Rekindled

by Tamera Alexander

  Larson bristled at Kohlman’s tone. “The name is Jacob Brantley, and Mrs. Jennings prefers me to stay.”

  He hadn’t expected such a strong physical reaction toward Kohlman, especially since so much time had passed. Larson knew the man’s first concern was managing his bank, but for some reason, a resentment rose inside Larson when he thought of Kohlman foreclosing on his land. He glanced at the clock on the office wall. Tomorrow at this time, the land he and Kathryn had worked for the past ten years was going up for auction to the highest bidder. And somewhere along the way, Kohlman had signed the papers enabling that to happen.

  Larson led Kathryn to one of two chairs situated before Kohlman’s desk. Kathryn turned, and he followed her gaze to a man looking out the window. Dressed in a tailored gray suit, the gentleman reminded Larson, from the back anyway, of businessmen he’d seen back East years ago.

  “Very well. Let’s get started,” Kohlman huffed, clearly displeased. “Mrs. Jennings, if you’ll be seated. Mr. Childers, if you’ll join us, please.”

  The man at the window turned, and Kathryn let out a soft gasp. “Mr. Childers!”

  She rose and went to him. He embraced her as he might have a daughter. Larson stared, not knowing what to make of it. He didn’t remember ever having met the man, but looking more closely at Childers, he couldn’t help but be reminded of William Cummings, Kathryn’s father.

  “Kathryn, child.” Mr. Childers’ smile came softly. “Well, hardly a child anymore, I see.”

  Kathryn hugged him again, then drew back. “What’s brought you all the way from Boston?”

  “You, my dear. You are what’s brought me here.” His smile dimmed, and sadness accentuated the fine wrinkles lining his face. “Your father sent me.”

  Kathryn’s expression simultaneously showed joy and shock. Larson took a step forward, unable to fathom that Cummings had finally decided to pursue a relationship with his daughter. After all these years . . .

  Quick introductions were exchanged. Larson shook Childers’ hand, and then Childers led Kathryn back to the chair and sat in the one opposite hers.

  “How is Father? I wrote to him a month ago, thinking that perhaps he might want to see me again now that . . .”

  Larson’s throat tightened as Kathryn let her sentence trail off. Now that she’s alone and with child, and that her husband he never approved of is dead. She’d paid a high price in so many ways for marrying him. She’d left so much behind to follow his dream—a dream that now lay in ruins.

  “Actually, your missive to your father is what prompted my visit.” Childers sighed deeply. “When we received your letter, I immediately contacted the bank here in Willow Springs, and an employee was kind enough to confirm that you did indeed still live here. I arrived by stage this morning and came directly here to the bank, where Mr. Kohlman graciously offered to send for you.”

  Childers looked to Kohlman, who sat behind his desk, hands clasped over his thick middle. “Thank you for the use of your private office, Mr. Kohlman. As you mentioned earlier, this meeting is of a most confidential nature, and I appreciate your keeping knowledge of this conversation restricted to the parties present.” He turned back to Kathryn. “Your father wrote a letter to you, Kathryn. I know he would have liked to have delivered it himself.”

  “Is Father still in Boston? Is he well?”

  Childers carefully gathered Kathryn’s hands in his and shook his head. In that moment, Larson knew the purpose of Childers’ visit.

  “Your father died this past December, Kathryn. A poor heart is what the physicians said. It wasn’t a lengthy illness.”

  Larson saw the shock ripple through Kathryn’s body, and he went to stand beside her.

  “My father is . . . gone?” she whispered.

  “Yes, child, I’m so sorry.” Childers pulled an envelope from his pocket. “He wrote this letter for you. I believe a portion of this was intended for your husband, although I was saddened to learn from your letter that your husband, too, has passed on. You have my deepest condolences, Kathryn.”

  She nodded as silent tears fell. Guilt needled Larson at seeing them, and Annabelle’s voice replayed in his mind. “Kathryn always told me you weren’t dead. She said she felt it—in here. Do you have any idea what she’s been through?” But he had only to remind himself that what he was doing was best for Kathryn in order to silence the voice.

