Roots of Wood and Stone

by Amanda Wen

“Or perhaps we can live in town. I could find a job.”

  Her mouth fell open. “A job doing what?”

  Anger sparked in his eyes. “So you think there’s nothing I can do then? That the fire left me a cripple? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

  “You implied it.” He turned his face to the wall.

  Mercy. Her nearly thirty-seven-year-old husband was acting like fourteen-year-old Oliver, all sullen and surly.

  Setting the cloth aside, she swallowed her irritation and breathed calm into her words. “All I meant was I can’t picture you doing the same thing day after day, working your fingers to the bone for someone else’s dreams.”

  Jack made a noise, half laugh, half cough, and all bitterness. “And what good is working for my own?”

  She scanned his face. Though he occasionally lapsed into dark moods, she’d never seen him quite like this.

  “This country took Sarah.” His voice was rough yet quiet. “Our son. It tried to take Oliver. It took Emmaline. It nigh took you when you birthed John Patrick.”

  The pain in his eyes tore at her heart.

  “And now it’s taken our barn. Our stock. Our house. Our dream. Every time I raise my head, this country kicks me in the teeth. Perhaps a stronger man could tough it out. A better man could overcome the odds. But I’m not that man. I can’t do this anymore, love. I’m not strong enough.”

  “Oh, Jack.” Aching for him, she bent forward and laid her cheek against his. She wanted to believe this was the influence of the brandy, but Jack had never spoken like this before, and Uncle Stephen had given the usual dose. “You’re merely exhausted. You’re merely in pain.”

  “I’m not merely anything.” His brogue rumbled against her chest. “I’m a man who’s smart enough to know when he’s licked.”

  All the breath left her lungs. Jack licked? Never. He can’t really believe that, Lord. Can he?

  “So that’s it then?” She pulled back. “You’re giving up?”

  His mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. “There’s a certain nobility in no longer bashing one’s head against a brick wall, don’t you think?”

  “Is this truly what you want?”

  “Does it matter?” His inky eyes wouldn’t meet hers but instead stared up at the ceiling, blinking fast, the muscle in his jaw twitching in steady rhythm. “What I want is for us to survive. To thrive. To see you and the children have the life you deserve. Not … this.” He spread his bandaged hands.

  “I’ve never needed material things to be—”

  “There’s a difference between tea cozies and fripperies and the security of knowing where your next meal’s to come from.” His voice contained a steely edge she’d never heard before. “Have you forgotten the grasshopper plague in ’74? The blizzards? The winter we all nearly froze?”

  “But we survived all that.”

  “This country’s not fit for man or beast. Certainly not for our children. They deserve better. You deserve better.”

  She rested her hand lightly atop his bandaged ones. “Do you sense God leading us away from here? Have you prayed about it?”

  Tears swam in his eyes. “I’ve prayed and begged and cried out until I’m hoarse, and he says nothing. Silence. I’d like to say I know he hasn’t turned his face from me, that he’s still present with me … but I can’t.” His voice broke. “And I think it’ll be the death of me.”

  He crumbled then, and with a whisper of his name, she cradled her tireless, indomitable rock of a husband against her chest and let him weep for layer upon layer of loss. His Sarah. His son. Their daughter.

  His dreams.

  Leaving was the last thing she wanted. They’d been hard-hit to be sure, but they weren’t starting from nothing. They had friends here. Family. The church. The mere idea of severing all those ties, of leaving home … she couldn’t imagine it.

  But that wasn’t the cry of her heart, the aching groan of a prayer she heaved toward the heavens.

  It was for God to make her broken husband whole again.

  “Look at her.”

  Garrett followed Lauren’s gaze across the ornate sitting room in the memory care unit at Plaza de Paz, and there sat Grandma in a plush blue chair near the fireplace, chatting with a couple other snowy-haired ladies. One of them leaned over, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes, and Grandma’s Texas-sized smile turned to a laugh. The hooting, whooping laugh lodged in his childhood memories.

  The one he hadn’t heard since Grandpa died.

