Independence,
Missouri, April 4, 1852
IN
A SUNLIT corner of the cluttered Waldo, Hall & Company freight office,
Cullen Montgomery sat tipped back on a chair’s spindly rear legs reading the
newspaper and scratching a rough layer of morning whiskers.
Henry Peters
slumped in a leather-reading chair and propped his legs, covered in faded
cavalry pants, on a crate marked textiles and bound for Santa Fe. “What you
learning ‘bout in that gazette?”
Cullen
chuckled at what little real news the paper printed. Since he no longer lived
in Edinburgh or Cambridge, he needed to lower his expectations when it came to
the local press. Every word of the Independence
Reporter had been read and reread, and although he couldn’t find mention of
a scientific discovery or notice of a public discussion with a famous poet, he
knew Grace McCoy had gotten hitched last Saturday. Reading the paper’s
recitation was unnecessary. He’d escorted the bride’s widowed aunt to the
nuptials and knew firsthand that the bride had swooned walking down the aisle.
Virgin brides and widows. The former didn’t interest him, the latter lavishly
entertained him.
He gave the
last page a final perusal. “There’s no mention of our wagon train pulling out
in the morning.”
The old
soldier took a pinch of tobacco between his thumb and forefinger and loaded the
bowl of his presidential-face pipe. “We ain’t got no more room anyways. No
sense advertising.”
The day had
turned unusually warm, and Cullen had dressed for cooler weather. Sweat
trickled down his back, prompting him to roll his red-flannel shirtsleeves to
his elbows. “Mary Spencer’s not going now. We can take on one more family.”
Henry dropped
his feet, and his boot heels scraped the heart-of-pine floor. “Dang. Why’d you
bring up that gal’s name?”
“It’s not your
fault she disappeared.” Although Cullen hadn’t said anything to his friend, he
believed the portrait artist he’d seen making a nuisance of himself at the
dress shop had sweet-talked the porcelain-skinned, green-eyed woman into
eloping.
“Maybe, maybe
not.” The joints in Henry’s bowed legs popped and cracked as he stood and
stepped to the window.
Cullen pulled
out his watch to check the time. Before slipping the timepiece back into his
vest pocket, out of habit he rubbed his thumb across the Celtic knot on the
front of the case. The gesture always evoked memories of his grandfather, an
old Scot with a gentle side that countered his temper. Folks said Cullen walked
in his grandsire’s shoes. He discounted the notion he could be hotheaded, with
one exception. He had no tolerance for liars. When he unveiled a lie, he
unleashed the full measure of his displeasure. “We can’t worry about yesterday,
and today’s got enough trouble of its own.”
“Rumor has it
John Barrett needs money. Heard you offered him a loan.” Henry wagged his
pipe-holding hand. “Also heard he got his bristles up, saying he wouldn’t be
beholdin’ to nobody. Got too much pride if’n you ask me. You get down to cases
with that boy and straighten his thinking out.”
God knew
Cullen had tried. “If I can’t find a compromise, our wagon train could fall
apart before we get out of town.”
“You’re as
wise as a tree full of owls, son. You’ll figure it out.”
The newspaper
had served its purpose so he tossed the gossip sheet into the trash. Then he
stood and stretched his legs before starting for the door.
Henry rapped
his knuckles on the windowsill. “Where’re you goin’?”
A queue tied
with a thong at Cullen’s nape reminded him that his shaggy hair hadn’t seen
even the blunt end of a pair of shears in months. “To the barber. Afterwards,
I’ll figure out how to get your wagon train to Oregon. There’s a law office
with my name on the door waiting at the end of the trail. I don’t have time for
more delays.”
Henry’s bushy
brows merged above his nose. “There’s more than work awaitin’ you.”
“To quote an
old soldier: Maybe. Maybe not.” With the picture of a San Francisco,
dark-haired lass tucked into his pocket alongside his watch, and the keening
sound of his favorite bagpipe tune playing in his mind, Cullen left the office
to solve today’s problem before it became tomorrow’s trouble.