  Then a thought struck him, and he wondered how it had slipped by him. William Cummings had been quite well-to-do, and though he’d been an estranged father at best, caring far more about his investments than his family, no doubt the man would’ve been compelled to leave his inheritance to his only child.

  “Kathryn, as you know, your father was a very wealthy man,” Childers continued quietly, as though responding to Larson’s thoughts. “He wanted you to have the best of everything and he spent his life working to that end, making sure you and your mother had every comfort. Not long after your mother died, your father invested in the mining industry. Silver, specifically, and within months the investment had exceeded even his highest expectations. Within a couple of years your father finally achieved the wealth he’d always sought after, however . . .” A sigh escaped Childers, both heavy and troubled. He took Kathryn’s hand. “He had no one to share it with. Which leads to the reason I’m here today, to talk to you about your father’s estate and the inheritance he left you.”

  Kohlman’s chair creaked, and Larson turned to see the man standing behind his desk, his ruddy complexion now gone ashen.

  “My inheritance?” Kathryn gently shook her head, and Larson read the question in her eyes. Though never having stated it outright, William Cummings had, by his lack of interest and communication, severed all ties with his daughter years ago, after Kathryn had married.

  Kohlman made a noise in his throat, at which they all turned. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Jennings, Mr. Childers, I can see this is a . . . most delicate moment, so I’ll leave you to finish this meeting in private. But please, use my office as long as you like.”

  Kohlman’s hasty exit didn’t bother Larson—it was the look of urgency in the man’s eyes as he closed the door that roused suspicion.

  Childers reached into a satchel by the desk and withdrew a document. “Before I disclose the contents of your father’s last will and testament, Kathryn, I feel a need to remind you that I’ve been your father’s business partner since you were a child. I’ve seen your father through many stages of his life, and his career, so what I’m about to tell you is trustworthy. I was frequently at William’s bedside during his last days, and despite what I’m about to tell you, he was not at all a bitter or unhappy man in the end.”

  Kathryn swallowed convulsively, her attention riveted on what Childers would say next.

  “As I said, the mining investment made your father a wealthy man. However, his other businesses were suffering, and several of his newer ventures did not yield to his advantage. Then the mine went bust last year. Almost overnight. All the money, the investments, the houses . . . everything, was gone.”

  Larson cleared his throat and dared ask the question. “But you said Kathryn’s father left her an inheritance?”

  Childers smiled. “And that he did. It’s just not the one that he’d originally intended.”

  None of them spoke for a moment, and finally Kathryn lifted her head. “Did my father say anything about me to you before he died? Did he give any reason why he never contacted me?”

  “Though very intelligent, your father was a misguided man most of his life, Kathryn, and that by his own admission. Toward the end he told me you’d written him after your mother’s passing. Once or twice, is what he recalled.”

  Childers paused, and from the look on the man’s face, Larson found a well of protectiveness rising within him for Kathryn.

  “Your father confided to me one night that he’d always intended to find those letters again and read them.”

  “You mean . . . he never read them?�
�� Kathryn’s voice came out small and breathy, like a girl’s.

  Childers shook his head, then lifted his shoulders and let them fall. “When the time came and he realized all that he’d missed in his life, when faced with the grave mistakes he’d made, it was too late. He was very ill by that time, near penniless. The houses and furniture had all been sold, along with his personal belongings. Your letters were lost to him forever, just as he thought you were.

  “I hired someone to try to locate you last winter. All your father knew was that you were in the Colorado Territory, but our search turned up nothing.” The seriousness in his countenance slowly lessened. “Then when your latest letter arrived, I finally knew where you were. Your father’s greatest regret, Kathryn, was that he was not the father you deserved, nor the husband he wished he’d been to your mother.”

