Roots of Wood and Stone

by Amanda Wen

  Her breath caught. “Oh, Jack.” Aunt Katherine’s advancing age meant she could no longer do delicate needlework. So where had these curtains come from?

  He pulled her close, his smile weathered and knowing. “I worried they wouldn’t be here in time, but they arrived on Tuesday’s train.”

  She tore her focus from the room to the man who’d coaxed it, inch by inch, from dream into magnificent reality. “It’s breathtaking.”

  “Yes. It is.” The intensity in his deep gray eyes made it clear he wasn’t talking about the house. Love surged as their lips met.

  “Jack,” she murmured against his questing mouth. “The children.”

  “They’re not paying us any mind.”

  It was true, they weren’t, and her paltry resistance died at his kiss, at the heat of the hand resting at the small of her back—

  The door banged open, and they broke apart, Annabelle smoothing her skirts.

  “Uncle Jack.” Oliver’s deep voice and confident stride sliced through their mood.

  Jack cleared his throat. “Yes?”

  Oliver held up a shingle in his reed-thin hand, and Jack frowned.

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “Our roof.”

  Jack took the piece of slate. “I dropped a few of them over the edge when I was putting them on the other week. Thought I’d gotten them all, but I suppose not.”

  “This wasn’t there yesterday,” Oliver pointed out. “They must’ve come off in the wind.”

  Yesterday had indeed been blustery, even by Kansas standards.

  Jack drew back. “They?”

  “Maybe a dozen. I’ll nail them back on if you like.”

  “No need. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Does this mean the move is delayed?” Annabelle asked. Excited thumps and shrieks still echoed upstairs. She’d hate to disappoint them.

  Jack gave a reassuring smile. “Not at all, love. Only I’ll need to get up there and fix it before it rains next.”

  “So we’ve all the time in the world then,” Oliver said dryly.

  Jack laughed, but beneath it lay real concern. The bone-dry summer meant constant scans of the horizon for that ominous red glow. Despite the warm day, Annabelle shivered, remembering the fire that nearly wiped them out. Nearly cost her husband’s life. Scars from that day peeked from Jack’s shirtsleeves, mementos of his darkest hour.

  Please, Lord. Protect the house from fire.

  Pressing a kiss to her temple, Jack drew her to his side, and she relaxed into the warmth of his embrace. He didn’t say a word, but he knew her worry. That alone brought comfort.

  Oh, Lord. Thank you for Jack. What would I ever do without him?

  He searched her face; she reassured him with a smile. Satisfied, he nodded, then turned to the stairs and called each of the children by name in that agile-tongued way of his that never ceased to summon them from the far-flung reaches of their exploration. Within moments, their seven young ones had gathered in the empty sitting room.

  “Before we all get too excited, I think we need a prayer of blessing, yes?” Jack looked around the circle of offspring. “To dedicate this house to the Lord, the source of all it took to build it and the sustainer of all who’ll live within it.”

  Seven shining faces surrounded Annabelle, seven precious souls who’d grow within these walls. Perhaps even some of their children, and their children’s children … and this home would still stand, a testament to the Lord’s faithful provision.

  It was a house. A pile of wood and stone.

  And yet it was so much more.

  Oliver stood at her left. The boy she’d rescued from the flooded creek, who now towered head and shoulders over her. The child who didn’t share her blood but may as well have been her firstborn. The young man who’d put nearly as much work into the place as Jack himself.

  And Jack to her right. The man in whose chest her own heart beat. The man with whom she’d truly become one flesh. Who could guess her thoughts, who knew her better than she knew herself.

  She joined hands with them both.

  “God bless the corners of this house, and be the lintel blessed.” Jack’s light brogue thickened with emotion, and the children added their voices to the chorus.

  “And bless the hearth, and bless the board, and bless each place of rest.”

  Overwhelmed with love for God, for Jack, for her family, Annabelle squeezed his hand and stepped closer to his warmth, her lips moving in unison with his.

