Legacy of Honor

by Renae Brumbaugh Green

  When the man bowed his head, Riley followed suit.

  “Dear Father, thank You for this food. And for my guest. Amen.”

  Short and to the point. Riley liked that.

  “What can I do for you, son?”

  Riley stretched his legs and tried to find the right words. Suddenly this didn’t seem like such a good idea. “I’m not sure, exactly. I just...I suppose I have some questions, and I don’t know whom to ask.”

  The older man took a bite of cheese, then washed it down with his water. “I’m not sure I have any answers for you. But I’ll be glad to listen. I’ll surely point you in the right direction if I can.”

  “Your family...” Riley normally didn’t struggle with words. But how did one describe something so indescribable? “What I mean to say is, my family and your family are different.”

  Mr. Monroe looked at him with keen eyes. “I’d say that’s an accurate statement.”

  “I guess I’d just like to know why.”

  “Why we’re different?”

  “Yes, sir.” He looked around the small house. The differences in this place and his were vast. So why did this home, with its worn furniture and tight space feel more welcoming than the Texas palace he lived in?

  “I suppose that depends on which differences you’re referring to. Some of them are quite obvious.”

  Riley shifted in his chair and busied himself by eating some of the simple meal. This entire conversation made him feel like it was test day, and he hadn’t studied. Part of him wanted to make an excuse and leave. But his desire for answers, for understanding, for whatever source of calm tranquility was out there overpowered his discomfort, and he forced himself to continue. “My family has everything money can buy. But we’re a miserable bunch. Your family, on the other hand, seems to have this type of...serenity, I guess. And I’d like to know why you all seem so satisfied with...with...I don’t know. I’m probably not making any sense.”

  “You’d like to know why we seem content, when we have so much less than you do.”

  “Maybe. But I’m not asking about the money or the lack of money. There’s just something deep down in you that has, to this point in my life, eluded me. Your wife had that quality, and so does Emma. And so do you.”

  “I think I understand your question, and the answer is simple. We have God.”

  Riley let that sink in for a moment. He hadn’t come here for a sermon. He hoped he wasn’t about to receive one. He weighed his next words carefully in his mind before speaking them. “We go to church every Sunday. Always have.”

  “That’s commendable,” Mr. Monroe replied. “Church is a good thing. But church attendance won’t give you the peace you long for.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The older man turned to face Riley head-on. “I’m no preacher. But as far as I can tell, what God wants with you, with me, is a relationship. He wants us to talk to Him, to listen to Him, to want to please Him. He wants us to think about Him all the time, the way a young man thinks about a pretty girl he’s fancied.”

  Riley had been looking at the fire, but he couldn’t help but look at Mr. Monroe at that last line. Did he suspect Riley was sweet on Emma?

  If he did, he didn’t say more. He just continued. “God loves you, son. And when we love someone, we long for them to love us back.”

  Riley nodded. He thought he understood, sort of.

  “I loved my wife with all my heart, Riley. I miss her more than anything. When she was alive, I looked forward to the time she came home from work each evening. I couldn’t wait to tell her about my day, about the crops and which ones were flourishing, which needed coaxing along. I wanted to share with her about which insects threatened, and if the soil was dry or moist.

  “I also wanted to hear about her day. I was interested in what she’d fixed all of you to eat, and which rooms in your house she’d cleaned. And of course, we always enjoyed talking about Emma and Lyndel, what they’d said or done.

  “But we didn’t always have to talk. Sometimes we’d just take care of our evening chores, then sit on the porch and watch the sun go down. Other times we might hold hands and walk our property, taking in God’s creation.”

  Riley pictured Sally and Charlie as young people, madly in love. As older people, holding hands. He tried to conjure a picture of his own parents doing the same, but he couldn’t.

  “The point is, we longed to be together because we loved each other. If Sally had come home from work and fixed supper for us, and I’d sat at the table and eaten, but we never talked...if I ignored her except to sit next to her at mealtime...we might have shared a roof. But what kind of relationship would that have been?

