They’d talked a bit last night, he and his father, in the few opportunities they’d had to walk the horses when the terrain got rough. Talked—for what seemed the first time—in a calm, respectful manner like two grown men, rather than as a critical, domineering father to his irresponsible, dim-witted son.
“That Caldwell girl,” his father had brought up seemingly out of the blue. “She always loved you, not Nicholas, didn’t she? And Nicholas, in his generous if misguided attempts at matchmaking, made you think it was he who wanted Sarah, so you stepped aside for him.”
“Did you come up with that all by yourself,” Cord asked, wondering where this conversation was headed, “or did someone tell you?”
Edmund shrugged. “A bit of both. That night at the fall dance, I finally figured out something funny was going on, and Emma just confirmed it for me.”
“So then I guess I was the last one to know,” Cord replied with a self-deprecating grin. “Kind of confirms your opinion of me as pretty slow and thickheaded, doesn’t it?”
His father chuckled. “No more so than most men, when it comes to women. Your mother had to all but wallop me upside the head to get me to admit to loving her.”
“Like father, like son, I suppose.”
“That girl—Sarah—she’s got spunk. Reminds me a lot of your mother.” His father sighed. “Too bad she’s a Caldwell.”
Anger flared and Cord struggled to contain it. “She’s the best of them, and you know it.”
“Yeah, I reckon she is.”
They cleared the top of the ridge then, and there was no time left to talk. Still, though the pace picked up until the posse was galloping along once again, there was plenty to think about. Indeed, Cord couldn’t have kept the thoughts out of his mind if he’d tried.
He turned the memory of the earlier conversation over and over in his head, marveling at what had been said . . . and not said. Why his father had decided at this particular moment, after all the years of terse conversations and barely contained hostility, to attempt a civil discussion of any sort with him, Cord didn’t know. He sensed his father was expressing approval of Sarah in his own taciturn way. If he tried hard enough, Cord realized he could even read in a grudging acceptance of their engagement.
But such considerations were almost beyond comprehension. His father hated the Caldwells. He had also, all these years, begrudged Cord his birth at the sacrifice of his beloved wife. How could a man like that seemingly change almost overnight?
Maybe it’s all just some fluke, Cord thought, returning to the present moment and the sickroom he now sat in. Give Pa enough time and he’ll revert back to his old ways.
Problem was, if his father died, Cord would never find out. And that, perhaps, was the hardest knot to unravel, the source of the unrelenting uncertainty gnawing at his gut in these long hours of keeping vigil at his father’s bedside.
“You don’t know whether or not to forgive him, do you?”
Surprise ricocheted through him. Cord jerked around to face his brother. How could Nick so easily have guessed what his thoughts had been leading up to? He hadn’t shared with his brother—or anyone else for that matter—what had passed between him and their sire last night.
“What in the Sam Hill are you talking about?” Irritation threaded his voice as he watched his brother wheel his chair across the room to pull up before him.
Nervously, Cord’s glance careened off Sarah who, at Nick’s words, had lifted her equally startled gaze. At that particular instant, he heartily wished she weren’t in the room. Once Nick senses any weakness in me, Cord thought, he’s like some broncobuster who sticks like a tick to a horse’s back. He hangs on until he breaks you, until you finally give up and spill your guts to him just to shut him up.
“You know as well as the rest of us that Pa might not make it,” Nick softly said, leaning close. “For your own sake, it’s time you forgave him. Remember, to err is human but to forgive is divine.”
“And you have me confused with someone else.” Cord gave a bitter laugh. “Holy isn’t anything I do very well.”
“Don’t do well or don’t know how or want to do it?”
He stared down at Nick. Is that the truth of it then? Do I just don’t know how to forgive? Or is there something lacking in me that would make me want to do so? And, even more to the point, would forgiving Pa for all the years of verbal abuse and downright neglect make any difference?
He sighed and looked down at hands he noticed were clenched before him. “I’m not sure forgiving him would be enough . . . enough to make up for all those years . . .”