  “And bless the rooftree overhead, and every sturdy wall …”

  “The peace of man, the peace of God, the peace of love to all.” Garrett’s voice joined with Sloane’s, a faraway look in his eyes. “We moved from Shawnee Mission to Olathe when I was nine, and my mom prayed that over our new house. I never knew where it came from.”

  “It’s a traditional Irish home blessing. Goes back a long time.” Sliding a bookmark into the diary, Sloane laid it on an end table, far from barbecue sauce and potato salad. The plain wooden walls Annabelle described were covered now with floral wallpaper, but they’d been hoisted by Jack Brennan. His sons. Their neighbors. Annabelle’s beloved lace curtains no longer graced the large picture window, but the view of the creek was timeless. The Brennans never would’ve imagined the flat-screen TV mounted over the fireplace, but they’d recognize that fireplace, having built it stone by stone.

  The entry Sloane had just read had taken place in this very room. She could almost sense them in the house with her. Watching.

  Did they know their labor of love still stood?

  Did they know it might soon disappear?

  “Sloane?” Garrett held out a plate piled high with food, questions dancing in his eyes. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” She took the plate and laid it on her lap.

  “You’re thinking about the house, aren’t you?”

  How could she not be? “It’s nice to see how it began. To picture them standing here, blessing it.”

  He plopped a spoonful of potato salad on his plate. “I know. Gives me goose bumps.”

  After he blessed the food, she picked up her sandwich and tried to keep her voice light. “So what happens to the house now? Are you listing it with Kimberly?”

  Garrett shook his head and hastily swallowed a mouthful of brisket. “Given our time constraints, we’ve decided on the auction route.”

  Sloane paused, barbecue sauce dripping from her sandwich. “Really?”

  “I called McCue’s earlier. They had an open date at the end of the month, so I snapped it up.”

  “Wow.” Her heart sank to her shoes. An auction. Sold to the highest bidder.

  Warren Williams, no doubt. Or another of his ilk.

  “It wasn’t my initial plan.” Garrett reached for his iced tea. “But it makes the most sense. Grandma’s got to have a certain amount in the bank to stay at Plaza de Paz, and if we sell the house and land for what Kimberly says it’s worth, we’ll get there.”

  Sloane forked up a bite of potato salad. “Mind if I ask how much that is?”

  He quoted a number. A high one. Many times more than the cash she had on hand.

  But maybe she could take out a loan. Her credit was good. Her salary stable. She had some savings, and her parents had a nest egg for her as well. Maybe that would tip the scales in her favor. Give her a better bargaining chip at the auction.

  And if not, maybe Garrett would be willing to haggle.

  “What about parceling it? Selling off the farmland and keeping the house?” Buying the house without the land would definitely be more feasible for her.

  “Who’d take care of it? Even if we rented it out, the price would be too high to be practical, and we’d still be responsible for all the maintenance. Lauren doesn’t want to live here alone, and my life’s back in Kansas City.”

  The living room lurched. His life was back in Kansas City. He was here so often, his permanent residence three hours away was easy to overlook.
But once the house was sold and Rosie’s future secured … what then?

  “Right.” Sloane gave a thin smile. She didn’t want to be that girl. “Guess we’ll give the long distance thing a whirl then, huh?”

  He blinked. Paused for far too long. “I guess so.”

  “FaceTime, weekends …” Although how many road trips could she really afford? Especially if she found herself with a mortgage.

  “To be honest, there’s been so much going on, I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

  “Of course.” It made sense. No way would he have had time to make decisions about their relationship with his grandmother’s future weighing him down.

  But he was Garrett P. Anderson, advance planner extraordinaire. From his wardrobe to his menu, he left nothing to chance, always staying two steps ahead of every decision he had to make.

  But he’d yet to make a plan with her. And that spoke painful volumes.

  Forcing down another tasteless bite, she stared at her shoes on the worn wooden floor. It had been here for decades, but along with the rest of the house, it was rapidly running out of time.