  Childers started to say more, then apparently thought better of it. He pointed to the envelope in her hand. “But lest I paint too bleak a picture for you, child, again, your father did not die a bitter man, and his prayer was that you would not be so toward him. In truth, he did indeed leave you something of great importance.” He rose. “I’ll be in town for a few days. Take time to read the letter, and we’ll meet to discuss the details later. I’ll be staying at the hotel. Contact me when you’re ready.”

  Kathryn stood with him. “Thank you for coming all this way to tell me.”

  Childers took a moment to study her face. “I didn’t want you hearing the news by telegram or post. Plus, selfishly, I wanted to see you again. You’ve grown into a beautiful woman, Kathryn. When you first walked into the office, I thought I was looking at your mother. If I may be so bold,” he said, his tone hesitant, “what is the expected date of your child’s arrival? A Thanksgiving baby? Or Christmas perhaps?”

  She smiled softly. “Actually it’s within the month.”

  Larson read the surprise in Childers’ expression, but it in no way matched the bolt of shock slicing through him. Surely she couldn’t be that far along. She wasn’t large enough. He looked down at his wife’s body, his own tensing with a flood of disbelief. He thought back to last Christmas, then rapidly sped forward through the months, counting. Could it be that . . .

  “After all these years, God has seen fit to bless me with a child,” she told him. “I only wish that Larson were still here to see the birth of his son or daughter.”

  Larson stifled a quick intake of breath and gripped the back of the chair beside him. Could it be true? God, is this what you were trying to get me to see? But Kathryn’s still so small. He thought of the brothel, of Matthew Taylor. He’d seen her there, he’d seen her with Matthew Taylor, overhead their conversations. He’d thought that . . .

  Larson looked into his wife’s face, into her eyes, and saw a purity there that he wanted to believe in. That he wanted to believe in with all his heart.

  “I promised William something,” Childers said, dragging Larson’s attention back. The older gentleman tipped Kathryn’s chin upward with his forefinger as though she were a little girl. “I promised him that I would find you and deliver his letter, and that when I did, I would give you a token of his love.” Childers framed Kathryn’s face between his hands and gently kissed her forehead. Once, twice.

  “My father’s last gift, and his best,” Kathryn whispered.

  As Jacob guided the wagon down the road to Casaroja, Kathryn couldn’t help but see the place through different eyes. While grand in its own right, Casaroja didn’t begin to compare with the modest cabin that Larson had built. MacGregor had built Casaroja on greed and deception. Larson’s foundation had been love and years of honest hard work.

  She ran a hand over her belly. Larson’s child wouldn’t inherit his father’s land. He would inherit something far better, something Larson had always wanted, and had always possessed in Kathryn’s eyes—an honest name.

  Jacob pulled the wagon in front of the cottage. He’d been unusually quiet on the ride back, and she’d caught him staring at her several times.

  “Are you sure you want to leave this afternoon, Kathryn? Maybe you should wait until Miss Maudie comes back so you can tell her good-bye.”

  “No, I want to leave now, today.” She wanted—needed—to be gone before MacGregor returned and found her still there.

  Jacob considered her for a moment, then climbed from the wagon and came around. He offered her his hand and helped her down and then stood close, his hand still holding hers. Kathryn stared up at him, her pulse quickening.

  He let go and nodded toward the harnessed team. “One of the horses is limping. I’ll hitch up a fresh team from the lower stable and be back up to help you shortly. Wait for me, though. Don’t try to carry anything out yourself.” He walked her as far as the porch.

  Kathryn shaded her eyes in the afternoon sun so she could see his face. A cool breeze rippled the cottonwood branches overhead. “Jacob, do you think we could have some time to talk later tonight, once we’re back in town? I’d like to explain some things, if I can put my thoughts into words.”

  Though his eyes were hidden, his smile led her to believe he understood.

  She watched him pull away, then looked at the letter in her hand, still unopened. Her father had loved her after all. That meant more to her than anything else.

  The inheritance he might have left her, if his businesses hadn’t failed, would have seemed like a godsend a few months ago. It would have allowed her to keep the cabin, the ranch, Larson’s dream. Yet it could never have replaced the relationships she’d lost or the years she’d forfeited. Years lost with her father through his pursuit to give her everything, when all she’d wanted was him. And years forfeited with Larson by looking past the man he was to some nonsensical dream of the man she wanted him to be.

