by Amanda Wen
“From my uncle.” She lifted her chin. “Dr. Stephen Maxwell. I’m certain he would be happy to take a look at Oliver, to be safe. He has the formal training, of course, but I’ve learned much from assisting him.”
A shadow flitted across Jack’s face. “I’ve not yet met the man, but he is the answer to many prayers.”
“That he is,” she said.
Was it sinful to be proud of her uncle? She hoped not. A wonderful doctor, and an even more wonderful man, he’d been a tremendous help to these struggling settlers. God truly had called them here, of that she was certain.
A frown creased Jack’s brow. “Would he see the boy even on the Lord’s Day?”
She stooped to retrieve her diary. “He always says if Jesus healed on the Sabbath, he reckons he can as well.”
Grinning, Jack offered her his arm. “Then will you do us the honor of escorting us?”
Annabelle returned his smile and rested her fingertips in the crook of his elbow, as though their destination was a grand ball. “It would be my pleasure.”
Garrett’s chuckle was low next to Sloane’s ear, mingling with the swish of a passing car. “Sounds like Miss Annabelle is one smitten kitten.”
“Sounds like it.” Sloane closed the diary and pulled off a glove. “But even more than that, do you realize what she’s given us?”
“What?”
“Another name. John Brennan.” She reached into her bag and grabbed her tablet. Angling it to avoid the sun’s glare, she pulled up the township map she’d been studying earlier, then leaned closer to Garrett and indicated one of the cursive-labeled squares with a fingertip.
“S. A. Maxwell.” Garrett glanced up at her. “That’s Uncle Stephen?”
“Mm-hmm.” Excitement coursing through her, she dragged her finger over the screen to move the map. “Jack and Oliver couldn’t have been too far away.” She scrolled across the nearby properties. “Abrams … Stevens … Oh, right here.”
“J. F. Brennan.” Garrett slipped off his sunglasses and peered at the map. “Is that Jack?”
Sloane zoomed the map out to double-check. “No other Brennans anywhere nearby, so, yeah, that’s gotta be him.”
“Wow. So, wait. What happened to Oliver’s parents? Why is he with Jack? Is Jack married? I’m assuming not, since he just planted one on Annabelle, but does he have family other than Oliver?”
“Look who’s full of questions now.”
“Well.” His voice deepened, and he fixed her with the full intensity of that ocean-blue gaze. “You’ve got me invested.”
Her heartbeat kicked up a notch, and she tore her attention back to the map … Aha, a landmark.
All the pieces clicked into place.
“I’m glad.” She pointed at a little square with a cross on it. “Because see this church right here? St. Matthew?”
A crease formed between Garrett’s brows. “That old Catholic church out west?”
“One and the same.” She scrolled the map over a few sections. “So we start there and go three miles straight east to where the claim backs up to Blackledge Creek—”
“Wait, that’s Blackledge Creek?” Garrett leaned closer. “That S curve in it sure looks familiar.” He looked up, wide-eyed. “Is that … ?”
“It is indeed.” She beamed. “Jack Brennan’s claim is your grandparents’ farm.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
JACK BRENNAN. The name bounced around Garrett’s head, much like the gravel clanking against his car as he drove back to the farmhouse. Knowing this land once belonged to that long-ago settler was interesting, but what did it mean? What bearing, if any, did it have on the present?
Sloane would find out, of course. She was relentless in her pursuit of information, and she’d promised to keep him in the loop. It was a little alarming how much he hoped her name would flash across the screen every time his phone chirped. Whether the information she uncovered had any significance, it was fascinating.
She was fascinating. Her enthusiasm for digging around in old boxes charmed him. Her frankness refreshed him. Her dry sense of humor lightened his heart. And her vulnerability stirred protective instincts he didn’t know he had. She’d shared the tragic circumstances of her birth with him as matter-of-factly as he discussed investment portfolios with clients, but the hurt in those golden-brown eyes revealed her abandonment’s true cost. The depth of her sorrow, the brave cover for barely healed wounds, made him want to gather her in his arms and whisk her away someplace where her past couldn’t hurt her, and her present couldn’t confuse her, and—
And these were not the sort of thoughts one had about someone who was just a friend.