  He looped his arm around Lauren’s shoulders and squeezed tight. Grandma was … happy.

  From the moment Garrett arranged her tour, he’d prepared for all the possible reactions. Confusion, absolutely. Disgust, a definite possibility. Utter heartbreak, the one he’d dreaded most.

  But he hadn’t expected happiness.

  Lauren slid her arm around his waist. “It never occurred to me how lonely she must’ve been since Grandpa passed. But it should have. Remember how they were always running off to some card game or bowling tournament? Mom told me they even used to vacation with other families. Why didn’t we think of this sooner?”

  He had. But there was no advantage in belaboring the point. Instead, he dropped a kiss onto Lauren’s head. “What matters is we’re doing it now.”

  Perky high heels clicked on the tile floor, and Julia, the admissions coordinator, strode toward them.

  “So what do we think?” she asked, her smile enormous.

  “I think she likes it.” Lauren beamed and made a gesture oddly reminiscent of jazz hands. “Yay!”

  “Yay!” Julia’s bracelets clanked as she echoed the gesture.

  Garrett wasn’t about to join in their cheerleader enthusiasm, but he couldn’t deny the truth. “She seems happy. That’s nice to see.”

  “And it looks like someone’s happy to see her.” Julia’s penciled eyebrows gave a suggestive wiggle in the direction of a dapper gentleman seated in a brown leather recliner on the other side of the room. Tweed cap on his head, cane clutched in a gnarled hand, his attention was locked and loaded on Grandma.

  Garrett shuddered. He wasn’t quite ready for that.

  Moments later, Grandma joined them in a row of chairs opposite a photo-littered desk in Julia’s office.

  “I like it here,” Grandma declared.

  Julia clicked at her keyboard. “That’s what we like to hear.”

  Lauren leaned in with a searching look. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  Grandma’s cottony curls bounced as she nodded. “This is probably one of the last de … di … oh, what’s the word?”

  “Decisions,” Garrett offered.

  “Thank you.” Her wry smile curved wrinkled lips. “This is probably one of the last decisions”—she said it slowly, as though she’d never heard it before—“I’ll ever make for myself. And I think it’s a good one.”

  “It is,” Garrett agreed.

  On Grandma’s other side, Lauren nodded. “I think so too.”

  “You’ve both taken wonderful care of me.” Grandma slipped her cold fingers into Garrett’s grasp and did the same with Lauren. “But you two are far too young to worry about an old biddy like me all the time. I’ll be just fine here.”

  Lauren squeezed Grandma’s hand, tears pooled along her lower lids. “Okay.”

  “Okay.” Relief slid through Garrett’s body. Grandma’s good day—her best day in weeks—couldn’t have come at a better time. She was on board with the move. More than that, she wanted it.

  “Okay!” Julia scrolled on the computer screen. “As I mentioned before, we do have one suite available. To hold it, we’ll need your deposit, first month’s rent, and proof of finances. You said you have a house you’re selling?”

  “Yes.” Garrett dug in his jacket pocket for Grandma’s checkbook.

  “Wonderful.” More clicking. “Any other assets? Savings accounts? Retirement funds?”

  “N
o.”

  Julia’s long nails hovered over the keyboard. “But you believe the sale of the house and land will meet the requirement?”

  “That won’t be a problem.” Please, God, let it not be a problem.

  “All right. No rush, as long as she’s able to stay current with rent.”

  Garrett paused, the checkbook in his hand, and did some quick number crunching. His grandmother’s liquid assets would cover two months’ rent and part of a third, but that didn’t include the deposit. All before they even listed the house.

  Kimberly’s warning about how long it might take to find a buyer loomed large.

  So did her suggestion of an auction. No waiting. No repairs. No redecorating. Just a quick sale to the highest bidder.

  And if that happened to be Warren Williams, bulldozer at the ready?

  Then so be it. Whatever the outcome, he couldn’t afford to feel anything about it, good, bad, or otherwise.

  Decision made, he replaced his grandmother’s checkbook and pulled out his own instead. Paying the deposit himself would dent his savings, but it’d also buy some time just in case.