MacKlenna
Farm, Lexington, Kentucky, February 10, 2012
KIT
MACKLENNA TOOK the brick steps leading to the west portico two at a time. When
she reached the top step she slipped on a patch of black ice. Her arms and legs
flailed rag-doll like, giving her some kind of weird location never intended
for a human body. Forward motion ended abruptly when she collided with the
farm’s marketing manager exiting the mansion wearing three-inch heels and her
signature pencil skirt. Tucked under Sandy’s rail-thin arm was Thomas
MacKlenna’s 1853 journal. Both women screamed. Sandy’s arms went up and the
book hit the floor. And for the second time in less than thirty minutes, Kit
landed on her ass.
“Oh, I’m so
sorry.” Sandy helped Kit to her feet. Then she picked up the leather-bound
journal, brushing ice crystals from its cover.
“My fault. I
wasn’t paying attention.” Kit rubbed her sore butt. “That’s old Thomas’
journal, isn’t it? Did you read the proclamation to the staff?”
Sandy’s
normally animated face brimmed with heartfelt concern. “The forty-day mourning
period is officially over. But I’m not sure it will make your life any easier.”
Kit unbuckled
her helmet and tugged on the dangling chin strap. “I woke up believing I’d feel
better today, but I guess that’s my character flaw.”
“What is?”
Sandy asked.
“Believing the
impossible is always possible.” Kit slipped her hand into the pocket of her
plaid bomber jacket and fingered a crumpled letter. “Every once in a while,
impossible is just what the word means.”
Sandy squeezed
Kit’s arm. “I know it’s hard, but you’ll get through this, too.”
Kit removed
her helmet and shook her hair, pulling out a few long blond strands and a clump
of mud. “Days like today make me wonder.”
Sandy gave her
another reassuring squeeze. “I wanted to ask you something.” She opened the
journal and pointed to a line in the proclamation. “This mentions a
great-grandson born on the fortieth day? Do you know his name?”
Kit read the
line above the marketing manager’s manicured nail. “There’s no record of a
birth. Daddy said old Thomas was senile when he died. He probably imagined a
grandson.”
“I wonder why
no one ever made a notation in the journal.” Sandy snapped the book shut.
“Whatever. Oh, by the way, I left the sympathy cards that came in this
morning’s mail on the table in the foyer.”
A salty tear
slid from between Kit’s eyelids and down her face, leaving behind a burning
sensation on her wind-chapped skin.
Sandy pulled a
tissue from her pocket. “Here, take this.”
Kit wiped her
face and silently cursed that she no longer had control over her emotions.
“Everyone on
the farm misses your parents and Scott. We’re grieving with you.”
“I know.” Kit
blew her nose. “It’s made the last six weeks easier.”
“Well, call me
later if you want to go to lunch or talk or cry. I don’t have broad shoulders
like Scott, but I can listen.”
“I miss him
bugging the crap out of me.” Kit scratched the scar on the right side of her
neck, something she often did when she thought of her childhood friend.
“I can bug
you, if you want. Since I don’t have your dad to pester, I feel sort of
useless.” Sandy grasped the railing and made her way down the stairs. “Hey,
what happened to your stick?”
Kit stooped
and picked up her broken whip. “Stormy went one way. I went the other.”
Sandy cupped
one side of her mouth as if sharing a secret. “Don’t tell Elliott. He worries
about you enough.”
“The way news
spreads around here, I’m sure the old Scotsman has already heard. He’ll find me
soon enough and ream me out.”
“Don’t let
anyone hear you call him old. That’ll tarnish his reputation.” A crease of
amusement marked Sandy’s face. “Hey, did you hear what happened to his latest
fling?”
Kit covered
her ears. “TMI.” Half of Lexington’s female population gossiped about the
sexual exploits of the serial dater. The other half made up the membership in
the Elliott Fraser Past & Present Girlfriends’ Club.