But just a friend she had to remain. Because anything more was not part of his plan, couldn’t be part of his life. Her life was here and his was hours away.
Pulling up outside the house, he parked the car, boxed up all thoughts of Sloane, and strode through the back door into a kitchen perfumed with strange spices. Lauren stood at the stove while Grandma sat at the table watching finches flit around the feeder outside.
“Hello, all.” He crossed the kitchen and retrieved a glass from the cupboard. A large pot simmering on the stove seemed to be the source of the aroma. As usual, he had not a prayer of identifying it.
“Hey.” Lauren tapped her spoon on the edge of the pot. “You find Sloane? Was the diary a hit?”
“It was.” He stuck his glass under the faucet. “Especially the kissing part.”
“You guys kissed?”
“Who’s kissing?” Grandma piped up from the table.
Heat stung Garrett’s cheeks at how grossly he’d underestimated Lauren’s imagination. More so at the image that popped, unbidden, into his head. Sloane’s perfectly shaped mouth, her full red lips …
“No, I’m not … It’s Annabelle. The girl from the diary. She’s nineteen now, getting kissed by a neighbor guy named Jack.” He took a hasty gulp of water. Friends.
“Ooh. Jack. Sounds sexy,” Lauren said.
“I knew a Jack once,” Grandma added. “He wasn’t sexy, though.”
Spluttering, Garrett choked down the water and yanked the conversation back to the past. To a simpler time, when thoughts of Sloane didn’t intrude and his grandmother and sister didn’t fling the word sexy around like a Frisbee.
The past Annabelle had so richly described in her diary.
When he finished recounting Annabelle’s rescue of Oliver and Jack Brennan’s impulsive display of gratitude, Grandma’s face lit with a satisfied smirk. “Attagirl, Annabelle.”
“No joke.” Lauren stirred the simmering concoction. “If there’s one thing this neighborhood needs more of, it’s hunky farmers with cute accents.”
Grandma’s chair scraped against the floor as she pushed herself back from the table. “If you’ll all excuse me, I need to go see if the Royals’ bats woke up yet.”
Garrett moved toward her, but she waved away his offer of help.
“Thanks just the same, Garrett.” She stood, stretched to kiss his cheek, then shuffled from the room.
Garrett. Today she remembered his name.
Lauren gave a few raspy turns to a pepper grinder over the steaming pot. “She’s having a good day.”
“She is.” No arguments.
But for every good day, another bad one always lurked around the corner.
“So, do we know any more about this Jack guy?” Lauren spooned up a sample from the pot, gave it a taste, and reached for one of the spice jars littering the counter beside the stove.
“He was one of the area’s original settlers. Sloane found a map—and get this. Jack’s claim was right here.”
Lauren turned, spice jar in hand. “So this could’ve been his house?”
“It’s possible, although land changed hands fairly often. Even if this was his claim, he may not have stayed long enough to prove it. Sloane’s on the case, though.” Draining his glass, he slid it into the dishwasher. “Better get upstairs and get packed.”
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“Not sticking around for dinner?”
“Got a client bright and early, so the sooner I get back home, the better.”
“In that case, how about some for the road? I’ve got Very Veggie Tikka Masala with cauliflower rice.”
So that’s what it was. Rice was the only part that sounded remotely appetizing, and with the word cauliflower preceding it, even that lost its luster.
He gave a polite smile. “That’s sweet, but I’ll just pick something up on the road.”
“Nonsense. Do you have any idea how much sodium and fat is in that stuff?”
“That’s why it’s delicious.”
“But this is healthy.” Rhythmic chopping underpinned Lauren’s words as she disassembled a handful of parsley. “And it’s free.”
She had him there.
“You know my kryptonite.”
Lauren scraped the parsley into the pot of vegan goo. “Back in two weeks then?”
“Actually I’m coming back Friday.”
“Why? Hot date?” Lauren bent to retrieve a glass container from the cabinet.