  Kathryn tucked the letter into her coat pocket. She’d waited years for this word from her father and wanted to be able to savor it unhurried. She could wait a little while longer. Right now she wanted to get off this land and to be far away from Donlyn MacGregor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  IN HER BEDROOM, Kathryn made a halfhearted attempt to fold her clothes along with the baby’s blankets before stuffing them into the trunk. She grabbed her Bible from the nightstand and laid it on top. Seconds later, she heard the front door open and close. Funny, she thought she’d locked it.

  “I’m back here, Jacob. I’m almost ready.”

  The determined stride of boot steps against hardwood floor made her hands go still. That didn’t sound like Jacob’s labored stride.

  “Nice to be seein’ you again, Mrs. Jennings.”

  The voice sent a thousand skitters up her spine. Placing it even before she turned, Kathryn instinctively stepped back.

  The menacing scar that jagged along his lower right jaw puckered as his smirk deepened. He leaned against the doorframe, one leg crossed over the other. “MacGregor said I was to come and help you pack, ma’am. See you safely off Casaroja.” He crossed to the bed, picked up an undergarment, and rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger. “I told him I was happy to do it. Told him you and me was already good friends, or would be soon enough.”

  He laughed and the high-pitched shrill made Kathryn’s flesh crawl.

  Of slight build, not too tall, and more wiry-looking than muscled, the ranch hand gave off a sinister aura. Same as the first day she’d seen him ride up with Matthew Taylor at the ranch, shortly after Larson disappeared. And his voice—maybe it was his twang, from the Deep South if she had to guess—coupled with the manner in which he spoke, rippled with foreboding. He spoke as if they were the best of friends about to take a summer stroll.

  Summoning courage, Kathryn took the undergarment and stuffed it in the trunk. “I can pack myself, thank you. And I’m leaving today, just as Mr. MacGregor requested.” She glanced out the window for a sign of Jacob.

  He reached behind him and closed the bedroom door. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Jennings, or can I call you Kathryn?” His expression told her that
her answer mattered little. “We’re all by ourselves, just you and me. Everyone else is gone to town. You know, the first time I seen you, the way you smiled”—he took a step closer—“I could tell you were a lady. And I ain’t been close with too many of them in my life.”

  Somehow Kathryn didn’t find that hard to believe. He blocked the only way to the door, so she had no choice but to stand her ground. The sickening mingle of days-old sweat and liquor drifted toward her.

  “I thought maybe we could be good friends, but”—his gaze dropped to her unborn child. “I see another man got friendly with you before I could, and so soon after that husband of yours went and got hisself killed.” He laughed again and shook his head, then made a tsking noise with his tongue. “That was a wicked storm Christmas Day, wasn’t it? Storms like that can make a man lose his sense of direction.” He twirled his left index finger by his head, mimicking the sound of wind. “Turn you round where you don’t know where you are or where you been.”

  Kathryn could only stare at him, then felt her knees buckling beneath her. She sat down hard on the bed. Jumbled pieces of conversations piled one atop the other in her mind, and she strained to make sense of them. “Storms like that can make a man lose his sense of direction. . . .” “This man here didn’t die from the elements, leastwise not that alone. . . . Your husband was shot before he died, square in the chest.”

  She looked back, willing her voice to hold. “What are you saying?” The question came out weak, fearful.

  He leaned in, his warm breath soured with whiskey. “I’m not sayin’ anything, ma’am. Just that accidents sometimes have a way of happenin’ to people, that’s all.”

  But reading the look on his face, the ever so slight curl of his mouth, Kathryn caught the silent acknowledgment. Part of her raged and wanted to strike him, while another part wanted to lie down and die in defeat. She searched the eyes of her husband’s killer, wanting to know why, but the coldness there repelled her. Larson had no enemies, no reason for anyone to—