Sandy eased
her long legs into an electric cart. “Oh, I forgot. I returned your copy of Palm Springs Heat. Loved it.” She
depressed the accelerator then gave a beauty-queen wave goodbye.
Kit mimicked
the wave.
The former
Miss Kentucky and marketing guru laughed. “A bit more wrist, sweetheart.”
“Pshaw.” Kit
glared at the offending wrist that had been broken four or five times. She
wasn’t the beauty queen type. She could ride a Thoroughbred bareback, but put
her in a pair of strappy sandals and she’d get stuck in the mud. It wasn’t that
she was clumsy. Just the opposite. Silly shoes couldn’t compete with her
penchant for practical footwear. She lived on a farm, for God’s sake.
Before
entering the house, she ran the soles of her tall riding boots across the
blunted top edge of the boot-scraper. Then she turned the brass doorknob and
gave the heavy oak door pockmarked with Civil War bullet holes a quick shove.
It opened on quiet hinges into an even quieter house.
The scent of
lemon oil permeated the twenty-foot wide entrance hall. Even as a child, she’d
loved the smell. The room cast the appearance of a museum with a vast
collection of furniture from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Each
piece darkened by countless waxings. Now that Sandy had read the proclamation,
the cleaning staff could remove the black linen shrouds that draped the family
portraits dotting the oak-paneled walls.
Kit dropped
her helmet, crop, and muddy jacket on the rug, and then pulled off her boots,
leaving everything piled by the door.
The letter.
She grabbed it
from her jacket and stuffed the note inside her shirt pocket.
The side
cabinet held a stack of sympathy cards. She blew out a long breath. People from
all over the world sent condolences. Their thoughtful words tugged at her
heart, but she couldn’t read them right now.
An official
looking envelope from the Bank of San Francisco piqued her curiosity. It was
incorrectly addressed to Mrs. Kitherina
MacKlenna. She pried her nail beneath the sealed flap. Then the phone rang.
Elliott? Avoiding him was impossible.
He’d continue to call until she answered. She dropped the mail on the edge of
the table and hurried down the hall.
On the second
ring, she entered her father’s office. On the third, she plucked the receiver
from the cradle. “MacKlenna Farm.”
“Do you have a
cold, or are you crying?” Elliott asked in a voice that held only a hint of his
brogue.
She propped a
hip on a corner of the mahogany desk. “I strained my vocal chords last night
singing all of Scott’s favorite songs.”
“Heard that
squawking. Almost called the police.”
A faint smile
eased the tension in her face. “You’re in rare form today.”
“I’ve been at
a meeting with the board of directors.”
“Well, that
explains it. Where are you now?”
“Driving
through the main entrance. Stay put. We need to talk.” The line went dead.
“I need to
talk to you, too,” she said, sassing the handset before dropping it into the
charging cradle. The dang thing tumbled out and landed on the desk next to a
Jenny Lind doll trunk. The bread-loaf-shaped trunk held that closed up for a
long time smell that made her nose twitch. “Achoo.”
She smacked
the lid closed and somehow pinged her finger on one of the brass nail heads
that held a metal strap in place. Droplets of blood pooled beneath the tip of
her nail. The injured digit automatically went to her mouth.
My accident prone morning finally drew blood.
She shoved off
the desk and paced the room. When she heard the door knocker, she veered into
the hallway. The canvases were now uncovered. Welcome back. Just as she’d done since childhood, she patted each
one, saying their names in a sing-song manner: Thomas I, Thomas II, Sean I,
Jamilyn, Sean II, Sean III, Sean IV, Sean V. She usually kissed the portrait of
her father, Sean VI, on the cheek, but not today.
At the ripe
old age of five, Kit had decided she wanted her portrait to hang alongside Sean
I’s twin sister, Jamilyn, who died while sailing to America. Kit didn’t want
her great-great-great-great aunt to be the only woman in the MacKlenna Hall of
Fame. So she drew a self-portrait, then nailed it to the wall with wood screws
she found in her daddy’s toolbox. She’d never forget explaining to her pony
that she couldn’t ride for a month because she damaged the wall. She patted the
blemishes between the portraits, still visible to those who knew they were
there. Punishments and tragedies had never diminished her ability to take it on
the chin—until now.
