by Patty Devlin
But eventually they had to go to the lawyer’s office.
Chapter 9
Begotten
The etched glass pane in the highly polished maple door read, Hobart St. James, Esq., in gold letters with black shadowing. Abel straightened his tie before he opened the door for Sunny to enter first. There was a small anteroom, empty except for a secretary’s desk and a few leather chairs, and a small drum table. The space was windowless and smelled slightly of cigar smoke. Quiet settled upon them after the noisy streets below the office.
Seeing no other option, Abel knocked on the door.
A strong, precise voice answered them. “Come in.”
They did and found an opulent room full of leather-bound books and bearing three occupants. One, a man seated behind an enormous maple desk, looked about sixty years old, with a messy, white fringe of hair around his otherwise bald head. He wore round spectacles that magnified his blue eyes and made him look a bit like a fish. His clothes were tidy, though his black tie was askew. He eyed Abel and Sunny with finical judgment and then nodded toward the other man seated in a one of the many chairs arranged around the front of the desk. The man stood and offered his hand.
Abel was struck with the similarity of their face and form. He even had the cleft in his chin that Abel hid under his beard. This had to be one of his brothers.
“Matthew Caine,” the man said, and then gestured toward the woman seated next to him. “This is Annie, my wife.” Matthew looked about thirty, while his wife was much younger, about Sunny’s age. Abel took his hand and introduced himself and Sunny.
“Please be seated,” said St. James. “We’ll wait for the others.”
They sat in a silence only broken by the scratch of St. James’ pen on papers on his desk. Eventually three other men and their attendant womenfolk came into the office. Each introduced himself and shook hands. Although there were a few low whispers exchanged between the men and their wives, nothing was said aloud until Hobart St. James spoke up.
“Ahem. Thank you for coming here today, Mr. Armstrong, Mr. Caine, Mr. Ryan, Mr. Pride, Marshal Owens, and ladies, of course. I asked you here due to the death of my client, Mr. John Hastings, your father.”
A murmur of unease made him pause and shuffle his papers until quiet settled over the room again.
“You gentlemen are the heirs to his estate, which, while hardly enormous, was sizeable. Despite the circumstances of your births, Mr. Hastings kept track of you as much as he could. He traveled extensively for his career as a gambler. Occasionally, he had to leave towns somewhat speedily, but he kept many of his possessions in a small space, here in Denver. Eventually, he settled here where he had no trouble with the law. I have passed on the letters he kept from your mothers.”
“Thank you,” Abel interjected.
“He also kept journals. I believe he kept them for a purpose. We shall never know what exactly that purpose was, but they did help us identify each of you and find your whereabouts.” He shuffled papers again and adjusted his spectacles.
“Here is the text of his will.”
May 1, 1872
I, John Renfrew Hastings, being of sound mind, though failing health, do hereby acknowledge my five sons as my legal heirs. I leave them my estate, in the hopes that they will forgive my absence in their lives. I would never have been a good parent, and I knew that from the moment I found out about the eldest of you. It was a difficult decision to make, and one I am not proud of, but I believe it was the right and only decision I could make at the time. My congress with your mothers was, perhaps, less than wise, but each was irresistible in her own way, and I am not a man of great discipline. I only hope I have not missed one or more other children, begat over many years of philandering. Pinkerton has done its job well, if you are here for this event.
I wish you well, sons, and hope your days are easier for this bequest.
John Renfrew Hastings
Another murmur of discomfort spun around the room, and Abel saw more than one wary look from his brothers. St. James held up his hand to silence them.
“He was a hard and difficult man,” he said. “I knew him for many years. I firmly believe he thought he was doing right, even though each of you has reasons for disbelieving his sincerity. Be that as it may, he left each of you a tidy sum and a variety of possessions.
“Each of you is to receive fifty-thousand, one hundred, thirty-two dollars and eleven cents, and you may divide up his worldly goods or give them to charity, as you see fit. The journals are of particular significance and have no charitable value, so one of you should take possession of them.”
He pinned them with his froggy stare for a moment, then straightened papers on his desk. As he drew out a checkbook, everyone began talking at once.
“I’ll take the journals,” Abel said, addressing St. James.
The man looked up from his writing and nodded. “As the eldest, that makes a certain amount of sense. They’re in that bandbox over on the table.”
Sunny retrieved them and came back to Abel’s side.
Abel listened to the men’s and women’s comments for a few moments. “Not what I expected,” he murmured to his wife.
She tipped her head and gave him a concerned look. “How?”