“Forgiveness isn’t so much about Pa as it is about you, Cord. It’s not about feelings but about freedom. It’s not about changing the other person—we might not ever succeed in doing that—but in letting go . . . and trusting that God will somehow make it all right.”
“I don’t have anything to let go,” Cord snarled. “And I’m not the one who should be asking for forgiveness.”
“You’re right,” Nick said. “You don’t have anything to ask forgiveness for. But you’re also the only one who can do the forgiving. You’re the one who can do what it takes to find release from the burden of your anger and bitterness. Before Pa’s gone and it’s too late.” He managed a rueful smile. “Well, before it’s too late, anyway, to tell him face-to-face. When there’s still a chance he might hear you.”
Cord looked up, impaling his brother with a steely gaze. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. But where’s the fairness in that? What did I ever do to him to deserve how he treated me?”
“Would you rather be in the right, or be free, little brother? Would you rather risk carrying this the rest of your life and have it taint all your future relationships?” As he asked that final question, Nick angled his head in Sarah’s direction. “Wiping the slate clean is a loving thing to do, on so many levels.”
As he listened, Cord could feel his defenses crumbling. Blast Nick anyway, he thought in a confused mix of frustration and begrudging affection. Not only does he always have a special way with words, but he can pierce straight through to my heart and see me more clearly than I see myself.
“You’re right as always. It’d be nice to wipe that particular slate clean once and for all,” Cord grudgingly admitted. He sighed once again. “I . . . I reckon I’ll have to think on that a bit more.”
“Yes, you do that.” Nick glanced over his shoulder. “Angel, it’s almost midnight and I’m starved. Why don’t we go see what we can rustle up in the kitchen?” He looked back at Cord. “Want us to bring you something?”
Cord shook his head. “No, I’m fine. I’ll just stay here with Pa.”
“Take all the time you need.” Nick smiled up at Sarah, who had put aside her knitting and joined him. “Let’s be on our way then.”
No sooner had the two of them departed than Doc Saunders walked in. After a time spent examining Edmund, he sighed, shook his head, and left the room.
No change, Cord thought. It’s not looking good. Not good at all.
He stood, pulled his chair close to his father’s bedside, and sat back down. Doc had forgotten, after his examination, to put his patient’s hand back beneath the covers. Cord stared at it for a long time, then, reaching over, took it in his.
His father’s hand was cool, the long, strong fingers limp and unmoving. The contrast with his own two warm ones was startling, unnerving even. The man whom he had idolized, as much as he had come to hate, was now weak and helpless, maybe never to be the same even if he somehow did manage to survive. The realization, in Cord’s mind, seemed to herald the inevitable change in roles, where the parent became the child, and the child, in many ways, now became the parent and caretaker.
Many were the times Cord had almost wished his father dead—or at least permanently gone from his life—but now, at this moment of nearing the actual possibility, such an event frightened him, filling him with a deep, abiding sorrow. If his father died now, just when hope suddenly
loomed on the horizon for a reconciliation, a long-yearned-for meeting of the hearts and minds . . .
Tears blurred his vision. All he had ever wanted was to have his father’s love. To be able to feel safe with him, to trust him, to share his doubts and fears and learn from his wisdom. It had always been Cord’s secret dream, a dream he’d kept tightly locked away all these years, even as he’d despaired of ever seeing that dream find fruition.
He bowed his head, and the tears trickled down his cheeks. “It’s not fair,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Why now, when it almost looked like you might be opening up to me? When you finally seemed to think I’d done something right in wanting to marry Sarah? Why, Pa? Why?”
Forgiveness isn’t . . . about feelings but about freedom. As if Nick were in the room right now, his words came back to Cord. It’s not about changing the other person—we might not ever succeed in doing that—but in letting go . . . and trusting that God will somehow make it all right.
At a time like this, when hope of his father surviving was dwindling by the second, there didn’t seem much else to do but let go and trust in God to make it all right. He shook his head. Trust in a God he hadn’t given much thought or reverence to for a long while now. Yet, at a time like this, what other option was left for him?