Elliott was
visible through the front door sidelight standing on the porch wearing a green
Barbour jacket and khakis with the usual knife-edge press. His aviators were
tucked into the collar of his polo shirt. A MacKlenna Farm ball cap covered all
but the sides of his freshly barbered hair. She kicked her boots and muddy
jacket aside and opened the door. “Why’d you knock?”
“Door was
locked. Didn’t have a key.”
“Sorry. I must
have done that when I came in.”
Her godfather
crossed the threshold, favoring his right leg. His expression was solemn and
severe. She knew the old injury to his calf was especially sensitive to the
cold. He removed his cap. Then as he raked his fingers through the silver hair
above his temples, he sniffed the air. “Cleaning day.”
“Sandy just
read the proclamation.”
“It’s done
then.”
Kit pointed
over her shoulder. “Mom’s portrait is uncovered. All the shrouds are gone.”
He glanced at
the portrait hanging over the mantel. An equal measure of sadness and anger
registered on his face. “That’s Sean’s best work. It never should have been
draped.”
“I had to
follow MacKlenna tradition. Daddy would have come back and haunted me if I
hadn’t. The last thing I need is another one of those see-through people.”
“Sean
MacKlenna as a ghost. That’s an intriguing thought.” Elliott hung his jacket
and cap on the hall tree. When he spied her coat and boots on the floor, he
clucked his disapproval. “Let’s go into the office and you can tell me why you
came off your horse this morning. That’s twice this week.”
She held her
breath a moment waiting for the lecture.
“Your horse
showed up at the barn without you. Scared the grooms and trainers. If a
hot-walker hadn’t seen you cutting through the tree line, every alarm on the
farm would have sounded.”
She twisted a
corner of her shirttail that had come untucked when she fell the first time.
“The ghost spooked me at the cemetery. Stormy planted his feet and I went over
his shoulders. Then I had to walk home with a sore back, a bruised ego, and
that handsome apparition shadowing me. Again.” She glanced out the sidelight to
be sure the ghost wasn’t still hanging around. “Today he looked like a
nineteenth-century lawyer all decked out in a double-breasted frock coat.
What’s up with him anyway?”
“I’m sure your
ghost didn’t intend for you to fall.”
She elbowed
Elliott in the side. “Get your tongue out of your cheek. I never know whether
you believe me or not.”
“I believe
you. But if you fall and break your back again, you might never get up.”
She rolled her
tongue along the backside of her teeth to give it something to do instead of
blurting out that she didn’t want Elliott or a ghost or anyone else hovering
over her. She was a paramedic. The Lexington Fire Department trusted her.
Wasn’t that proof enough she could take care of herself? “If you’re done with
the lecture, tell me what the board of directors wanted.”
His face
tightened. “It was a heated meeting. Hazy Mountain Stud wants to buy a
controlling interest in Galahad. I don’t want to decrease the farm’s percentage
of ownership in the stallion, but as CEO I only have one vote.”
“That means
he’ll shuttle to the southern hemisphere every year. Daddy didn’t have a
problem with that. I guess the board feels—”
Elliott
reached over and patted her twice on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”
She folded her
arms, stiffened, then followed him down the hall. “If I had a dollar for every
time Daddy told me not to worry, I’d have more millions than his estate.”
“And more
Apple stock than me.”
“Haha,” she
said, glowering at his back.
They entered
the office. Elliott headed straight to the full-service wet bar located
opposite a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. “I suppose it’s too early for
scotch.”
As if on cue,
the long case clock in the corner sounded the hour.
“Nine o’clock
is a bit early for me, but you might want a drink to wash down what I’ve got to
tell you.”
He poured a
cup of coffee instead and pointed it toward the desk. “What’s with the trunk?
I’ve never seen it before.”