  “We’ve got it covered.” He scribbled his signature and handed the check over before his inner cheapskate could protest.

  “Thank you so much.” Julia tucked the check into a drawer and withdrew a large manila envelope. “Just a few more forms to sign, and we’ll be all set.”

  Garrett slipped his checkbook into his pocket, stomach queasy. Finally, finally, it was done. Plans were made. Set in motion. Plaza de Paz was undeniably the best place for Grandma, and the cherry on top? She was happy about it.

  They’d done the right thing.

  So where was the relief? The vindication?

  Why did doing the right thing feel so horribly wrong?

  October 4, 1882

  Annabelle sat at the kitchen table, pen scratching over the pages of her diary. With the four oldest at school and John Patrick down for a nap, she’d received a slice of silence. One of which she intended to take full advantage.

  She’d filled half a page when the bedroom door creaked and Jack walked out. Fully dressed, though how he’d managed it with his bandaged hands was a mystery. His hair was combed as neat as could be after a week in bed.

  She started to question him, but his eyes glittered, dark and determined, his shoulders set. Gone was the pallor of days past, and in its place was a slight flush. Not crimson as with fever, thank the Lord, but the pink of health.

  Whatever he’d decided—and he’d for certain decided something—it was going to be nigh impossible to talk him out of it.

  She hoped she wouldn’t need to try.

  “Have you any spare paper?” He settled into the chair across from her.

  Her stomach knotted. “Yes.”

  “Can’t write quite yet, so I’d be obliged if you’d do it for me.” His voice was granite, and her heart sank. The letter to Robert.

  “You’ve made up your mind then?”

  “Aye.”

  Tears stung her eyes, tears she quickly fought back. Your will, Lord. Your will, not mine.

  With a deep breath, she pulled a sheet from the back of her diary. “What would you have me write?”

  “I want you to write a list of everything you want in your house.”

  She paused, pen hovering over the inkwell.

  His eyes locked on hers. “The Lord broke his silence. If there ever was a silence. Maybe it’s that I finally stopped shouting at him and started listening.”

  A smile tugged the corners of her mouth, and she leaned her pen against the inkwell and waited.

  “Because when I was quiet … I heard our children. Their joy. Their laughter. I heard them running and playing outside my window. It doesn’t bother them that we lost so much. It didn’t dampen their joy that they won’t be moving to a larger house soon. They’re happy. They’re content. Because they trust me. They know I’ll fight for them until my last breath, that I love them more than my own life.”

  Adoration swelled. “I’ve never seen a father who loves his children more.”

  “And the way they trust me should be the way I trust my heavenly Father. So I quieted my spirit and surrendered to him anew. When I did that … oh, Annabelle, the peace I felt. It was like the sun shining on my soul.”

  Her throat thickened, and her heart filled with gratitude.

  “I read some Scripture—Scripture I’ve sorely neglected the last few weeks—and everywhere I looked was guidance to persevere. The verses leapt off the page, as though meant for me. I’d never known what the phrase ‘living word’ meant until this morning. So I believe God wills us to stay. To persevere.”

  “Oh, Jack.” Relief washed through her. They were staying.

  “It won’t be easy, love. It’ll take years to rebuild.”

  “I know.”

  “But rebuild we will. He’ll care for us. He’ll not leave us. I know that now, to my bones. Even when I don’t feel him, he’s there.” Joy shimmering in his eyes, Jack tapped the paper with his fingertip. “So don’t hold back. Let your imagination run wild.”

  Annabelle opened her mouth to protest, but he beat her to it. “And I know you’re about to tell me that you don’t need a big house, that all you need is this little cabin. And that may well be true.” He swallowed hard. “But I’m not asking this for you. I ask it for me. Because I need to dream again, and you’re the one person who’s always given me the courage to try.”

  Warmth filled her as she studied the man who’d so swiftly won her all those years ago. He needed her. Needed her like she needed him.

  “All right,” she said, and he captured her hands with his cottony bandaged ones and kissed her fingertips.

