by Amanda Wen
Nostalgia hugged his heart. Of course he remembered. Sometimes it was a bedroom filled with balloons. Sometimes a packed bag waited at the foot of the bed with a note instructing him to grab it and hop in the car for a day of fun. Sometimes it was a full-on surprise party, complete with a darkened room and people leaping out from behind furniture. There was no way to predict what or when the birthday surprise would be, but it was a constant of birthdays in the Anderson house. Mom had made sure of that.
“Just … no jumping out from behind the furniture, okay?”
“Don’t worry,” Lauren replied. “I figure unexpected cake and a bunch of friends is probably enough for someone who’s not familiar with the Anderson Family Surprise Dynamic.”
Bittersweet warmth bloomed at the idea of sharing something so personal with Sloane. Though he couldn’t introduce her to his mom—much as he might want to—this was a small part of her, a piece of her legacy, he could let Sloane see.
One small part of himself too.
August 13, 1871
A scant few hours had passed since the simple ceremony, yet Annabelle had no recollection of Reverend Little’s words. Only the vaguest remembrance of the vows she’d taken, of the feasting and merriment afterward.
Seared in her memory instead was the look in Jack’s bottomless gray eyes. Her heart had swelled at the adoration shining there, at the thin film of moisture pooling along pink lower rims. At the thickness of his voice as he pledged himself to her. Though close to the edge of his composure, he’d never quite lost it.
Neither had she. Far from it.
She was soaring.
Summer’s wind caressed her skin as her husband’s strong, skillful hands guided the horses toward his claim. Her claim now too.
Her home.
Her cheeks hurt from smiling, but she couldn’t stop. Not when the man who owned her heart was so near. When he’d vowed that very morning to love, honor, and cherish her. When a beautiful garnet ring wrapped her finger in its snug embrace.
She studied that ring, dazzled by the dance of sunlight through deep red stone, the brilliant shine of gorgeous gold filigree, then slipped her hand beneath the warm, solid curve of Jack’s arm. The bunch and ripple of his muscles beneath her fingertips started a tingling that spiraled through her whole body and made her ache in a delicious, tender way.
It made her … want.
But that was allowed now. They were man and wife. She was Mrs. John Francis Brennan, and she could want him all she liked.
They crested a slight hill, dappled gold in the late afternoon sun, and Jack’s cabin came into view, small but homey. Rough cottonwood logs still yellow in their newness. A door and a single window. A barn behind. The chicken coop. Maisie, the black-and-white cow, and Millie, her half-grown calf.
She’d seen all this before, on many a Sunday drive.
But now it was home.
Jack extended a hand to help her down from the buggy. “And now, Mrs. Brennan, we’ve come to the part where I offer my deepest apologies.”
Giddiness bubbled at the new title as her dainty black shoes thumped onto thirsty grass. “For what?”
“For the house.” Doffing his hat, he knocked off the dust and pushed open the wooden door. “Bachelor quarters, to be certain.”
Annabelle stepped inside and blinked to adjust to the dimness. Jack had been nothing but honest. Though freshly scrubbed from top to bottom, these were indeed bachelor quarters. No curtains fluttered at the window. A rudimentary stove squatted in the corner near a small, rough table. Two beds lined the far wall, separated by a scrap of dingy canvas.
Jack cleared his throat. “I thought perhaps we’d want a bit of privacy …”
Heat flooded her cheeks. Privacy wasn’t a concern for the next few days, however, since her aunt and uncle had offered to care for Oliver.
The marriage would begin here. Alone. Together.
The implications heated her cheeks even more.
“Sarah had a few things. Pretty. Feminine.” Jack’s voice was low and husky. “But I couldn’t bear to use them. Not after …”
Annabelle placed a finger against his lips. “It’s all right, Jack.”
Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. Something that made the tingling ache inside her grow.
Slowly, not even daring to breathe, she traced the smooth fullness of Jack’s lower lip.