  From the sound of it, she and Garrett might be heading the same way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SLOANE DUCKED INTO a little coffee shop in a strip mall a couple miles south of the farmhouse. The scent of coffee and spices wrapped her in a comforting embrace, and the collection of baked goods in the glass case was a powerful temptation. But rather than her usual mocha and scone, she ordered a simple black tea.

  Four bucks saved. Only a few hundred thousand more to go.

  She retrieved the warm to-go cup and was halfway to the door when a woman called her name. There, by the window, sat Kimberly Walsh. Her silver laptop lay open on the wooden table, and white earbud wires draped over her shoulders.

  “Kimberly. Hi.”

  Crimson lips curved. “I wondered if that was you when they called your name.”

  “Never had to worry about there being more than one Sloane in my class, that’s for sure.”

  “It is unusual. But beautiful.” Over the rims of her reading glasses, Kimberly scanned Sloane’s face. “It suits you.”

  “I’m glad I ran into you.” Sloane rested her cup on the corner of the table. “I have a couple questions about the old farmhouse up on Jamesville Road. Do you have a minute?”

  “Absolutely. Have a seat.”

  Sloane pulled out a chair while Kimberly closed her laptop, then fixed Sloane with an eager gaze. “What’s up?”

  “Garrett probably told you they’ve decided to auction the property.” At Kimberly’s nod, she continued. “What would a prospective buyer need to do?”

  “Is the museum interested?”

  “No, but I am.”

  Kimberly grinned. “Want to raise some chickens, do you?”

  “Not necessarily. I’m just pretty attached to the place. It belonged to my great-great-great-grandparents.”

  It felt strange saying that out loud.

  Strange, but wonderful.

  Penciled brows arched. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.” Sloane popped the lid off her cup and pulled out the piping-hot teabag. “Jack and Annabelle Brennan. Some of the first settlers in Sedgwick County. I just found out they’re my family. I was adopted and grew up knowing basically nothing about my roots, so this is kind of a big deal.”

  “I can imagine.” An odd expression flitted across Kimberly’s face. “How did you make that connection?”

  “I found my birth mother online recently, and she sent me an old letter with a name matching one of Jack and Annabelle’s children. I’ve been reading Annabelle’s diaries, and those plus some marriage records and census data confirmed the match.”

  Kimberly shook her head slowly. “That’s amazing.”

  “And probably TMI.” Sloane waved a hand. “But that’s why I want the house.”

  “Makes sense.” Kimberly sipped from an enormous coffee mug. “Well, given what that place is worth, even as is, unless you’ve got a ton of cash lying around …”

  Sloane gave a derisive snort, and Kimberly laughed.

  “Then you’ll need to look into getting a loan. I’ve got a lender I work with regularly who’s great with first-time buyers. Assuming you are one.”

  Sloane nodded.

  “No contingencies then, so that’ll work in your favor. But these guys’ll walk you through everything. There’s a bunch of paperwork …”

  Kimberly continued talking while Sloane scribbled in a notebook she pulled from her bag.

  It was a long shot, going up against Warren Williams.

  But no way did he want that house more than she did.

  The heavy plastic crate thudded in the trunk of Garrett’s car that Sunday afternoon, and the Camry sank slightly under its weight. Not unlike his heart, knowing this was the last load of things Grandma wanted with her at Plaza de Paz. So much was still left inside, destined for the estate sale. Little things, random things, that flooded him with memories.

  They couldn’t keep them all, though.

  He loaded another crate. This one was mostly pictures, ready for a sort-a-thon when he got home. The ones he recognized he’d scan and store online. As for the rest? Sloane might want them, as obsessed as she’d become with the house and its history.

  Not that he blamed her. It was her family’s house too, after all. But the stories she’d uncovered, her deepening devotion, all made the upcoming auction even more difficult than it already was.

  And the question she’d raised last night, the question he’d wrestled with until the wee hours … talk about difficult. He hadn’t yet faced reality, but now it stared him in the face.

  Her life was here. His wasn’t. Neither of them had any plans to change that.

