Legacy of Honor

by Renae Brumbaugh Green

  Riley eased the door open. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dim interior. “Mr. Monroe?”

  “Well, well. Riley Stratton. Come on in, son, and have a seat.” The older man’s voice was raspy and strained, and it sounded like it took all his energy to speak the words.

  Maybe Riley shouldn’t have come.

  Spying a pitcher of water on a table just inside the door, he picked it up on his way to the parlor. Sure enough, the cup next to Mr. Monroe was empty, so he filled it. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. If it’s a bad time, I can—”

  “Nonsense. I said sit down. With Emma at work, Lyndel at school, and me sick with this croup, I’m glad for the company.” He wheezed out the words, but didn’t seem to want to stop talking. “I ought not be sittin’ here when the crops need planting, but...maybe next week.” The man coughed.

  Riley sat in the vacant chair. “I’m sorry...about everything. Your wife was a kind woman. I don’t know what I would have done without her after my own mother died.”

  The older man nodded, but didn’t respond.

  Riley took in the well-kept home. Small, but clean and well kept. Unlike the formal décor in his own home, this place had a homey quality that made him feel like he could settle in, stay a while. Blue floral curtains flanked the windows, and matching pillows graced each of the chairs. Lace doilies covered the flat surfaces. All of it handmade by Mrs. Monroe, he was sure. Or maybe Emma. “I...I was wondering if I might speak to you about your daughter.”

  Mr. Monroe looked at Riley like he held a secret behind those wrinkled eyes. “You want me to ask her to come back to work for you.”

  “Well, I…”

  “I don’t blame you. Emma’s a capable young woman. Any employer would be lucky to have her, but I’m afraid you overestimate my influence. She’s a strong-headed one, and she makes up her own mind about things.”

  “Did she tell you...?“

  “What your father said? Every word. It was no surprise to me. My Sally confided in me, though she never shared much about your family with Emma.”

  Riley lowered his head. It was hard to meet the man’s gaze.

  “Sally also told me you were different. More like your mother. And she sure thought a lot of your mother.”

  “The feeling was mutual, I assure you.”

  The two men sat in silence, looking into the fire for a long time. Longer, in fact, than Riley realized. The sound of a horse and buggy pulled him from his thoughts. Was Emma home already? He’d planned to be gone before she arrived.

  He’d just stood to his feet when the door banged open. Lyndel ran in, dropped his books on the table, and skidded to a halt when he saw Riley.

  “Oh. Didn’t know we had company. Howdy, Mr. Stratton. Howdy, Pa. Emma’s putting Sugar in the stall, so she’ll be in shortly.”

  “Welcome home, son. How was your day?”

  “It was all right.” The boy shifted his weight from side to side.

  “Come give your pa a hug.” Mr. Monroe coughed again, then reached up to embrace the boy when he drew near. “Change your clothes and see to your chores.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy mumbled the words barely loud enough for Riley to hear, then disappeared down the hallway. His shoulders drooped like an eighty-year-old man, not a young boy with his whole life ahead of him.

  A vice-like pinch tightened around Riley’s heart. He would help this family if it was the last thing he did.

  A feminine shadow darkened the doorway, and Riley turned to see Emma. Her eyes followed her younger brother down the hallway, and sadness etched her brow. She sighed and looked toward her father’s chair. That’s when she saw Riley and sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Mr. Stratton. You seem to be making an occupation of sudden appearances. Perhaps it’s time you turned in your bookkeeping career for one in apparitions.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you again. I—”

  Mr. Monroe held up his cup. “He was kind enough to check in on me. Poured me some water.”

  Emma’s gaze locked with her father’s as if carrying on a silent conversation with him, as if they had a language all their own, that Riley couldn’t understand or be a part of. What would it feel like to be that connected to someone? To be that connected to Emma? “I was just leaving. I didn’t realize you’d be home this early.”

  “Yes, well. Mrs. Wesson lets me leave when the school bell rings so I can drive Lyndel home.”