His eyes closed, his coal-black lashes carving half moons against skin dusky from sun. A soft groan slipped out, vaulting her heart into her chest with anticipation. This was the power she had over him, and he over her.
It was dizzying. Dangerous.
His hand closed around hers. Lowered it as his eyes eased open and love shone from their depths.
“After I lost Sarah … our son … I lost myself too. My optimism. My dreams. But the Lord gave it all back to me again.” Rough fingertips feathered over her cheek, and she shivered. “Now I have all kinds of dreams.”
She broke into a wide smile. “Tell me.”
He stepped back and turned to the window. “That drive we came up just now? I dream of lining it with trees. Flowers for spring, sweet fruit for summer. Cherries maybe. And apples so we’d have some in the fall.”
Joy percolated at the gleam in his eyes.
“And at the end of that drive, I’ll build a house. Not a cabin like this. A real one.” He strolled around the cabin, strong hands gesturing as he gave his imagination free rein. “Big. White. With an upstairs for the bedrooms and a proper parlor … right here.” He stopped and nodded. “I’ll put in a window looking out on the creek. And I’ll build a writing desk too, so you can fill up those diaries of yours.”
Her eyes stung. What had she done to deserve the blessing of this man?
“And over here”—he made his way to the other side of the cabin—“a dining room. One with a big table, so our six children will have plenty of room.”
An astonished laugh burst from her lips. “Six?”
“Seven, including Oliver. I see them as clear as if they stood before us, love. Three dark like me, two fair like you, and one fiery redhead like my own dear mam.” His eyes twinkled. “That one might be a troublemaker, I’ll warn you.”
Annabelle chuckled. “You’re quite the dreamer, Mr. Brennan.”
“The kitchen’ll go here. With a large sink and a proper stove and plenty of space. And over there, a room with a big stone fireplace. Paper on the walls. Maybe even a piano.”
Her brows lifted. “A piano. How fancy.”
“You deserve nothing less, love.” His expression suddenly sobered. “In fact, you deserve much more. So much more than a rough Irishman and his nephew and a tiny cabin in the middle of the prairie.”
As he had that morning, in front of God and their witnesses, Jack clasped her hands in his. “But that Irishman has dreams. And, God willing, he’s going to make them come true for you.”
“Oh, Jack.” His excitement was catching. “It sounds wonderful. But I don’t need a stone fireplace or a writing desk to feel at home.” She wound her arms around his neck. “All I need to feel like I’m home—all I will ever need—is you.”
His eyes darkened, his lips neared, and then they were on hers. Seeking. Savoring. Probing. Promising. She threaded her fingers through the hair at his nape; his strong arm pulled her against him.
When he drew back to look at her, his breathing was rough and fast, as though he’d run a great distance. So was hers.
It was all a touch overwhelming. She stepped back on weakened legs and pressed numb lips together. Lips that tasted like him.
“You … and maybe one more thing,” she said.
“What’s that?”
She crossed the room to her hope chest, which Jack had carted in the day before, and removed the wedding gift from Aunt Katherine: a new set of handmade lace curtains. Quickly, she tacked them up over the window and turned toward her husband with a sense of triumph. “There. Now it’s a home.”
His s
mile was so warm and tender her heart nearly broke. Closing the distance between them, he took her in his arms and pressed his lips to her temple. “I adore you, Annabelle Brennan.”
“And I you.”
Oh, the love in his eyes. Love … and a question. Are you ready?
Was she ready to truly become his wife? To leap hand in hand into all the future held for them? The joys? The sorrows? The dreams?
How could she not be when he looked on her with such love?
She nodded. He caressed her cheek with his fingertips, then claimed her lips in a kiss filled with passionate promise.
“Getting juicy?”
With a quiet gasp, Sloane yanked her gaze from Annabelle’s diary to Colleen’s smiling face. “Oh, hey, Colleen. Didn’t see you come in.”
“I gathered that.” Colleen bustled to her desk, insulated lunch sack in hand.