“I’d be more inclined to call it ‘plans.’” His cheeks warmed again. “But yes. There’s a combo playing at Fitzy’s next week. Sloane says they’re fantastic.”
Lauren stood, container in hand, eyes glittering with amusement. “I was totally kidding, but wow, look how red you’re getting. You’re so adorable when you’ve got a crush on someone.” She patted his flaming cheek.
“It’s not a crush.”
“All right, what would a stuffy, brainiac big brother call it? Let’s see …” She deepened her voice. “A mutual attraction based on common interests.”
“Sure. Call it whatever you want.”
“You have to at least admit you’re attracted to her or I’ll make you take some of this Perfectly Paleo naan along with you.” She gestured with the container toward a plate of odd-smelling flatbread.
“Okay, yes. Objectively, Sloane is an attractive woman.” His pulse skittered at the memory of her in that blue dress. “But that doesn’t mean I’m attracted to her. All it means is—”
“Oh, please.” Lauren rolled her eyes. “This is Jenny Hickok all over again.”
“That may be. But now I don’t have to take any of this naan … nonfood you’re trying to foist on me.”
“Just for that, I’m giving you extra.” Lauren ladled a steaming spoonful into the container, and Garrett laughed all the way up to the second floor.
May 29, 1871
The tick of the clock on the mantel marked the passage of seemingly endless seconds as Annabelle sat beside Jack in Uncle Stephen’s parlor—or what passed for one in a hastily constructed cabin. Two muffled voices bled in from behind the door: Oliver’s high-pitched chatter and Uncle Stephen’s smooth, reassuring baritone.
Jack hadn’t said a word since they arrived. Eyes locked on the floor, he worried a worn Stetson in his hands. His right leg bounced, the soft thump of his heel at odd counterpoint with the ticking clock.
“He’ll be fine.” Annabelle placed a reassuring hand on his forearm. “At worst, it’s a small fracture. And Oliver’s young. Strong. He’ll be back to his old self in no time.”
Coal-black lashes fluttered as Jack raised his eyes to hers. “I know. At least in my head I know.”
“But?”
The darkness in his gaze, the heaviness in his countenance, spoke of something deeper than concern for his nephew. He sighed and turned back to his hat. “I believe in the Almighty, Annabelle. At least, I did once. But if he is real, then I feel he’s set his hand against me. Ever since we left Wisconsin.”
“Is that where you’re from?” It was the wrong thing to fixate on now, but perhaps she’d finally placed his delightful manner of speech.
A smile touched his lips. “If you’re wondering about my accent, no. That comes straight from the Emerald Isle. Aghadrumsee, if you’ve heard of it.” The slight twinkle in his gray eyes suggested he’d guessed the truth: she hadn’t. “It’s on the northern side of Ireland. ‘Field of the fairy ridge,’ the name means.”
“It sounds beautiful.”
“It is. At least, what I remember. I was even younger than Oliver when we came to America. First to Wisconsin, then Illinois.” He cleared his throat. “Last year, my wife, Sarah, and I left, along with her sister and husband and Oliver, their son, to take a claim in Kansas.”
His wife. He had a wife.
Or he’d had a wife. The slump of his broad shoulders confirmed it.
“Elisabeth—Sarah’s sister—was the first to go. Cholera. Her husband, Charles, followed two days later. By some miracle it passed the rest of us, so Sarah and I took in Oliver to raise as our own.” He rocked forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and that lock of hair fell across his forehead. “But then we learned Sarah was with child.”
Sympathy quickened Annabelle’s pulse.
“If I’d known when we started, I’d have never made the trip. But Sarah didn’t tell me, precisely because she knew I’d have never made the trip, until we’d gone too far to turn back. I prayed—every day, every hour—for her. For the baby. And she was strong. Right up until the delivery.” Pain shimmered in his eyes. “But the birthing was difficult. There was no doctor, and the neighbor who served as the midwife, she …” He pressed his lips together. “There was nothing anyone could do.”
“Oh, Jack.” She grasped his hand and gripped it tight. “I’m so sorry.”