  It wasn’t that long of a walk. Riley had a sneaking suspicion she wanted to check on her father.

  Mr. Monroe shifted in his chair. “He wants to know if you’re going back to work for him or not.”

  Riley wanted to crawl through the floorboards. “I...yes. I will admit, I was hoping your father might persuade you. He’s corrected my way of thinking, and assured me that you are not able to be persuaded beyond your own will.”

  “Is that so?” Emma placed her things on the table beside Lyndel’s books. “Well, I told you I’d have my answer by tomorrow, and I meant it. But since you’re here, I do have another question for you.”

  Hope burgeoned in his chest. “Yes?”

  “Tell me more about Donnigan. I don’t know much about him, except that he disappeared years ago. Now he’s reappeared with a child? Where is the girl’s mother?”

  Riley looked at his feet again. How to explain Donnigan?

  But before he could answer, Mr. Monroe spoke up. “Don’t go botherin’ the man about things that aren’t his concern. Is he his brother’s keeper?”

  “It’s all right.” He looked at Emma, with her hair spilling down her shoulders. There was no doubt she really was one of God’s finer pieces of handiwork. Her steely resolve only added to her allure.

  Her lips puckered in a stubborn little heart shape. What would it be like to kiss her? He’d likely never find out.

  And where did that thought even come from? He forced his focus to her question. “I don’t really know how to explain Donnigan. He lives in...another house on our property. I’m sure you’ll run into him before long. During his time away, he married an Indian woman—part Comanche, part Coushatta. Neither tribe would have her after she married Donnigan, and with her race, most white people didn’t want anything to do with them, either. They had a child...and the woman died. We only know that because my father hired a private investigator. Anyway, Donnigan’s had some problems, and now he’s back.”

  Silence stretched like a ball of unrolled yarn, tangling itself around the room. Finally, Emma gave a slight nod. “I see.”

  More silence.

  “Will I be expected to prepare meals for him as well? I need to know, so I can estimate portion sizes.”

  Did that mean she’d decided to return? Something inside him lightened, something akin to hope. “He won’t be eating with us. But if you could prepare a little extra, I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

  She nodded, then moved toward the kitchen. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Stratton, I have two hungry men to feed.”

  “I must be going, anyway.” He scooped his hat off the arm of his chair. “Mr. Monroe, thank you for your time.”

  “My pleasure, son. Come back any time. Emma, see our guest out.” There was a mild censure in his tone when he spoke to his daughter.

  Emma speared Riley with a look that sliced away another good chunk of his pride.

  He opened the door and stood back for her to exit, then followed her onto the porch. Medina whinnied from his place in the shadows.

  They stood there for a moment, a dense reserve between them, weighted with unspoken questions and mute accusations. He hated this. Hated that she had reason to dislike him, to dislike his family. He didn’t like them much either most of the time, but what could he do? He was a Stratton, for better or worse.

  “Look, Emma,” he said, his voice low. “I know you hate me. But—“

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “All right. Strong dislike.”

  She di
dn’t argue.

  “I’d like to offer a bit of advice.”

  Her eyebrows lifted, but other than that she didn’t move.

  “Let yourself grieve your mother.”

  She stiffened. “What makes you think I’m not grieving?”

  The strength she worked so hard to maintain made his chest ache. “I’m sorry. I know you’re grieving. But it seems to me like you’re more concerned for your father’s loss. For your brother’s loss. You’re trying so hard to take care of them...and from what I can see, you’re doing a great job. But who’s taking care of you?”

  Her eyes glassed over, but no tears fell. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Mr. Stratton.” She turned her head and stared at the fields surrounding her home.

  He followed her gaze across acres that should be freshly plowed by this time. Instead, dandelion and henbit lay across the land like a plush carpet. Pretty...but not nearly as practical as corn and beans and whatever else should have been growing there.

  “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” He placed his hat on his head and descended the stairs.

  She cleared her throat. “Thank you for your concern.”

