by Amanda Wen
Garrett stood astonished on the sun-dappled sidewalk, watching Kimberly walk inside the office.
Kimberly was Sloane’s mother.
She was buying the house for Sloane.
No wonder he’d never felt right about selling the place to Warren Williams. No wonder he’d felt such a strong urge to call Kimberly that Saturday morning a few weeks back.
No wonder none of his plans had worked out. God had a different plan.
One that was immeasurably better.
Sloane’s adoring gaze snapped him out of his trance. “This can’t be real. None of this. I’m going to wake up any minute.”
Inspiration struck at the amazement on her face. “Y’know, I’ve got something that might help with that.” He dug in his pocket for his keys. Found the little round silver one that had been on his key ring for as long as he could remember. “Closing’s not until Friday—which you’ll probably want to be there, since your name’s going on the deed—”
A squeal from Sloane interrupted him. Man, he thought he couldn’t love her any more than he already did, but the sparkle in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, the heart-melting smile all proved him wrong.
“Anyway, since the house is staying in the family”—he wedged a thumbnail into the key ring—“I figure I can give you this a little early.” The key popped free, and he held it out to her. “Warning you, it’s a little old.”
“Too late, Anderson.” She flashed him that snarky grin he’d come to love. “I’m already head over heels. Warts and all, whatever issues it has, it’s a treasure. And I’m going to love it and care for it the rest of my life.” The husky tone of her voice, the sheen in her eyes, made it clear she wasn’t just talking about the house.
“Well then. There’s no one in the world I’d rather give this to.” The house? His heart? The answer was the same for both.
Clearing the emotion from his throat, he placed the key in her palm, tucked her fingers around it, and wrapped his hand around hers.
“Welcome home.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
One Year Later
FOR GARRETT, EARLY summer evenings didn’t get much better than this: sitting on the farmhouse’s porch swing, cell phone off, his arm around Sloane. An uncharacteristically cool evening breeze caressed his face and teased tufts of cottonwood fluff from rustling leaves. Winking pinpoints of neon green light hovered above the grass, marking the presence of fireflies. Occasional flickers of lightning illuminated a distant thunderhead to the west, but it’d still be a while before they needed to go inside.
Over the months since Sloane had moved in, wide-eyed and giddy, she’d done much to improve the place. Floral wallpaper had given way to a fresh coat of creamy paint that enlarged and brightened the space. Brass light fixtures were donated to charity in favor of antique bronze ones that looked right at home. She had hired landscapers to restore the grounds, worked out an arrangement with a nearby farmer to ensure the continued prosperity of the land, and was even trying her hand at resurrecting Grandma’s beloved garden. Under Sloane’s care, the house was flourishing.
She was flourishing too. Reconnecting with her mother, answering the questions that had dogged her all her life, had awakened a quiet contentment Garrett hadn’t seen before. Though her budding relationship with Kimberly had its rough patches, they’d forged a fragile peace that had even enabled Sloane to meet her half siblings. After the predictable period of shock following the discovery of their long-lost half sister, they’d welcomed her—and Garrett—with open arms. They were all coming for Thanksgiving this year, which Sloane planned to host in the newly renovated Brennan farmhouse. He couldn’t be more proud of her.
He was pretty proud of himself too. The Wichita branch of Mitchell and Graves Financial had hit the ground running. He was busy, but it was a good busy. A busy that fulfilled rather than drained. And being in close proximity to Sloane, being able to meet for lunch or take in some jazz or just hang out on her front porch … nothing in the world could compare to that.
With a contented sigh, he pulled Sloane close and inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair. Freshly repaired porch beams gleamed in the flickering light of citronella candles. No contractors required here. Hours of Google searches and YouTube videos had given him the courage to tackle it himself. Install the porch swing and everything. And he’d done it. Amazing what some elbow grease, a few basic tools, and a lot of sweat could accomplish. It had unlocked a handyman side of him he didn’t know he possessed.