She lifted the
lid. Small leather pouches filled with diamonds, gold nuggets, and coins lay on
top of a bloodstained lace shawl. “Jim Manning’s office called late yesterday.
He wants a copy of the 1792 land grant for probate. No one could locate the
original. I searched the desk this morning and bingo. It was with this trunk.”
“I didn’t know
there was a drawer that big.”
“There’s a
secret compartment. Daddy showed it to me when I was a kid.” She framed an
imaginary headline with her hands. “Heir learns secret at age of ten.” Her
shoulders sagged. “He said never to open it until I was the farm’s mistress.
Now I am and I still felt guilty doing it.”
“Thanks to
that MacKlenna brainwashing, you feel guilty about everything. So what’d you
find in the treasure chest? Gold doubloons?”
“Sort of. And
a journal. And a letter from Daddy.” Her voice teetered on the verge of
cracking. “He said he found me on the doorstep when I was a baby.”
Elliott
muttered, shifting uneasily on his bad leg. “We both—” He cleared his throat.
“—found you asleep in a Moses basket.”
The heat of
confusion burned through her. “You knew?”
A wistful
expression deepened the fine lines on Elliott’s chiseled face. “Sean asked me
never to tell you.”
“Don’t you
think I had a right to know?”
Elliott stared
into his coffee and pulled his lips into a tight seam.
She pointed
her finger at him. “You know what’s in the trunk, don’t you?”
“Did he save
the shawl?”
The
confirmation in the form of a question stung her far beneath the skin.
“I thought you
were hurt, but the blood was on the shawl, not you.” He set his cup on the desk
and picked up the ruby brooch Kit had taken from the trunk earlier that
morning. “This was pinned to your dress. I haven’t seen it since we found you.
I didn’t search the basket. Sean said he would do that.”
“I found a
book on Celtic jewelry in Daddy’s library. That’s a fourteenth-century brooch.
The letter said it’s magical. Do you believe that?”
Elliott picked
up a portrait miniature of a blond-haired, nineteenth-century man, studied the
face, set the painting aside, and then ran a finger across the two-inch ruby
set in delicate silver work.
“I’ve studied
our folklore most of my life, Kitherina. I believe there’re forces in the
universe we can’t see or understand. If Sean said this is magical, I have no
reason not to believe him.” Elliott turned the brooch over and studied the back
of the stone. “My grandfather used to say, ‘Some see darkness where others see
only the absence of light.’”
She drew in a
breath. “Meaning?”
He placed the
brooch in her hand and curled her fingers around it. “Keep an open mind.”
“That’s what
Daddy said in his letter before he
said this thing took him back to 1852.”
Elliott’s face
lost its color. “Where’s the letter?”
Kit pulled it
from her pocket and nudged his arm. “Here.”
Lines formed
between his eyebrows. “You made a paper airplane out of it?”
She glanced at
the blister on her knuckle. “With sharp creases, just like you taught me. Then
I flew it into the fireplace. It crashed on its side or the whole thing
would’ve caught on fire.” She walked over to the wet bar to grab a bottle of
water. “My grief counselor would probably call it a form of disassociation.
Burned my finger when I pulled it out.” Her finger hurt like hell. “Read it out
loud. It might make more sense hearing it from you.”
Elliott
smoothed out the folded letter and began with a quick throat-clear. “Dear
Kitherina, I’m writing this knowing you may never read it, but I can’t risk
dying without telling you the truth of your birth. Please keep an open mind as
you read.
“You were only
a baby when I found you on the steps of the west portico, wrapped in a bloody
lace shawl. At first, I thought you were bleeding, but you weren’t. You had a
ruby brooch pinned to your dress and a portrait miniature clutched in your
hand. Both the portrait’s gold frame and the shawl have a monogrammed M worked
into their design.”
Elliott
carried the letter and cup of coffee across the room and sat in a tufted,
hunter green, velvet wing chair situated just so in front of the fireplace. He
took a sip and continued. “Not long after your second birthday, I discovered
whoever made the brooch had split the ruby and hinged the halves together.