  “God wants a loving relationship with you. Sitting in church on Sunday doesn’t mean much to Him, by itself. He wants your heart.”

  Riley didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. It was like a candle had been lit in his mind. All those Sundays in church, he’d never heard a sermon quite like this one. A relationship? With God? Comparing it to a married couple? The thought made him uncomfortable. Curious. He’d have to think on that some more.

  After a few minutes, Riley nodded, thanked the man, filled his water glass for him, returned their dishes to the kitchen, and bid him good day.

  Charlie Monroe must think Riley was one strange bird. But that didn’t matter right now. He’d given Riley much to consider.

  Emma yawned, even though she felt like her heart had grown wings. It was only three in the afternoon, only a few hours since she’d taken Skye into her charge, and here the girl was, chattering like a magpie. Emma had given Skye’s hands and face a quick wipe down, combed the rats out of her hair and pulled it into a single braid down her back. Tonight, she planned to make the child a new dress. Maybe two. When she would sleep, she wasn’t sure. But she hadn’t slept well since Ma died, anyway. Might as well make use of the time.

  They were in the library, dusting the massive shelves. “Skye, what do you like to do when you can do whatever you want?”

  “I talk to Mother Earth.”

  “Mother Earth?”

  “Yes. The plants, the trees, the animals. Mother Earth has stories to tell, if we listen. This morning, a squirrel got mad when a bluebird swooped in and stole some of her food. She fussed at that bird for a long time before she finally gave up and looked for more food. I think the squirrel was saving up for a treat for her babies, and the bluebird stole it away. But the bluebird’s babies were hungry, and the squirrel had more than enough. The bluebird was only trying to care for her babies.”

  What perception and imagination this child had.

  “When you and Pa’s brother came, I was trying to find the bluebird’s nest.”

  “Were you going to climb higher into the tree?” Emma recalled Skye had been on the bottom branch.

  “Yes. I’m a good climber.”

  “Did your father know what you were doing?”

  “No, but he doesn’t mind. He taught me how to climb.”

  “I see.” Emma wanted to ask about the child’s mother, but didn’t feel she’d earned the right to pry. For now, she’d let Skye lead the conversation.

  She sensed someone watching them and turned toward the door. Sure enough, Riley leaned against the doorframe, a wooden crate tucked under one arm. How long had he been there?

  “Mr. Stratton. Did you need in here? We can finish later.”

  “No, I’m fine. I want to show you something and ask you a couple of quick questions, though, if you don’t mind.”

  Emma instructed Skye to continue the dusting and walked toward him. “Certainly.”

  Riley moved to the desk and set the crate down, then pulled out a worn New England Primer. “I thought you might be able to use these.” He laid the book on the desk and pulled out another—The School and Family Primer, followed by A Child’s New Plaything, Tom Thumb’s Playbook, and several other letter and number books. Emma recalled using some of these when she was young, but they’d belonged
to the school. She’d never dreamed of having actual primers to use with Skye.

  She laughed and dropped down in a big leather chair to leaf through the pages of one of them. “Skye, come here!”

  The child was at her side in seconds, and Emma showed her the pages and read her a few silly rhymes, which made them both giggle. “I’m going to teach you to read these for yourself. Won’t that be fun?”

  Skye nodded, but didn’t say much. She snuggled close to Emma’s side, and Emma realized that Riley’s presence must make the child nervous. “Your Uncle Riley brought these for you. Wasn’t that nice of him?”

  A nod was the child’s only response. Emma couldn’t blame the girl for being reluctant. She hadn’t exactly received a warm welcome from this family of hers, though it looked like Riley was trying to set things right.

  Riley knelt beside the chair. “Your father learned to read from those books when he was young. Our mother would sit in a rocking chair in our nursery for hours at a time, rocking us on her lap and reading us stories. She was quite proud that each of her boys could read well before starting our formal education.”

