aidan had tried hard to resist Margaret’s tempting ways. “But you didn’t do your best, Grandpa. Walking away and not coming back was the only safe way to fight it.” He knew that from experience. More than one woman had tried to lure him into her bed, but he’d always managed to walk away. He wasn’t any better than Aidan, but maybe he’d been a little wiser. Nor had he ever felt that strongly about anyone.
Until now.
If Emily decided to seduce him, he wasn’t completely sure he could resist. It was a sobering thought. So much for his sanctimonious judgment of Grandpa Aidan.
He decided a break and a toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwich were in order. Walking into the kitchen, he looked out the window and checked the bunkhouse. It was dark. Emily must have gone back to the ranch house. He moved to the other window, confirming that the light in her bedroom was on. Was she mad at him? Or hurt by the way he’d treated her? Probably both.
He made the sandwich and paced around the kitchen as he chewed. Eating slowly, he wished he didn’t have to go back and start reading again. It was too early to go to bed, not that it would do him any good anyway. He’d keep thinking about Aidan and Margaret and worrying over what to do with that blasted b
ox and its contents. Add needing to set things straight with Emily, and his slow cooker of a brain was bound to simmer all night. Too bad he couldn’t toss some stew meat and veggies into the mix and cook tomorrow’s dinner while he was at it.
“Lord, what’s going on with me? Wearin’ a hole in the floor ain’t my style.”
This thing with his great-great-grandpa bothered him plenty. Aidan Callahan was an icon, not only to his family but to just about everybody in the area. He’d come West with a herd of longhorns and made a fortune. He’d established the town, set up the bank and half a dozen businesses before anybody else bought a lot. When others did move in, they purchased land from him because he owned it all. He’d built the first church and the first school. Sent for the first doctor.
When the citizens wanted to erect a statue of him in the park, Aidan had scoffed at the idea and made his family promise they’d never allow such a thing. But he was a legendary hero who sat high on a pedestal anyway, in Chance’s mind and most everybody else’s.
Emily had knocked him off.
Which was why Chance was mad at her. No, he thought, that was only one reason. He was mad because she found the box in the first place. Because she’d spotted something behind those bookcases and couldn’t stand it until she discovered what it was.
He rested his hands on the edge of the kitchen sink and hung his head. “Okay, that’s dumb. She was just doing her job.”
And that was the real problem. It wasn’t because she’d found something that might destroy Aidan’s reputation. Sure that bothered him, but what ate at him and had his heart and mind in turmoil had more to do with him and Emily than with Aidan and Margaret.
This was a hands-on, personal reminder of her talents as a historian and an indication of what a great curator she would be. She loved the search, the mysterious pulling together of bits and pieces to tell the story of people’s lives. She wanted others to understand what it was like twenty or a hundred years ago – the challenges, sacrifices, innovations, and victories that laid the groundwork for what they had now. Yet, she had a keen wisdom about what stories belonged to everyone and what secrets needed to be kept.
Emily's Chance (v5) Page 21