  Her lips curved. “You’ll have to free my hands if you wish me to write, Mr. Brennan.”

  The humorous glint in his eyes reassured her that he was back. That though physical recovery was still to come, his heart and soul were whole again.

  “You make a valid point.”

  “As always.”

  He pressed kisses to the back of each hand. Each knuckle. Each fingertip. Then, his gaze tender, he released them.

  Overflowing with joy, Annabelle picked up her pen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SLOANE PUSHED OPEN the farmhouse door with her shoulder. “Anybody home?” One hand cradled the most recent diary, while the other carried savory-smelling bags of takeout barbecue.

  “In here,” Garrett called from down the hall, accompanied by the scratchy squawk of packing tape.

  Sloane set both food and diary on the coffee table and rounded the corner into Rosie’s bedroom, where Garrett crouched amid a sea of boxes. Closet doors gaped, piles of clothes obscured the quilt on the bed, and dust motes danced in a shaft of late afternoon sunlight.

  Sloane blinked. “What’s all this?”

  “You know how you wait and wait and wait for something, but when it finally happens, it happens fast, and no matter how prepared you were, you still feel behind?” He thumped a box to secure the tape he’d rolled across it. “We found a place for Grandma. Plaza de Paz. They had an immediate opening, so we jumped on it this afternoon. She moves in next weekend.”

  “Wow, that is fast.”

  “Yeah, well.” Garrett rose with a quiet grunt and added the box to a stack in the corner. “The tornado sped things up a bit.”

  Sloane crossed the room and slid an arm around Garrett’s waist, his skin warm and damp through his T-shirt. “I’m glad you found a safe place for her.”

  “Me too.” Relief lightened his eyes. His face, flushed and shining with effort, was devoid of its drawn, tight appearance from recent weeks. That sight alone made her glad for him. For Rosie. For all of them.

  But uncertain sorrow snaked around her joy. If Rosie’s move had been stepped up, then surely the plans for the house had as well.

  So what would happen to it?

  And how could she ask without seeming enormously selfish?

&
nbsp; Garrett’s stomach growled, and he pressed a quick kiss to her temple. “Guess that means it’s time for a dinner break, huh?”

  “Absolutely.” She stepped from his embrace. “I’m starving.”

  Lacing her fingers through his, she led him into the living room, where the delicious aroma from the takeout made her mouth water.

  He reached for one of the bags, and a corner of his mouth tipped. “Can’t believe this Kansas City kid likes Wichita barbecue better than anything back home. That’s gotta be at least two different levels of blasphemy.”

  “Blasphemy or not, good is good.” Sloane ducked into the kitchen for a couple of plates. When she returned, Garrett had his nose in the diary.

  “What’s Annabelle up to these days?” he asked.

  “We can look at it after dinner if you want.”

  “Or you could read me an entry while I get stuff ready.”

  “Twist my arm.” Sloane set the plates on the coffee table and took the diary from his outstretched hand.

  August 23, 1890

  Annabelle’s skirts jostled as the children thundered through the wooden door Jack held open and burst headlong into the house.

  The new house.

  Their house.

  Gleaming wooden walls echoed with the whoops and shrieks of children unable to contain their excitement. Five-year-old Maggie Ann, their youngest, spun circles in the foyer until she toppled over in a heap, honey-brown ringlets forming a gilt halo in the sunshine. Her nearest brothers, Stephen and John Patrick, tore into the spacious living room, while the older boys thudded upstairs, Mary close behind. Even quiet, dreamy Caroline strolled around the dining room, wide-eyed and chattering.

  They were loud, those children. But not Annabelle.

  She was speechless.

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen the house before. She’d watched the neighbor men hoist the roof and hammer the walls. She’d seen her Jack out there, sawing and painting in wilting heat and bone-cracking cold. She’d witnessed the blood, sweat, and tears that went into its construction.

  But that was before it was finished.

  Now …

  The fresh smell of new varnished wood. The stone fireplace. The large window framing a gorgeous view of the creek, complete with lace curtains.