“I don’t know, darlin’. When I thought of little brothers, I reckon I had an unrealistic expectation that they’d need an older brother, some guidance, some sort of authority figure. But, clearly, they’re grown men with lives that don’t include the Hastings bastards. It was a foolish notion on my part.”
“Give them time, Abel.”
He nodded. “Do you have your callin’ cards?”
“Yes.”
Abel took her hand and led him over to the lawyer’s desk. “May I borrow a pencil?”
Flustered, Hobart St. James took a moment to parse the request. “Out on my secretary’s desk. Take whatever you like.”
“Thank you.”
“Wait a moment,” St. James said, scrawling his signature on a bank draft. “This is yours. Spend it wisely.”
Abel seriously considered turning it down. He wasn’t there for the money. But common sense overrode his pride; that money would be useful, and it wasn’t like his pockets were full all the time. He took the check, folded it and put it in his suit coat pocket.
He turned to Sunny. “Hand me your callin’ cards.” She rooted around in her reticule and came up with a small stack of cards. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
She looked slightly dazed for a moment but nodded her agreement.
Abel left the noisy room and made his way into the anteroom, directly to the desk there. There was a pencil in the drawer, but better still, a dip pen and ink on the blotter. Abel carefully wrote out his name and address on the back of four cards, blotted them, and put the pen and ink to rights.
He re-entered the lawyer’s office.
Things had quieted down somewhat, and people were taking turns asking questions. Abel’s goal was simple: remain in contact with his brothers. In terms of time, he couldn’t afford to stay in Denver much longer. He had a business to run and a life to live in Carrollton, but he hoped, with this extra care, he could share something with one or more of the brothers he’d just met.
Without interrupting the questions, he handed each man the calling card, with his name and address face up. “I hope you’ll write,” he said. “Come visit, if you can.”
The men took the cards and met Abel’s gaze squarely. A few agreed to correspond, but Clinton Ryan asked about the journals Abel had already claimed. Abel readily agreed to send them to Clinton after he’d finished reading them, and that seemed to satisfy the man well enough. It was a small thing to do for a brother.
* * *
Abel’s mood had lightened after the meeting at the lawyer’s office. He seemed more hopeful than he had before, though he was thoughtful and quiet for the rest of the afternoon and evening.
Sunny found the entire situation somewhat bizarre. Her hus
band, who heretofore had been an only child, was now part of a large family. As an only child herself, Sunny felt a bit overwhelmed, somewhat as she’d been when confronted by all the Taggarts. But this was different; this time, the family was distant, hard to get to know. Perhaps they’d even lose track of each other as quickly as they’d been found.
That night, while Abel was sitting in the hotel room rocking chair reading his father’s journals, Sunny sat at his feet and rested her head on his knee. She was quiet, even when he began to stroke her loose hair.
“I can’t imagine being this cold,” he said softly. Sunny knew he was referring to Hastings.
“You’re not like him, Abel.”
“No, thank the Lord, I’m not. My mother, though she obviously had her secrets, still instilled in me the knowledge of right and wrong. Michael Armstrong reinforced that, sometimes with a switch, but he was a good man, and I’m better for havin’ been raised by him.”
“Yes, you are. Mr. Hastings would not have loved you like your father did.”
“No, I suppose not.” He sighed. “We’ll never know, will we?” It was a statement more than a question.
“No, my love, we won’t.” She patted his leg. “Come to bed?”
“In a little while,” he told her. “You go ahead.”
“I’ll stay up with you.”
“No, sweetheart. I’m not good company right now, and it’s late. I’ll be there shortly.”
Sunny got under the blanket and rested. She didn’t think she could sleep without Abel next to her anymore. He was her anchor, so dependable, solid, someone she could rely upon. She wished they could get back to Carrollton right away, but their train didn’t leave until mid-morning the next day, and then the journey would be long and uncomfortable. That notwithstanding, it was time to go home.
* * *
Carrollton was much as it had been when they left. But Abel was changed. There was anticipation in his step every day, and he went to the tiny post office daily, whereas he wouldn’t have gone but once a week before.
Sunny did what she could to make their house a home, using the skills she’d gleaned from her Aunt Elizabeth and from many hours with the Winslow housekeeper in Kansas City. Her mother was a constant visitor and was making plans to move in with them. Sunny was of two minds where that was concerned. She wanted to be there for her mother, to give the older woman stability, but she didn’t want to be under her mother’s thumb.
She was discussing this with Abel over supper one night when he offered her a solution to her problem.