Engraved inside is a Celtic inscription: Chan
ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an gaol ach ’s ann le neart anama.”
Elliott
lowered his hand to his lap and she could tell he was thinking hard. Then he
said, “‘Love is not measured by time or space. Love is measured by the power of
the soul.’ At least that’s my best translation.”
Kit dropped
onto the ottoman in front of him. “I wondered what it meant.”
He took
another sip of coffee. “When I read those words out loud, I was instantly
propelled toward amber light. I found myself in Independence, Missouri, in the
spring of 1852. The city was a major jumping off point for those traveling the
Oregon Trail. That year alone, there were over fifty thousand people heading
west, so you can imagine the crowds in the city. Since I was there for several
weeks, I painted portraits to earn money for room and board. I also painted
from memory the face of the man in the portrait miniature and showed it to
everyone I met. Although a few people thought he looked familiar, no one was
able to identify him.
“When I
decided to return home, I repeated the words. I had no way of knowing if the
brooch would take me home, but neither did I understand why it had taken me to
Independence to begin with, although I am thankful it did. The brooch is,
however, your legacy, not mine.”
Elliott leaned
forward, pressed his elbows into the arms of the chair, gripped the letter
between his hands, and continued reading. “I’ve spent over twenty years
researching 1852, Independence, and the Oregon Trail, but I’ve found no mention
of a missing ruby brooch or a disappearing baby. If I had discovered evidence
of one or the other, I would have gone back. If a lead existed, it has been
lost to history by now.
“I had the
bloodstains on the shawl tested. The DNA profile was compared to a sample of
your DNA, and there is a genetic match. The blood belonged to your birth
mother. I’m sorry I can’t offer you more to help you understand where you came
from, but I know where you belong, and that’s on MacKlenna Farm.” Elliott’s
hands shook as he ended the letter. “Even though you weren’t born a MacKlenna,
you are one—the ninth generation.” He dropped the paper on the table next to
the chair. Color drained from his face. “I’ll have that scotch now.”
Kit picked up
the letter and slipped it between the pages of the journal. “You and Daddy were
friends for over forty years. You believe this is true, don’t you?”
Elliott poured
two fingers of scotch and tossed them back in a single swallow. “Sean never
lied to me.”
“Well, he lied
to me,” she said, her voice cracking. She dropped the journal on the desk next
to a photograph of her show jumping at the 2010 World Equestrian Games in
Lexington. The tips of Kit’s fingers traced the smooth edges of the frame. “If
I had died in the crash too, this information never would have surfaced.” The
normal steel in her voice melted into a gray puddle at her feet.
Elliott
shuffled to her side and wrapped his arms around her—arms that had held her
through boyfriend breakups and broken bones and burials.
“Daddy raised
me to believe in a code of honor. Keeping a secret like this goes against
everything he taught me.” Her eyes filled with drowning grief. “I hurt,
Elliott. I hurt because my parents and Scott are dead. I hurt because my
parents didn’t tell me about this. I hurt because I don’t bleed MacKlenna
blood. My life has always been about bloodlines and pedigrees. We know our
stallions’ dams and sires.” She thumped her chest. “Who sired me? Who?”
The winter
wind ceased, and the skeleton branches no longer thrashed against the side of
the house. “Damn it,” she said, breaking into the silence. “It would have been
so different if I’d known all my life that I was adopted. I wouldn’t have
bought into this two-hundred-year-old family legacy if I’d known I wasn’t
really one of them.”
Elliott
punched his fist into his palm. “You’re wrong, young lady. You’re as much of a
MacKlenna as those old men whose pictures are hanging in the hallway.”
She grew quiet
as a dozen thoughts bunched up like racing Thoroughbreds along the rail. “You
don’t get it, do you?”
His deep brown
eyes held a puzzled look. “I get it. I’m not sure you do. You’re still Kit
MacKlenna. It doesn’t matter who your birth parents were. You’re now the heart
and soul of this farm.”
