Logan sighed deeply.
“You loved them, didn’t you?” said Allison softly.
He nodded. “I guess I would have to say I didn’t feel a great affection for Claude,” he replied reflectively. “Yet even with him there was, I don’t know, another kind of bond, even in the midst of the conflict. You don’t go through a war with people, putting your life on the line for them, without attachments forming that will always be with you.”
“I knew them only for days,” returned Allison. “But I can almost feel a little of it with you.”
“But that was then,” said Logan. “Now it is time to look to the future . . . to our life truly together at last.”
“Logan.” Allison looked up at him after a moment, her eyes filled with gratefulness. “Thank you for not deserting me. I hardly gave you much of myself. I hope I now know better.”
“It is I who owe you thanks! I was so blind, Allison, so caught up in my own self. I’m so thankful you stuck by me.”
“Marriage is such a precious, yet fragile thing,” Allison mused. “God has been good to us, Logan. We could have thrown away all we had if He hadn’t somehow managed to get through to us.”
Logan took his horse’s rein, then slipped his arm around Allison’s shoulder. Together they walked on up the hill.
“Ho, Alec . . . Joanna!” called out Logan as they approached; “watching for the storm coming in?”
“We’ll hae nae talk o’ storms today, laddie!” said Alec, reaching out his hand and giving Logan’s a vigorous shake. “The wee wifie here winna hae me spoilin’ tomorrow’s plans wi’ talk o’ rain. Aye, but it’s good to see ye, man! Ye’re lookin’ as well in the sunlight as ye did last night!”
“And you, Alec! The war hasn’t changed you at all.”
“Ah, ye should ken better than that!” replied Alec. “Ye may be a smooth talkin’ enough city man t’ beguile my daughter. But ye canna lie to a cagey auld vet like me! Why, man, jist one look at all this gray on top o’ my head’ll tell ye I’m no the same man I was in ’40! Why, I turned sixty last year, and didna e’en hae me wife wi’ me t’ feel sorry fer me!”
Logan threw his head back and laughed heartily.
“One thing that hasn’t changed is your sense of humor! And you know what the Bible says about gray—it is the sign of wisdom and honor.”
“Amen to that!” laughed Joanna.
Silence fell for a moment as each of the four gazed upon the scene spread out before them. There they stood for several minutes more, the one couple arm-in-arm representing the generational link to the roots of the past, the other—holding hands as if still newly in love, as indeed they were—the symbol of the generations of the future.
Then, as if with one accord, they turned and began to make their way together down the hill, toward the ancient family home known as Stonewycke.
Epilogue
LONDON, 1969
When the Honorable Logan Macintyre exited Number Ten Downing Street that chill spring morning, he had every reason to be in good spirits. A pat on the back from the Prime Minister was no small thing.
However, though he wouldn’t refuse the praise, he knew that yesterday’s session of the Commons merely represented the result of his doing his job as Minister of Economic Affairs. Morton Giddings represented a block of votes Labour needed, and Logan had simply steered them in the right direction.
“Only last week,” the Prime Minister had said, unable to keep from gloating, “Giddings said he’d never go our way.”
“I suppose a great deal can happen in a week,” Logan replied modestly.
“Not with Giddings! He’s the biggest diehard we have.”
Prime Minister Wilson leaned forward and winked. “Come now, tell me—how did you pull it off, old boy?”
“You really don’t want to know, Harold.”
“You know I’ll find out sooner or later. Surely you of all people didn’t pull something shady, did you, Logan?” The Prime Minister grinned conspiratorially.
“It was completely on the up-and-up, I assure you!”
“Never doubted you for a minute—all you need to do is turn on that Scottish charm of yours, do a little song-and-dance with that silver tongue you were endowed with, and things always seem to happen.”
He paused. “But I have a feeling it took more than that with Giddings,” he added at length.
“Well,” Logan answered after another moment’s hesitation, “you know how Giddings is constantly bragging about his prowess at cribbage . . . ?”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Wilson with a knowing look. “He bores everyone to distraction and has cleaned out more than a few new boys—”
Suddenly he stopped as realization dawned on him.
“Logan, you didn’t!”
Logan smiled sheepishly.
“You played for his votes?” pressed the Prime Minister.