Ever so gently, Cord squeezed his father’s hand. “I forgive you, Pa,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I forgive you. And, for whatever I may have done to alienate you, I also ask your forgiveness.”
12
“Help me with this boat, will you, son?”
Through the gathering twilight, Cord saw his father standing at the river’s edge, shoving at the bow of a small boat that refused to budge. He ambled down to meet him.
“Where are you going, Pa?” Cord gestured to the fading streaks of lavender brushing the sky. “It’s getting late. We should be heading back to the house.”
“Not me.” The older man shook his head. “I’ve got to get across that river, and I need your help.”
Puzzled, Cord eyed him. “But why, Pa? What’s across the river?”
His father’s smile was enigmatic. “All I’ve ever needed is across that river.” He bent down and began pushing on the boat. “Now, help me with this one last task.”
“Well, if that’s what you want,” Cord replied, moving to the other side of the bow and leaning over to give it a good shove. “All that you need is back home, though.”
With their combined strength, the little boat eased down the muddy slope and into the water. Edmund Wainwright nodded in satisfaction.
“Good. Now, hold her steady while I climb in, will you, son?”
Cord gripped the bow, the rough wood biting into his hands. His father scrambled in, took a seat, and grabbed hold of the two oars.
“Okay, give me a good shove out into the water.”
Reluctantly, he did as his father asked. The oars sliced through the gently flowing waters, and gradually Edmund Wainwright pulled farther and farther from shore.
A cool breeze wafted over Cord. Some bird cried out in the darkness. He shivered, wrapping his arms about himself.
Why doesn’t this feel right?
“When will you be home, Pa?” he called. “Emma will want to know if she should keep a plate warm for you.”
“Good-bye, son,” his father’s voice floated back to him, growing ever fainter. “Take care of everyone for me. I know you can do it. I’ve always known that . . .”
An eerie presentiment filled Cord. Fear gripped his heart. He stepped into the water, walking out until the river swirled almost to his knees.
“Pa!” he cried. “Pa, don’t go!”
“Good-bye. I love you . . .”
“Cord? Cord?”
The sound of a voice, sharp with concern, accompanied by a firm hand on his shoulder, wrenched Cord from his dreams. He jerked awake.
Sarah, her eyes tear-bright, gazed down at him. “Cord, wake up. Your father . . . He’s gone.”
He straightened abruptly in the chair. He’d fallen asleep. The first rays of dawn peeked through the parlor window, washing the pine plank floor in faint sunlight. Cord’s searching glance met his brother’s. Nick, his expression solemn, slowly nodded.
Cord swiveled in his chair, turning to the bed where his father laid. Even then Doc Saunders was lifting the sheet to cover Edmund Wainwright’s face.
Shoving back his chair, Cord stood and moved to his father’s side. The doctor stepped back.
“Wh-when?” Cord choked out.
“Just a few minutes ago. Sarah noticed he didn’t look like he was breathing, and came and got me.” Doc laid a hand on his shoulder. “It was for the best, son. His brain was terribly injured. I could see the signs getting worse each time I checked on him.”
Numbly, Cord lifted his gaze to the older man. “I figured as much. I’m just glad we got him back home. He loved this ranch. He would’ve wanted to die here.”
Behind him, he could hear Nick wheeling his chair over. Then a hand gripped his arm.
“Jordan should be told. Do you want me to send Sarah to waken her?”
Their stepsister, wife of Robert Travers, and mother of a three-week-old daughter, had arrived only a few hours ago after having ridden all night from their ranch about twenty miles to the southwest of Ashton. She’d been exhausted. After seeing to her infant’s needs and spending some time at her stepfather’s bedside, Jordan had been all but dragged off to bed by her husband for a few hours’ sleep. Not long after her departure, Cord realized, he’d fallen asleep himself.
“No,” he said, turning to look at his brother, “I’ll go get Jordan. Best she hear the news from me.”
“Suit yourself.” Nick searched his brother’s face. “Are you okay?”