  He looked at her, and the sun’s reflection in her eyes, along with the still-brimming tears, made the green look more like something from a painting—a living, breathing painting that saw right into his soul. On a whim, he bent down and plucked a few of the stray henbit blossoms, forming a small bouquet of the delicate purple flowers, and handed them to her.

  She smiled, and a single tear slid down her cheek before she brushed it away and accepted the gift.

  Something about Emma Monroe reached in and pinched his soul in a most comfortable, yet most uncomfortable, way. He smiled back...a bittersweet smile that stayed with him all the way home.

  Chapter 4

  The following Monday, the sun yawned, stretched over the horizon, and whispered, “Good morning.” Emma clucked to Sugar, then glanced around to take in the scenery. To one side, as far as she could see, was Stratton land. Behind her, neat farms dotted the landscape, all except her own farm. A few men had offered to do some work for them, knowing Pa wasn’t able this year, but they had to tend their own land first.

  But that was all right. With this job, she’d bring in as much money as Ma had, and with her school savings, they’d be just fine...for a few months, anyway. After that, well. She’d worry about that when the time came.

  For now, there was no need for concern. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself. But there must be a nest of hornets trapped in her stomach, the way it buzzed and burned. Ma, I don’t want to work for these people. How did you do it all these years?

  A breeze rustled the nearby oak leaves. She pulled her shawl tighter and slapped Sugar’s reins with a weak, “Hyah!” Sugar seemed to understand, and plodded forward with more effort than seemed to match her slow pace. A verse from Ma’s funeral drifted into her thoughts...from Deuteronomy? Something about God never leaving her, never forsaking her, never failing her. Fear not, neither be dismayed, the preacher had said.

  Well, she didn’t want to argue with a man of the cloth. And she certainly didn’t want to argue with the Almighty. But it seemed to her that He’d indeed left her, forsaken her, and yes, even failed her. And considering the circumstances, she had every right to feel dismayed.

  Sugar turned into the path leading to the Stratton home. She whickered, as if telling Emma, “It’s not too late. I can turn around right now, if you’ll just say the word.”

  But, no. Emma was made of stiffer stuff than that. She would go in there and cook and clean and take care of those children, and she would try her best to stay out of sight and not give anybody a reason to notice her.

  All too soon, she pulled into the carriage house, hoping for one last moment of solitude before she had to face the music, or the fire, or the devil himself for that matter. But it wasn’t to be.

  Riley Stratton rose from a stool in the corner, and another man stood beside him. “There you are. I want to introduce you to Joe Barnes, our ranch foreman. I’ve asked him to be on hand each morning to assist you with your horse.”

  “How kind of you.” Emma slid down from the wagon seat and handed Joe the reins. “I assure you, however, it’s quite unnecessary. I can manage on my own.”

  Riley’s heart did somersaults when Emma pulled her buggy into the carriage house. But a closer inspection of her face subdued his excitement. The fear in her expression made him want to hold her in his arms and hush her like he would a newborn, bawling calf.

  Come to think of it, though, she probably wouldn’t appreciate the bovine comparison.

  The moment she saw him, though, a shutter slammed on her vulnerability, and her usual ironclad resolve took its place. As much as he hated to be the cause of her discomfort, he was glad he’d caught that glimpse. It told him more about her than he could have learned in a two-hour conversation. And then with her quip about handling things herself... Sugar may not be a wild stallion, but her owner was a different story.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Monroe.” Joe tipped his hat, and Riley sensed, more than saw, the other man’s appreciation of Emma’s finer feminine qualities. Perhaps this was a mistake, asking Joe to see to her. Why hadn’t he asked Clem or Bob or even Skeeter?

  “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Barnes.” She reached in her pocket and withdrew several sugar cubes. “Sugar can be cantankerous with strangers. Give her these and she’ll warm up to you in no time.” She handed Joe the treats, nodded, and turned to leave.

  “I’ll walk you in,” Riley said, wanting to smooth the way, to welcome her back the best way he could, but he had to run to catch up with her. If he was there when she arrived, maybe he could quell Allison’s behavior somewhat.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Stratton, but I know the way.”