  In that moment, Riley looked swept away to another time and place. Emma pictured him, sitting on his mother’s lap, loved, treasured, safe. How long since he’d truly felt that kind of acceptance? Aside from his mother, did anyone else in his family offer that security?

  “And that brings me to my next question, Miss Skye.” Riley spoke to the girl as if he were talking to another adult. “May I measure your height? I’d like to make sure you have a desk that fits you. It’s important for a scholar to have a proper study area.”

  After a short hesitation, Skye stood tall, and Riley opened a desk drawer to pull out a folding yardstick. “Four feet, two inches. My, aren’t you a tall girl. I thought I might have to build you something, but I believe there’s a small desk in the nursery that will work just fine. I’ll bring it down and put it in your classroom.”

  Her classroom? Did he mean the pantry?

  As if reading her mind, Riley looked at Emma. “I’d like to add a window to the pantry, up high. Would you mind emptying the shelves on the back wall for a few days, so I can work there?”

  For a moment, Emma got lost in the deep waters of his blue eyes. He had the same build, the same height, the same look as the rest of the Stratton men. But his heart? His heart didn’t carry a family resemblance at all. In that moment, Emma wanted to hug him.

  Instead, she hugged Skye. “Your own classroom, your own books, and your own desk. Isn’t that wonderful? Your uncle must think a lot of you.” She leaned close to the girl’s ear and whispered, “Do you think we should tell him ‘thank you’?”

  Skye nodded, but said nothing until Emma nodded back. Then, as if taking courage from Emma’s nod, she looked at her uncle and said “Thank you” in a voice so timid, it almost didn’t even seem like the same child who’d babbled away only a few minutes earlier.

  “You’re welcome. And thank you, for agreeing to help Miss Monroe out this way. She was quite lost without you. If you hadn’t agreed, I was afraid I’d have to start helping her with the baking, and I assure you, I don’t look very good in an apron.”

  Skye giggled then, and Emma covered the thrill of his teasing by shooting him an offended look. Though offended was truly the furthest emotion from her heart, at that moment.

  Chapter 8

  “What are you doing?” Allison blocked the doorway to the nursery so Riley couldn’t pass.

  “I’m taking this downstairs.” He started to set the small desk down, then thought better of it. It might look like he was relinquishing control.

  “Why do you need a child’s desk downstairs?”

  “Davis won’t need it for several years.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you taking it?”

  “Allison, this is my home. This was my nursery. I believe I have a right to move the furniture around as I see fit.”

  “Correction. This was your nursery. Now it’s Davis’s nursery. Why are you taking his furniture?”

  “This was in the corner. It’s not being used.”

  “Just answer my question.”

  “I think you already know the answer. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He charged forward and hoped Allison would move out of the way.

  She didn’t.

  Instead, she put one hand on her hip and lifted one finger to his face. “You may have gotten your father to agree to let that little half-breed in this house, but she’s not going to step in front of Davis as the first grandchild.”

  So many thoughts went through Riley’s mind at that moment. Was her heart made of ice? Was she that greedy, that she’d begrudge a poor, motherless child a little kindness? But he knew voicing them would only make matters worse. “Allison, no one is trying to take Davis’s place. She’s just a little girl who needs a desk. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Allison stepped aside, probably more out of fear of being trampled than from any acknowledgement or agreement on her part. The contrast between Allison Stratton and Emma Monroe was, in Riley’s mind, like the difference between a squirrel and a skunk. Neither was bad to look at. But while one of them was hardworking and resourceful, the other stunk to high heaven.

  Downstairs, he found the kitchen empty, though a delicious aroma filled the air. He returned the bench and the dining room chair to their places and set the desk in the small space. Not the ideal classroom, to be sure. But it was kind of cozy. Add a plate of Emma’s cookies, and any place felt like home. Come to think of it, with or without baked goods, Emma Monroe did a lot to brighten up any space.