Are you okay?
His father had just died, and the lingering aftereffects of his dream still haunted him. Had the dream been the result of the stress he’d been through of late, or was it something more? Had it, instead, been the medium God had used to allow his dying father’s soul to bid farewell? To speak the words he’d never been able to say in life, even if he’d always believed them?
At that moment Cord was glad, thankful deep down to the marrow of his bones, that he’d finally found the courage to offer forgiveness to his father. He was glad for that dream and would cherish it to his dying day, no matter what its source had been. It wasn’t the best of deathbed reconciliations, but it was all he’d get. And it was enough.
“Yeah,” he said, shooting Nick a wan smile, “I’m okay. More than okay, to tell the truth.”
“Good,” his brother replied. “Then my prayers have been answered.”
Shiloh Wainwright, Cord and Nicholas’s other stepsister, arrived from Denver two days later. Sarah took to her right away, just as she had with her older sibling, Jordan. And, when she discovered Shiloh was a teacher at a girl’s boarding school in Denver, her interest only deepened.
“I’ve always thought I’d have liked to be a teacher,” she admitted the next morning as they worked together with the other women in the ranch house kitchen. They were set to depart in fifteen minutes for Ashton for Edmund’s funeral services at the town’s one church and subsequent burial back at the ranch. There were still a few things, however, to finish up for the wake to be held afterward.
Shiloh tossed her dark auburn braid over her shoulder, and nodded. “I had a fight on my hands convincing Papa to let me leave home and go all the way to Nebraska to the Peru State Normal School to get my teacher training. He was rather old-fashioned, you know, and thought a woman’s place should be close to home until she got married. Then, if her husband wanted to take her halfway across the world, well, that was how it should be.”
She paused, her eyes misting. “I barely knew my real father. He died when I was four, and Mama married Edmund just a year later. So, for most of my growing up, Edmund was my papa. He could be crotchety at times, but Jordan and I, well, mostly we could get him to let us do just a
bout anything.”
Shiloh shot her sister, working at the other end of the table peeling potatoes, an inquiring glance. “Couldn’t we, Jordan?”
Her sister, almost four years senior to the twenty-year-old Shiloh, nodded, then paused to pull a hanky from her pocket and wipe her tear-filled eyes. “Yes, Papa always had a soft spot in his heart for his girls, didn’t he?”
Listening to the two sisters, Sarah felt as if they must be talking about some other man entirely. Doting, protective, old-fashioned father? As far as his sons were concerned—or, more specifically, Cord—Edmund had been hard-hearted, critical, and demeaning. It was all Sarah could do to bite her tongue and refrain from setting the sisters straight about a thing or two.
This, however, was neither the time nor place. And why belittle their memories?
Maybe Edmund had indeed possessed other dimensions. He’d warmed up to Danny quickly enough, Caldwell though he was. And, after that night he’d had her sign the document agreeing to leave the ranch to Cord in the event of Nick’s death, the Wainwright patriarch had also seemed to soften a bit in his attitude toward her.
What she couldn’t forgive him for was how he’d treated Cord. Sarah’s mouth quirked sadly. Yet who was she to judge Edmund Wainwright, when her own kin—especially her father—had been largely responsible for the Wainwright patriarch’s death, not to mention a robbery and the theft of fifty cattle now?
Sarah exhaled a deep breath.
“It’s hard for you too, isn’t it?” Shiloh asked, looking up from the cookie dough she was forming into balls then handing to Sarah to place on a cookie sheet. “Papa was going to be your father-in-law.”
“Yes, he was.” Sarah used the excuse of rearranging the cookies on the now full sheet to avoid meeting the other woman’s searching gaze. “Most of all, though, I worry about Cord and the effect all this is having on him. And Nick too, of course.”
Shiloh and Jordan exchanged yet another look. They know about Cord and Edmund’s problems, Sarah thought. And why wouldn’t they? They’d lived in the midst of it all for years.
Heart of the Rockies Collection Page 18