Yes, it was a perfect evening. The kind that, any other night, would melt tension from his muscles and lull him into heavy-lidded relaxation.
But the ring he carried wouldn’t let him relax. Not yet. Its electric presence in his shirt pocket, next to his heart, buzzed with hopes. Dreams. Plans. Everything he wanted in life, everything he wanted to promise Sloane, was captured in that little circle of garnet and gold. He’d just been waiting for the perfect moment to give it to her.
And sitting on the porch with Sloane snuggled close, her head on his shoulder … no moment could be more perfect than right now.
“Sloane?” His voice almost didn’t sound like his, as dry as his mouth was.
“Mmm?” She raised her head, and his hammering heart nearly tripped and fell over itself.
“I’ve been thinking …”
She gave a good-natured roll of her eyes. “Oh, brother. What grand plan are you cooking up now, Mr. Handyman?”
He chuckled. “Nothing to do with the house. At least not directly.”
Her keen gaze swept over his face.
But when he slid from the swing to kneel in front of her, her confused expression melted into astonishment, then pure joy. Her hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes filled with shimmering tears.
“My plan is pretty simple, actually.” He wrapped her hand in his. “I love you, more than I ever thought it was possible to love someone. You came into my life when I wasn’t looking, but you’re the one who makes everything make sense. You shake me loose when I get too stiff. You make me feel alive in ways I never knew I wasn’t. And if there’s even a chance I can do the same for you, then my plan is to try. For the rest of my life.”
Where had all those words come from? He hadn’t planned them.
Oh well. The best things often went unplanned.
“Sloane …” He swallowed hard and looked up at her, memorizing this magical moment. “Will you marry me?”
She nodded and made an adorable squeaking sound. Was that a yes?
It sure didn’t feel like a no. Not with the way she flung her arms around his neck and smothered his lips with kisses.
Finally, she pulled back, her arms still locked around him. “Yes, Garrett. Absolutely. Yes.”
She moved in for another kiss, but he held up one finger and fished in his shirt pocket for the little velvet box.
“What’s that?” She dabbed below one eye with a fingertip.
“You said yes. It comes with jewelry.” His smile a flimsy cover for his racing heart and trembling fingers, he popped the box open.
She stared, her mouth forming a little O of surprise.
“Wow.” Taking the box from his hands, she tilted it back and forth. “That looks old.”
“It is.”
She slipped the ring from the box and turned it in her fingertips. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen a ring like this.”
Garrett bit his lower lip to contain the excitement that longed to burst forth. Of all the scenarios he’d envisioned, this one—where she didn’t immediately place the ring and was in fact utterly clueless as to its significance—hadn’t occurred to him.
No matter. He’d roll with it. Because now he got to unwrap the rest of it for her.
She studied the ring as she would any other historical artifact. Her sharp eyes peeked inside the band. Checking for an inscription, no doubt.
Maybe she wasn’t in love with the ring. Not yet.
But she would be.
Of that h
e was certain.
There was a story behind this ring. Had to be.
Because this didn’t look like the kind of ring Garrett Anderson would pick out. Though they’d discussed marriage, talked about rings even, the classic diamond solitaire was what she’d expected from him. What she’d always pictured receiving in those rare moments she allowed herself to imagine someone choosing her for the rest of his life.
But this ring was unique. Quirky. Breathtaking in its simplicity. The deep red stone glittered in the candlelight. The delicate gold band seemed lit from within. It wasn’t the ring she’d have chosen for herself, and it only fit her pinky, not her ring finger … but it had a sense of destiny about it. A feeling of perfection. Of rightness.
As though it was somehow always meant to be hers.
She pressed a kiss to his stubbled cheek. “This ring is incredible.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he said as he resumed his seat on the swing. “Sorry it’s a little small.”
“We can get it resized. Or not.” She held out her hand to admire the stone. “I kinda like it on this finger.”
“Up to you.”
She beamed up at Garrett. Her fiancé. The man who wanted to spend his life with her. “So tell me the story.”