The wind
started up again, blowing hard and swirling around the house with a mournful
cry. Kit pushed away from him and faced the window. Her fingers dug into the
thick drapery panels. She pulled them aside, allowing a shaft of outside gloom
to peek through.
“What’s in the
journal?” Elliott asked.
Glancing over
her shoulder, she offered him a smile—a tense one, without warmth or humor.
“After I read the letter, I couldn’t read anything else.”
He swept his
hand toward a pair of sofas that faced each other. “Let’s sit and look through
it. There might be something in there to make you feel better about this news.”
From her
position at the window, she could see her mother’s winter garden—stark and
bare. “That’s unlikely.”
He put his arm
around her. “Come.”
They settled
into the thick cushions, a signal to Tabor, a brown tabby Maine Coon, to jump
up between them and perch on the back of the couch. “Get down, Tabor,” Kit
said. The cat jumped to the floor and sauntered over to a corner of the room.
“Your mom
spoiled him. I’m surprised he listens to you.”
“He doesn’t.
He’s scared of you. He thinks Dr. Fraser is going to give him another shot.”
“Memory like
an elephant.” Elliott gave Tabor a thoughtful glance, then flipped to the first
page of the notebook where Sean had written 1852
Independence, Missouri. The next pages contained pencil sketches. Shops on
the right, a grid of roads around a town square on the left.
She pointed to
one of the buildings. “Look at the woman in that window. Who does she look
like?” Kit opened the drawer in the table next to the sofa, rifled through the
contents until she found a magnifying glass and then held it over the picture.
She gasped. “Good God. It’s Mom.
Why’d he sketch her there?”
Elliott
grabbed the glass and squinted through it, then regarded Kit with narrowed
eyes. After a moment, he returned his gaze to the drawing and said, “Sean drew
Mary’s face when he doodled, just like you draw Stormy.”
Kit turned to
the next page and began to read. With a gulp of surprise, she grabbed Elliott’s
hand, demanding, “Listen to this. ‘I met Mary Spencer the day I arrived in Independence.’”
Kit could barely move, feeling as if her joints had frozen where she sat.
“What’s he saying, Elliott? That Mom was from the nineteenth century? But
that’s impossible.”
He placed his
other hand over hers and squeezed. “You’re the one who believes the impossible
is possible.”
“Yes, but—”
“If we had
told you we’d found you on the porch, you would have wanted to know what steps
were taken to find your birth parents. Sean wasn’t going to tell you that he’d
found a way to travel back in time. If he had, would you have believed him?”
“An act of
omission is still a lie and MacKlennas don’t lie.” The revelations stripped
away the bare threads of her self control. She jumped to her feet and whipped
her head around so fast her ponytail smacked her in the chin. The room folded
in on her. If she didn’t get air she would suffocate. She staggered to the
French doors, pushed them open, and stumbled onto the portico.
Elliott stood
in the doorway. “Come back in here. Let’s talk about this.”
The fingers in
her right hand tensed into a fighting fist. “Go to hell.”
A moment
later, the doors clicked shut.
She pounded
her fist on the railing as she stared out over the rolling hills covered with
frost-tipped Kentucky bluegrass. Her stomach roiled, but she kept down the
little bit of food she’d eaten at breakfast. Why has this happened? She closed her eyes, but darkness couldn’t
halt her father’s words from flashing strobe-like across her brain.
When her
eyelids popped open, she spotted her ghost. He stood under the pergola in the
garden, rubbing his thumb across the front of his watch case. A gesture she’d
often seen him make. He stretched out his arm, beseeching her to come to him.
“What do you
want?” The panic in her voice reminded her of the little girl she had once been,
sprawled on the ground after falling from her horse—scared, but not of him. A
sob tore from her throat. “There’s nothing you can do.”
He slipped his
watch into his pocket, gazed once more into her eyes, then faded away.
Sometimes life is nothing more than a photo album
full of goodbye pictures. She stepped back into the house,
an empty house, where unlike her ghost, the hurt and the heartache would never
fade away.