“Why don’t we take some of that inherited money and build your mother a house out back. Big enough for her and maybe a housekeeper. I know your mother is used to havin’ help with the chores, and we can afford it now.”
“Oh, Abel! Can we do that? Are you sure?”
He nodded. “I’ll get it started tomorrow.”
Sunny rushed from her chair and wrapped her arms around her big husband. “Thank you! Thank you!”
He replied with a gruff noise, but there was a smile on his face.
“I’ll tell her tomorrow; I have to go to town anyway. She’ll be happy, I’m sure.”
“I hope so. I have to admit, I’m a bit tired of her plannin’ to move in with us. I love you, darlin’, but I didn’t marry your mother.”
“You got us both in the deal,” she said with a grin.
“Hmm. I reckon so.”
Sunny felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Now if only Abel’s heart could become lighter.
They made love that night, and Sunny was as abandoned as she’d ever been. How she loved her husband!
The next day, Sunny told her mother about the house they’d be building for her and then headed back to town. Among other errands, she stopped by the mercantile, where the post office was located. To her surprise, there was a letter waiting there for Abel.
She rushed home with it secured inside her reticule.
Abel was busy in his forge, but this one time, she interrupted his hot work.
“You have a letter!”
He put the horseshoe he was making into water and steam arose. His hair was damp around his face, his arms and hands were dirty, and his leather apron had seen better days. But Sunny loved the sight of him. He looked so dynamic there in his forge.
“Open it.”
“Are you sure? I mean, it’s addressed to you.”
“Open it.”
Sunny had the feeling that he was putting off potential disappointment, distancing himself from whatever that letter held just in case it wasn’t what he hoped for.
Sunny tore it open and removed the sheet inside. After clearing her throat, she began to read aloud.
September 30, 1872
Dear Brother Abel,
“Oh, my goodness!” Sunny practically squealed. “It’s from one of your brothers.”
Abel’s jaw tightened, and she could see his white-knuckled grip on his hammer. “What does it say?”
Sunny started reading again.
I hope this missive finds you and your bride well.
As we are practically neighbors, I hope we might meet to renew our acquaintance and learn more about each other. The way we met was so unconventional, I fear I did not take advantage of it as I should have.
“I didn’t either,” Abel interjected.
If you are amenable, perhaps my wife Annie and I can call upon you in two weeks’ time.
I look forward to your reply.
Yr brother,
Matthew Caine
“Let me clean up here,” Abel said, a bright note in his voice. “I’ll write back to him right away.”
“Oh, Abel,” Sunny gushed. “I’m so happy for you!”
“Go on inside. It’s hot out here.”
Grinning from ear to ear, Sunny hurried into the house and put the letter on their roll-top desk in the parlor.
It looked like Abel had his family after all. Of course, he didn’t know about the family they’d begun themselves. Sunny smiled to herself and patted her belly. “You’ve got an uncle,” she told her unborn child.
Abel gasped from the doorway. “What did you say?”
“I…uh…”
“Sunny.”
“I’m increasing,” she told him, her cheeks going hot. “The baby’s due in the spring.”
Abel rushed to her, grabbed her up and swung her around, hooting with joy. Soon, he put her down on their settee and apologized.
“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? Are you feelin’ alright?”
“I’m fine. The doctor says I’m well. I went and saw him about those bouts of nausea I was having in the mornings, but I suspected what it was.”
He rubbed her hands. “You’ve made me the happiest man.”
“I’m very happy, too, my love.”
“I’ll write to Matthew. He might be interested to know he’s going to be an uncle.” He almost rose, but sat down again. “You’re sure you’re alright? I didn’t squeeze you too hard?”
“I’m fine, really. Go write your letter. We have months to be excited.”
Abel stood and gave her a quick kiss. His face had a smudge of soot on one cheek, but Sunny wouldn’t have cared if he’d been covered in grime. He was hers, and she was the blacksmith’s bride.
The End
Patricia Green
I began writing for publication at age seven, when a poem I wrote was printed in a children's magazine. A long time went by before I got interested in further publications. I guess I was resting on my laurels. Now, I'm the author of more than twenty novels and novellas.
Although I'm an American, I live in Canada with my husband and a whole lot of houseplants.
Things to note: my books are all romances, in that they are about people falling in love and living happily ever after. They also have quite a bit of erotic/adult content, so be ready for the spicy stuff.
Enjoy!
Visit her website here:
www.patriciagreenbooks.co
m
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(The Sons of Johnny Hastings)
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Renee Rose
©2014 by Blushing Books® and Renee Rose
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