The blink of the cursor on Sloane’s laptop, the bright green flash on her phone, the scratchy peeling apart of Velcro as Colleen dove into her lunch all pulled her back to the present. Had she even eaten yet?
She’d started at least. A metal fork stuck out of the bowl of pasta on her desk, and the taste of tomato sauce lingered on her tongue. She lifted another bite to her lips, but it was stone-cold.
“So.” Colleen spun in her chair, plastic container of salad in hand and a gleam in her eyes. “What’s going on with Miss Annabelle?”
“Well, she’s Mrs. Annabelle now.”
Colleen’s eyebrows arched over her glasses. “Ole Jack put a ring on it, did he?”
“Just read about their wedding day.”
“And their wedding night?” Colleen’s brown eyes took on a mischievous shine.
“It’s not like that. She’s very discreet.”
“Can’t be that discreet,” Colleen retorted around a mouthful of salad. “Your cheeks are about the same color as your spaghetti sauce.”
“Ha ha.” Sloane picked up her pasta and headed for the microwave.
“Mind if I take a peek?” Colleen’s container thumped softly on her desk, and her chair creaked.
“Knock yourself out,” Sloane called over her shoulder. “But I promise, there are no details.”
“We’ll see about that,” was Colleen’s parting shot.
Sloane shook her head as she reached the little kitchen and popped open the door of a microwave that was itself nearly old enough to be in their collection. It wasn’t the content of Annabelle’s diary that had her cheeks aflame. Not really.
It was that every time Annabelle described kissing Jack … Sloane saw Garrett. Garrett’s eyes, deep navy in the moonlight. Garrett’s cheekbones, thrust into light and shadow by the Keeper’s ring of firepots. Garrett’s lips, quirked in a quick, shy little smile, moving closer …
The microwave beeped, and she jerked the door open. She had to snap out of this. He’d be here again in two days. Would he be able to read her thoughts? To know how many times he and that near miss of a kiss had been their sole focus? To know how much brainpower had gone to wondering if it had been a fluke, or if there was actual intent?
How many times she’d relived that moment—and mentally finished it—minus the gaggle of drunken bachelorettes?
When she returned to her desk, Colleen held the diary in gloved hands, her gaze scooting back and forth over the page with impressive speed.
“See?” Sloane set her lunch down. “PG-13 at worst.”
“Disappointingly, yes.” Colleen turned back a couple pages. “I know you told me, but when was Grandma’s house built?”
“1890. Why?”
Colleen held the diary out to Sloane. “Take another look at the part where Jack talks about his dream house. I’m surprised you missed this.”
Frowning, Sloane peered at the faded cursive. Honed in on the details of Jack’s dream.
The sitting room window, looking down on the creek. The same view Rosie had in her den.
The large stone fireplace. Just like the one in Rosie’s living room.
The tree-lined drive leading to the big white house.
Heart somersaulting, she grabbed her phone. Garrett. Garrett would know. She had to call Garrett.
He answered on the second ring. “Now there’s a sound for sore ears.”
“Hey. Got a minute?”
“Sure.” He hesitated. “Are you all right? You sound out of breath.”
“Fine. I just—I need to know—what kind of trees line the drive up to your grandma’s house?”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” His furrowed brow came through in his voice.
“Promise. Just tell me about the trees.”
“They’re apple trees. At least some of them are. The rest are cherry, I think. Yeah. Grandma used to make pies in the summer. Why?”
The truth settled in Sloane’s midsection and spread over her face in a smile. “Because Jack planted those trees. He’s the one who built that house. Your grandma’s house … Jack Brennan built it. For Annabelle.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AT FOUR MINUTES past five thirty that Friday, Garrett pulled up outside the castle-like historical museum. Traffic jams and road construction along the turnpike had delayed him, and he’d started late anyway thanks to a client who wouldn’t take a hint. He’d hoped Sloane wouldn’t have to wait on him even these extra four minutes.