“Our son—Josiah—he lived four days.” He shook his head. “And since then, I can’t help but think … what if coming here was a mistake? What if God’s punishing us? What if there is no—”
“Mr. Brennan?”
Uncle Stephen’s eyes shone; his voice held a happy lilt. He had good news. Relief coursed through Annabelle before he spoke another word.
Jack leaped to his feet to meet Oliver as he stepped through the doorway into the parlor. A smile cracking the sadness, Jack crouched down and clasped the boy’s round face between work-worn hands. A quick kiss to the small freckled cheek, then he rose and turned to Uncle Stephen. “How is he?”
“No breaks or dislocations. Only a small cut on his leg. I bandaged it, and you’ll need to rub this salve on it each night before bed.” Uncle Stephen held out a small tin, which Jack stuffed into his pocket. “Come back if the wound reddens or swells, but I don’t expect it will. Keep it clean and it should heal nicely.”
“My deepest thanks, doctor.” The depth of Jack’s voice made Annabelle’s heart thump.
“It’s my pleasure.”
Jack reached into his pocket. “How much do I owe you?”
Uncle Stephen waved a hand. “No charge, Mr. Brennan.”
“Are you certain? It’s no trouble, I can pay.”
“No, no. It’s the Lord’s Day. Any healing I do on this day is purely out of service to God.”
“Then I’m much obliged, Dr. Maxwell. And to you, Miss Collins.” Replacing the Stetson on his head, Jack took Oliver’s hand.
“I’ll be praying for you, Mr. Brennan.” She stepped toward him. “That God will reassure you of his love, and give some sign that you’re where he’s purposed you to be.”
Jack’s intense gray gaze pinned her in place. “Perhaps he’s done exactly that.”
Her face flamed. Only after the wooden door creaked open and shut did she turn to her uncle, her pulse still racing, her breath caught in apprehension of the questions he was certain to ask.
But he stared at the door, a thoughtful expression softening craggy features. “Funny thing. Even before I met that man, I knew him.”
Annabelle frowned. “How?”
“That dream I had back in Indiana, the one with the man holding the infant—”
Her eyes flew open. “That was him?”
“It was.” Uncle Stephen placed a hand on Annabelle’s shoulder. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, doesn’t he?”
Her gaze traveled to the gingham-curtained window and t
he retreating figures of Jack and his young nephew, her skin warm from the memory of those fierce lips.
“He certainly does, Uncle. He certainly does.”
“Must be good, whatever you’re reading.”
Colleen’s voice over Sloane’s shoulder made her jump. Lowering the diary, she turned toward her coworker, who was settling in at her desk, her enormous WuShock coffee mug wafting steam into the office air.
“Didn’t realize you’d come in.”
“I gathered that. Said hi to you three times.”
Sloane slipped a bookmark into the diary and set it aside. “Sorry.”
“So what’s got you so absorbed?”
Quickly, Sloane caught her colleague up on the diary’s author and contents.
Colleen, a mischievous smirk on her face, stuck a pencil into her graying ponytail and turned to her computer. “Now I gotta know if Annabelle got her man.”
“No.” Sloane nearly lunged across the space between them in her vehemence. “No spoilers.”
Colleen stopped, mid search query. “But we can probably dig up all the dirt on her in two minutes.”
Sloane sighed. Her thirst for knowledge was raging, the temptation intense. “I know. But I’d like to learn it from Annabelle. In her words. As she experienced it.”
“Suit yourself. At my age, I don’t have the patience.”
“Dig up whatever you want. Just don’t spoil it for me.”
Colleen reached for the diary and carefully leafed through the worn pages. “Where’d you even find this thing?”
Sloane recapped her day of discovery at Garrett’s grandparents’ farm.
Colleen’s gray brows arched. “The Spencer place? Up near Jamesville?”
“That’s the one.”
“They getting ready to sell?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
Colleen handed the diary back to Sloane. “Warren Williams has had it in his sights for a long time.”
“As in Williams and Son Development?” Sloane’s gut tightened. The Williams empire, responsible for many of Wichita’s upscale subdivisions, had been gobbling up farmland, Pac-Man style, for over three decades.