Mischief gleamed in his eyes. “What story?”
“Come on. A ring like this? There has to be a story.”
“Okay, twist my arm.” His voice was light but held a nervous undercurrent. “It actually took quite a bit of research. Colleen even helped.”
Sloane’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“She’s the one who found Anita.”
Sloane stared. Garrett had been in cahoots with Colleen, and now there was a new name she’d never heard, and it was somehow connected with the ring?
She’d never felt so out of the loop in all her life.
“Who’s Anita?”
“Anita Morgan. She’s sixty-three. Elementary school librarian in Norman, Oklahoma. I went down to see her last weekend.”
“In Sooner country?”
“Don’t worry, I wore my KU shirt the whole time.” Crossing his legs in front of him, he leaned back in the swing and draped his arm over her shoulders, but his shaky voice belied the relaxed posture. “Anyway, Anita’s had this ring forever. Wanted to give it to her daughter, but she ended up raising goldendoodles, not kids. The ring was her grandma’s, though, so she held on to it. Said God would tell her when it was time to let it go.”
“Hmm.” The richness of the gold and garnet deepened with new information. What could Garrett have possibly said to convince Anita Morgan to let go of a family heirloom? She almost felt bad for the woman. Maybe she should return the ring. Explain the well-meaning mix-up. It should stay in her family, not go to a stranger.
“I guess I should tell you her grandma’s name.” Garrett’s gaze slid toward her with elaborate casualness. “Maggie Ann.”
“As in Annabelle’s Maggie Ann?” If Anita Morgan was sixty-three, then Maggie Ann Brennan was well within range to be her grandmother.
“One and the same. But Maggie Ann wasn’t the original owner of the ring either.” A smile crept across his face, and he took her hands in his. “It belonged to her mother.”
Recollection slammed into Sloane. Annabelle’s diary. The wedding day. Jack. Her garnet ring on a band of gold filigree.
“Garrett.” Her voice shook. “Are you telling me … Is this Annabelle’s ring?”
“There it is.” His eyes shone. “I knew you’d catch on eventually.”
The tears that had threatened since the moment he knelt in front of her spilled forth. Joy burst out in strange, laughing sobs as she threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. She was so overcome—with the ring, with his proposal, with his desire to spend the rest of his life with her and be her family—that speech deserted her.
Finally, his name slipped out. Over and over she said it. He held her close, kissing her hair. Chuckling softly.
“I can’t believe you went to all that work for a ring.” She pulled back to look at him. “You could’ve just gone to a jewelry store.”
“Now where’s the fun in that? This took a lot of planning. And you know how I feel about planning.”
She laughed, and another tear spilled out. He thumbed it away, then slipped his hand beneath her hair and kissed her forehead.
“I knew coming up with Annabelle’s ring might be a long shot, so plan B was to have a replica made. Colleen was willing to help me with that too.” His fingers whispered over her cheekbone. “But I’m really glad I didn’t have to go with plan B. Because you’re a plan A girl, Sloane Kelley. You are—forever and always—my plan A.”
AUTHOR’S NOTES
FAMILY IS AT the heart of this book, and without my particular family, this book wouldn’t be here. While the contemporary characters are entirely fictional, my historical characters are inspired by three of my ancestors, painstakingly discovered and researched by my genealogist mom.
Annabelle Collins’s inspiration is Antoinette Patrick Peterson, a paternal ancestor of mine whose father, Chauncey, fought for the Union as a member of the 19th Indiana Infantry in the famed Iron Brigade. After losing his wife and baby daughter in a fire, he left nine-year-old Antoinette with her aunt and uncle, Stephen and Katherine Cooper, who raised her. Around 1860, the Coopers, along with Antoinette, moved to Jefferson County, Kansas. Although being sent to live with relatives was a common practice at the time, I couldn’t imagine it not being painful for a child, and I wanted to explore the theme of healing from parental abandonment in both the contemporary and the historical story lines.