  “I know. But I thought, it being your first day back and all...”

  She stopped at the back door, and he opened it for her. But once she stepped inside, she reached to shut the door behind her, barring his entrance in the process. “My domain, remember?”

  “Uh...yes. Of course. Good day, Miss Monroe.” Riley tipped his hat and stepped away. “Please let me know if you need any—”

  Click. Riley stood there a moment, looking at the closed door. He turned just in time to see Joe leaning against the carriage house wall, having a good laugh at his expense.

  “Don’t you have work to do?”

  “Yes, sir.” Joe straightened and disappeared back into the carriage house. Riley picked up what was left of his dignity and headed around the house. It would have been closer to get to his office if he used the back entrance, but apparently, that wasn’t going to work any more.

  Emma leaned against the doorframe and inhaled deeply. That she’d just shut the door on Riley Stratton, of all people—son of her employer—was rude. But after Allison’s comment on Monday about her swooning over him all day, she was afraid to even show common courtesy for fear of being misunderstood.

  She was still five minutes early, which meant she could be busy working before Allison made an appearance. If Emma was even ten seconds late, Allison would probably dock her pay.

  She looked around the kitchen, and her chest sank to her knees. There was no sign of her work from the previous Monday—the place was disastrous again. If the roof and windows hadn’t been intact, Emma would have sworn a tornado hit the place.

  Where to begin? She spied the wash bucket, empty and turned on its side as if it had been kicked out of the way. After rolling up her sleeves, she picked up the bucket and headed outside to the pump.

  “Here, Miss Monroe. Let me get that for you.” Joe took the bucket and fell in easy step with her.

  “You don’t have to. I’m sure you have your own duties to attend to.”

  “I was headed toward the pump, anyway, to wash my hands. It’s no trouble at all.” Joe looked to be in his late twenties. His casual, friendly to
ne brought such a warm relief in this forlorn place, she couldn’t help but smile.

  “I don’t recall seeing you around town. Have you worked for the Strattons a long time?”

  “About five years, ma’am. Before that, I lived in Oklahoma.”

  “Is that your home?”

  Joe scratched the back of his neck, as if considering the question carefully. “I don’t suppose any place is really home to me. Not like you’d think. I don’t have any family left, so home is just...me, I suppose. Wherever I am.”

  How hard that must be. Yes, she’d lost her mother. But she still had Pa and Lyndel. She still had her home and a family. “I think that’s a splendid attitude, Mr. Barnes. Home is where you hang your hat, I suppose.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He pumped the water with ease, then walked her back to the kitchen. “Good day.” He tipped his hat once again and strode away on his long cowboy legs.

  A new friend, whose last name was, thankfully, not Stratton. She hadn’t expected that this morning. She opened the door, set the wash bucket on the counter, and began loading it with kitchen carnage. And though she didn’t look forward to one minute of this dreadful day working for these dreadful people, at least she wasn’t totally alone on these vast acres. For just a moment, her heart felt just a little bit lighter.

  Days passed in a haze of activity. Thankfully, for the most part, the Strattons left her to her work. By the time Thursday rolled around, she had the main floor dusted, mopped, and set to rights, and had started on the upper floor. Twice, she’d watched little Davis while Allison went to town, and the child warmed up to her in no time. He was a smart little thing, crawling everywhere, getting into everything. Her time with him provided a welcome respite from cooking and scrubbing. She’d still not seen hide nor hair of Donnigan or his child, though.

  It was just after two in the afternoon, and the grandfather clock chimed the time from its place in the parlor. Allison and Davis had gone to visit a friend, Riley was in town on business, and she had the place to herself. She had just finished the last of the dishes from the noon meal and poured herself a cup of tea, when the back door banged open and a man walked—no, stumbled into the kitchen. He had long hair, was dressed in buckskin, and though he looked strangely familiar, he didn’t look like anyone she’d seen before.