He didn’t want to have to wait the extra four minutes either.
But his heart lifted the moment he glimpsed her, sitting on a sun-dappled bench, looking at her phone, the wind tousling her hair. She glanced up, smiled, and got to her feet. He threw the car into park and hopped out to open her door.
Her eyebrows arched over a pair of funky vintage-looking sunglasses. “Why, thank you.”
She seemed surprised. Was chivalry really that rare? “You’re welcome,” he replied as she passed. A whiff of sweet perfume cut through the diesel exhaust of a passing bus.
He walked around to his side and climbed behind the wheel. “Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s only”—she peered at the clock—“five thirty-five.”
“I know. But I wanted to be here when you got off work.”
“Well, it’s a gorgeous day, so you’re forgiven.” She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Being another year older was definitely treating her well.
Grinning like a fool, he reached into the back seat. “Got something for you.”
“Oh?”
He presented her with a bouquet of springy yellow flowers. “Happy birthday.”
Plastic crinkled as she accepted his gift, but her smile froze halfway to her eyes. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.” He swallowed against a jolt of apprehension. Birthday flowers were within the boundaries of friendship, weren’t they? “Besides, it’s Friday. Field trip day. Figured after those swarms of kids, you might need a day brightener.”
Jackpot. The smile reached her eyes with a nearly audible ding.
“You’re sweet.” She sniffed the flowers appreciatively, then lowered them to her lap. “Thank you.”
“So how were the little rascals?” Glancing over his shoulder, Garrett pulled away from the curb.
“Third graders are their own kind of special. Especially five classes’ worth.”
He winced. “Ouch.”
“Meh. My day’s looking up.”
“Good.” He stopped at a red light and turned to her. “How’s Mirabelli’s sound for dinner?”
She chuckled quietly. “Sounds great if you feel like waiting in line for two hours.”
“What if I told you I had a reservation?”
Sloane blinked. “You do?”
“Yep.”
“Well. Color me impressed, Mr. Anderson.” She settled back in her seat, eyes closed, looking as relaxed as if she were lying on a beach. “Guess there are perks to hanging out with people who like to plan.”
“Guess so.” Never mind that this whole thing was Lauren’s idea.
If it was going to make Sloane this happy, he’d gladly hog the credit.
The tangy scent of marinara sauce and the comforting, yeasty aroma of dough grabbed Sloane by the elbow and guided her, gently but irresistibly, through the heavy wooden doors of the crowded, speakeasy-like Mirabelli’s. While Garrett spoke with the hostess, Sloane breathed deep of the tantalizing smells and feasted her eyes on the century-old converted warehouse. The walls, though covered in neon lights and witty signage, were rough red brick, and the ceiling boasted patterned tin tiles.
She’d yet to take a bite and this place was perfection.
“Fancy meeting you here, sugar.”
She turned at the familiar baritone. Sure enough, there was Jamal, her band’s bass player. Drink in hand, his trademark tweed cap atop his head.
“You playing here tonight?” In addition to their band, he and a couple others formed a jazz trio that routinely gigged around town.
“Nope. Just stuffin’ my face with some pepperoni and extra cheese.” He lifted his glass. “Good to see you.”
“You too,” she called as he disappeared into the crowd, moving more quickly than usual.
The hostess stepped between Sloane and the retreating Jamal, menus in hand. “Right this way.”
She escorted Sloane and Garrett toward a cozy-looking booth for two in the back. The perfect place to duck away and wait for this day to be over.
It was April twenty-third. Just another square on the calendar. Twenty-four more hours of life under her belt.
And as long as she kept telling herself that, she’d be okay.
So locked was her vision on that cozy corner booth that she almost ran smack into the hostess, who had inexplicably stopped at a large rectangular table in the center of the restaurant.
A table where Jamal was hastily pulling out a chair.
A table that contained Eric. Patrice. The rest of the band. And a beaming Lauren Anderson.
A table festooned with shiny Happy Birthday balloons.