Jack Brennan was inspired by two ancestors on my mother’s side, William Fletcher Stevens and Francis Thomas Little. A native of Kentucky, William Stevens moved in 1870 to a section of land in Sedgwick County near what is now the town of Maize, becoming one of the area’s earliest settlers. His first years as a homesteader were marked by tragedy, as he lost his wife, Sarah, and infant son, George, shortly after arrival. In fact, my great-great-great-grandfather would lose a total of eight of his fourteen children, six of whom died before the age of seven. His perseverance and steadfast faith in the face of unimaginable hardship are an inspiration to me, and something I wanted to honor in this book.
The rest of Jack’s backstory, including his birthplace of Aghadrumsee, Northern Ireland, his immigration to the United States as a young boy, and his stops in Wisconsin and Illinois before reaching Sedgwick County, are all real-life details of Francis Thomas Little, my great-great-grandfather. Much of the research for this book came directly from his memoir, A Kansas Farmer, which he wrote in 1934. Grandpa Little, as he’s known in my family, settled not far from William Stevens’s homestead and married William’s daughter, Mattie. After homesteading in nearby Harper County for several years, the Littles returned to Sedgwick County in 1901, living in a big white farmhouse not far from where I live now. That house, which remained in the family for decades, is the inspiration for this book. At the time of this writing, it still stands, but the land where it sits has been sold for development. Though its days on earth are numbered, the Littles’ house will live on in the pages of this book.
Most of the story takes place in the fictional town of Jamesville, a nod to an early and short-lived frontier settlement called Jamesburg, which sat where my neighborhood is now. Blackledge Creek is fictional, but Cow-skin Creek, which meanders through the western part of Wichita, is its real-life inspiration. The museum where Sloane works is based on the Wichita-Sedgwick County Historical Museum in downtown Wichita, but enough aspects are fictionalized that it needed its own name. Other Wichita locations mentioned in the book, such as the Keeper of the Plains, the Arkansas River, and the downtown park where Garrett and Sloane have dinner, are real, but the names of specific restaurants, churches, and other establishments are creations of my imagination.
Garrett’s and Lauren’s memories of weekend visits with their grandparents a
re inspired by my own trips to Ulysses, Kansas, to visit my grandparents, Wilbur and Opal Miller. Although many details of the visits were changed for the story, the soul-deep memories imprinted during formative years are the same for both. In fact, it was a recollection of these weekends that I wrote for a high school assignment that prompted my English teacher to look me in the eye and say, “You need to get this published.” Twenty-odd years later, in a much different form than either of us imagined, here it is.
Although I endeavored to keep real historical details as factual as possible, there may be unintentional oversights or inaccuracies. These are entirely my fault, and I apologize sincerely for anything I happen to get wrong.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ALTHOUGH I ALWAYS entertained the notion that writing books was a solitary endeavor, I now know it’s the exact opposite. From the spark of an idea to the fully finished book, God has brought some amazing people along the way, whose assistance, support, prayers, and love during this process have been invaluable. From the bottom of my heart, I want to thank:
My wonderful husband, Cheech, and my hilarious and adorable Wen-lets, for putting up with my distraction and absentmindedness when I’m in Creative Mode and the roller coaster of emotions when I’m in Submission Mode, and above all for loving me, believing in me, and always, always making me laugh.
My parents, Jim and Deanna Peterson, for decades of research into our family history, for their enthusiastic support of all my endeavors, writing and otherwise, for teaching me the true meaning of family, for underpinning even the craziest notions with a cheerful “we can do that” attitude, for giving me some truly memorable childhood vacations, and for introducing me to Jesus. None of who I am today would’ve happened without your love and guidance.
My pioneer ancestors, William and Sarah Stevens, Francis and Mattie Little, and Antoinette Patrick, whose adventurous and inspiring lives are woven into the fabric of this story. I’m especially grateful to my great-great-grandfather, Francis Little, for penning his memoir. My book would not exist without his.