Logan nodded.
Wilson laughed outright. “You rascal,” he said through his mirth. “And he wasn’t aware of your—ah, how shall I phrase it?—your expertise with a deck of cards?”
“It’s a matter of public record, isn’t it? But you know I haven’t gambled for years. Gave it up after the war. This was just an innocent game of cribbage.”
Wilson continued to chuckle. “Giddings was never very good at doing his homework. I must say this is one of the most ingenious ways you’ve ever thought of—and you’ve had some gems!—to cajole your colleagues into voting your way on something you believed in. Come, old boy, this calls for a bit of a celebration.”
Yes, Logan was satisfied with himself, and satisfied too with the path his life had followed since the war. Parliamentary wheeling and dealing was a most fulfilling use both of the talents God had given him and his personality, which enjoyed people and activity—especially when worthwhile causes lay in the balance. He had found his place in life during the past twenty years, and in it had gained the respect of his peers—as a man, a statesman, a humanitarian, and a Christian. Those who knew him, as well as those who knew of him, saw clearly a man who gave himself for others, not only out of Christian duty—though he was an outspoken national figure for the practical living out of the Christian faith—but also out of plain ethics and morality as a human being. He was a man who honored goodness and desired to see it operating between men—for the sake of goodness itself, and for the sake of God. Yet, being in the national spotlight had in no way dimmed the twinkle in his eye nor the love of an old-fashioned good time. There were still moments when he thought about a reckless scheme—for a worthwhile enterprise, of course!—just in memory of the good old days!
Logan was about to hail a cab, but then decided the day was too beautiful to waste. Besides, it was only a short walk to his office. He pressed down his hat against a gust of wind that persisted in spite of the sunny blue sky. He neared a newspaper vendor and dug a coin from his pocket and tossed it to the boy, who caught it deftly.
“Mornin’, Mr. Macintyre!” said the lad above the din of traffic. “’Ere’s yer paper.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
“An’ don’t ferget yer change, sir.”
“Not a bit of it, Joe!”
“Thank ’ee kindly, sir!” said Joe, grinning at the tip. “An’ by-the-by, me mum ain’t soon goin’ t’ ferget what you did fer me in that business with the constable last week. An’ neither am I.”
The youth had run afoul of the law for supposed possession of marijuana. When Logan, who had been buying The Times from him for two years, heard of it, he took the matter in hand, interceded on the boy’s behalf, and eventually discovered that Joe had been mistaken for a vendor a couple blocks away whose newsstand was being used for small-time drug deals.
Logan had expected no thanks, however. It was the most natural thing for him to do. He well remembered what it was like for a boy trying to live on the streets.
“Well,” Joe continued, “she—me mum, that is—she wanted to invite ye t’ dinner, but I said as how an importan
t man like yersel’—”
“I’d love to come!” interrupted Logan. “You know my office number—you just call me and let me know when.”
“I sure will, Mr. Macintyre! Me mum’ll be pleased pink when I tells her!”
Logan tucked the folded newspaper under his arm and continued on. In another ten minutes he reached his office. His secretary, Agnes Stillwell, middle-aged, efficient, and devoted, greeted him warmly.
“You’ve several messages here, Mr. Macintyre.”
She picked up a pad and followed him into his private office.
“James Callaghan in the Home office called and wants to meet with you before this afternoon’s session,” she began.
“Fine. Go ahead and set up a time with him. Anything else?”
She briskly flipped a page of her pad. “Your wife called to remind you about your dinner guests from Aberdeen tonight. And Alexander Hart of the BBC wanted to know if Monday would be convenient for the interview—”
“Oh, I forgot all about that! How does Monday look?”
“I think we can clear the afternoon.”
Logan grinned. “I’d be lost without you, Aggie!”
It was difficult for Mrs. Stillwell to continue to look efficient while beaming under her boss’s praise, but somehow she managed.
“And then there’s this last message from a Hannah Whitley,” she added, straightening her glasses self-consciously.
“Hannah Whitley . . .” Logan repeated thoughtfully. “Who’s she?”
“I don’t know, sir. She had a most down-to-earth sound . . . almost like a domestic or something. I can’t imagine what she wanted.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard the name,” said Logan. “What was the message?”