  Should he try to convince her to move to Kansas City? Were there job openings in any of the historical museums up there? Would she want one if there were?

  And if Sloane didn’t want to move, should he chuck his burgeoning career and start over down here? Was it even wise to consider such a step given how new their relationship was? He and Jenny Hickok had been together far longer, and it still blew up in his face. What made him think this wouldn’t end the same way?

  The crunch of tires on gravel behind him signaled the arrival of an enormous maroon Mercedes SUV, from which a balding, heavyset man emerged, his plaid flannel shirt, jeans, and giant belt buckle totally incongruous with the luxurious vehicle.

  “I’m sorry,” the man drawled. “Didn’t know anyone would be here.”

  “I was just leaving. Can I help you with something?”

  The stranger stuck out a meaty hand. “Warren Williams, Williams and Son Development.”

  Aha. That explained the car.

  And his presence.

  “Garrett Anderson.” He returned the handshake, and the churning in his stomach kicked up a notch.

  “You’re Orrin Spencer’s grandson, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “Figures. You look just like him.” Williams ran a hand over the top of his head. “I was real sorry to hear when he passed last fall. Stubborn old coot, that Orrin.”

  “That’s Grandpa,” Garrett replied with a chuckle.

  “I remember when I first approached him about this land. He wouldn’t hear a word of it. Not for sale at any price, your grandpa said. It had been in the family for generations, and they weren’t about to be the ones to let it go.”

  Garrett winced. Because now he was the one.

  “Figured they’d change their tune eventually, though. Most folks do. Bodies get older, maintenance gets to be too much, and sometimes the thing they fought so hard against becomes the ideal solution.”

  Garrett’s jaw tightened. It was official: he did not like Warren Williams.

  But that didn’t mean the man was wrong.

  “Look, I’ll be frank.” Williams hooked a thumb in his pocket. “I’ve loved this land from the moment I laid eyes on
it. Great location, fantastic views … the perfect little slice of the American dream.”

  Williams’s lips drew back in a manufactured smile, and Garrett stiffened. He knew a sales pitch when it was coming, and this one was cocked and ready to fly.

  “That’s what those pioneer ancestors of yours thought, am I right? Building this place was their American dream come true. And now, a hundred and fifty years later, what better way to honor that legacy than to make the American dream a reality not just for one family but for dozens?”

  Despite Garrett’s preparation, the pitch caught him off guard. Using his family’s dream as a plug for plowing it under? He hadn’t expected Williams to go there. The guy was good, he had to admit.

  “Now I’ve got an architect in mind, a real up-and-comer. Young guy, but talented. Eager. He’s got some great ideas for homes. Green construction, arts and crafts design. That kind of thing’s makin’ a comeback. Like the past, only better.” He swept his arm over the horizon. “Can’t you just see it?”

  Garrett could.

  And it made him ill.

  “There are graves here,” he blurted. “Some of the original settlers. A young wife. Couple kids. Babies, really.”

  Williams’s lips turned down in an odd expression that still seemed to be something of a smile. “Real shame, that. Not the first we’ve seen. No cemetery yet, so what else could you do? They marked?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re under a big cottonwood, between the barn and the house.”

  “Well then. Should we be so fortunate as to purchase this land, we’ll put up a fence for protection. We’ll even get a real nice headstone for ’em. Make it look brand-new for the next hundred years.”

  A cemetery in the middle of a subdivision? Would that truly honor Jack’s wife and children? Or would the incongruity of a chain-link fence and freshly carved stone make a mockery of the whole thing?

  Williams leaned in with a conspiratorial wink. “What would it take for you to call off the auction, son?”

  Garrett drew back. “I’m sorry?”

  “We can go through the dog and pony show if you’d like, but I want you to know I’m dead serious.” Williams withdrew a checkbook from his shirt pocket. “You and I both know what this land’s worth, and I’m prepared to give you a deposit here and now. We’ll meet with the lawyers in a few days and get it finalized.”