  For just a moment, he allowed himself to picture what it might be like to be married to Emma. But the picture was tainted with his father’s disapproval, with Allison’s sneering judgment, even with Colt’s mocking superiority. He really did need to get this infatuation under control. If not for his own sake, then for hers. On the off chance she did return his interest, it wouldn’t be fair to subject her to this family’s cruelty. She’d never fit in here.

  She played tricks on his mind and heart, what with her big, soulful eyes and her smell—like cinnamon and vanilla—and her recent loss that so reminded him of his own journey of grief. He felt compassion for an old friend, and nothing more. Any thoughts of a romantic relationship with Emma Monroe were rubbish. If she weren’t in such a vulnerable state, he might consider having a little fun with her, but in her current circumstances, that would be cruel.

  Yes. That’s all this was. She was pretty. She was here. And his moral compass wouldn’t let him pursue her. And that was driving him mad.

  The thought both agitated and depressed him.

  He forced all thoughts of Emma from his mind and evaluated the space above the top shelf. Just as he thought, he could add a high window for some natural light. He didn’t know why no one had thought to do it sooner. It would sure make hunting for a jar of maple syrup or mayhaw jelly a lot easier.

  Then, from nowhere, his thoughts changed course, bringing to mind what Charlie Monroe said about having a relationship with God. Riley had been to church nearly every Sunday since he was a child, but he’d never paid much attention to the sermons. When he was a boy, he was too busy examining his pocket treasures to listen to some stodgy, blustery old man talk. And when he got older, well...he got really good at mentally running through his list of chores while watching the preacher move his mouth.

  He remembered once, about a year before Ma died, she’d tried to talk to him. “Riley, we’ve never spoken much about God. But I want you to know God loves you more than anything. And He wants you to love Him back.”

  “I do,” he’d told her, more because he wanted to get out of the odd conversation than anything.

  She’d smiled and said, “I’m glad.”

  Funny. He hadn’t thought about that conversation in a long time. But now, it seemed like it might have been one of the most important things his mother had ever said to him. Now she was gon
e.

  Her life was too short. As was Sally Monroe’s.

  This God thing...maybe he shouldn’t put it off. But doggone if he knew what to do. How to start. He thought about what Mr. Monroe had said, about simply sharing your thoughts. Talking to God, like a friend? The whole idea made him squirm. But since no one was around to judge whether he did it right, he might as well start now.

  Hello, God. Uhm...it’s me. Riley Stratton. I don’t know much about You, though I suppose You know everything there is to know about me. I was just wondering if, maybe, we could be friends.

  Uh...that’s all. Amen.

  He really did need to get some bookwork done. He’d spent this entire day on other matters. But before he did, he thought he remembered seeing an old window propped against the wall in the far corner of the barn.

  Feminine voices approached from the back part of the house. Riley shut the pantry doors and tried to slip through the kitchen door before anyone detected his presence, but he wasn’t quick enough.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Stratton. We were just coming to check on the peach cobbler. Skye made it herself.” Emma smiled at the girl as she spoke.

  “Is that what the delicious smell is? It reached out to me, wrapped itself around my neck, and drew me here like a lasso.” Riley wrapped his hands around his neck and crossed his eyes as he spoke.

  Skye giggled, but didn’t say anything. It was a start.

  Emma shook her head like a tolerant schoolmarm and looked at Skye. “Should we let him sample it?”

  The girl nodded.

  “All right, Mr. Stratton. Have a seat. You get a small taste, and that’s it. Then you must leave. We have work to do.”

  Riley did as he was told while Emma pulled the cobbler from the oven and set it on top of the stove. Skye retrieved a small plate and held it while Emma scooped a big dollop, then poured cream over it. It was more than a small taste, but he wasn’t about to complain.

  Skye handed him the plate, Emma gave him a spoon, and they both watched him like two kittens waiting for the fish bowl to tip over.