“Rather odd, really,” Mrs. Stillwell replied. “She said she needed to speak with you and wanted to know when you would be in. I asked her to leave her number and said you would return her call if she wished. She seemed reluctant, but finally consented. Here’s the number.”
“Doesn’t sound too odd,” remarked Logan, taking the slip of paper his secretary handed him.
“I suppose it was mostly in her tone.”
“Well, let’s see.” Logan pulled his phone across the desk toward him, glanced at the paper, and dialed the number. After a silent pause, he hung up. “Now that is odd,” he said. “The number is out of service. Didn’t she just call?”
“I wonder if I could have copied it down wrong. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Impossible, Aggie. But don’t worry about it.” He carelessly tossed the paper into the “incoming” basket on his desk. “If it’s important, I’ve no doubt the matter will catch up with us another time.”
About the Authors
Michael Phillips is a bestselling author with more than seventy of his own titles, ranging from historical novels to contemporary whodunits, from fantasy to biblical commentary. He’s also served as editor of many more books, adapting the works of author George MacDonald (1824–1905) for today’s reader, and his efforts have since generated a renewed interest in MacDonald. Michael and his family spend time each year in Scotland but make their home in California. To learn more about the author and his books, find him on Facebook or visit macdonaldphillips.com.
Judith Pella is a bestselling, award-winning author whose writing career spans more than two decades. Her in-depth historical and geographical research combines with her skillful storytelling to provide readers with dramatic, thought-provoking novels. Judith and her family make their home in Oregon.
Fiction by Michael Phillips
THE RUSSIANS*
The Crown and the Crucible • A House Divided • Travail and Triumph
THE STONEWYCKE TRILOGY*
The Heather Hills of Stonewycke • Flight from Stonewycke • Lady of Stonewycke
THE STONEWYCKE LEGACY*
Stranger at Stonewycke • Shadows Over Stonewycke • Treasure of Stonewycke
THE SECRETS OF HEATHERSLEIGH HALL
Wild Grows the Heather in Devon • Wayward Winds
Heathersleigh Homecoming • A New Dawn Over Devon
SHENANDOAH SISTERS
Angels Watching Over Me • A Day to Pick Your Own Cotton
The Color of Your Skin Ain’t the Color of Your Heart • Together Is All We Need
CAROLINA COUSINS
A Perilous Proposal • The Soldier’s Lady
Never Too Late • Miss Katie’s Rosewood
CALEDONIA
Legend of the Celtic Stone • An Ancient Strife
THE HIGHLAND COLLECTION*
Jamie MacLeod: Highland Lass • Robbie Taggart: Highland Sailor
THE JOURNALS OF CORRIE BELLE HOLLISTER
My Father’s World* • Daughter of Grace* • On the Trail of the Truth*
A Place in the Sun* • Sea to Shining Sea • Into the Long Dark Night
Land of the Brave and the Free • A Home for the Heart
SECRETS OF THE SHETLANDS
The Inheritance
*with Judith Pella
Books by Judith Pella
Texas Angel
Heaven’s Road
Beloved Stranger
Mark of the Cross
THE RUSSIANS
The Crown and the Crucible*
A House Divided*
Travail and Triumph*
Heirs of the Motherland
Dawning of Deliverance
White Nights, Red Morning
Passage Into Light
THE STONEWYCKE TRILOGY*
The Heather Hills of Stonewycke
Flight from Stonewycke
Lady of Stonewycke
THE STONEWYCKE LEGACY*
Stranger at Stonewycke
Shadows Over Stonewycke
Treasure of Stonewycke
DAUGHTERS OF FORTUNE
Written on the Wind
Somewhere a Song
Toward the Sunrise
Homeward My Heart
LONE STAR LEGACY
Frontier Lady
Stoner’s Crossing
Warrior’s Song
PATCHWORK CIRCLE
Bachelor’s Puzzle
Sister’s Choice
RIBBONS OF STEEL**
Distant Dreams
A Hope Beyond
A Promise for Tomorrow
RIBBONS WEST**
Westward the Dream
Separate Roads
Ties That Bind
*with Michael Phillips **with Tracie Peterson
Shadows over Stonewycke Page 52
