by Hill, April
“What about you?” she asked. “ It seems to me like you didn’t come out a whole lot cleaner than I did.”
“I’m the hearty pioneer, remember? I’ll wash up on the porch. Get those quilts out. We’re going to need them.”
Elyn knelt on the chilled bedroom floor, opened the old trunk, and grabbed the first quilts she saw. When she stood up, though, something heavy slipped out from between them, and hit the floor with a thud. A large pasteboard box. She swore, afraid that she’d broken a treasured Harper family heirloom. As she was about to open the box to check for damage, Griff came to the door.
“I’m sorry,” she groaned. “I think I may have broken whatever’s in this box. It made a sound like…”
“Open it,” he told her.
“First, tell me it’s not the only picture left of your grandmother,” she said. “Or of you as a baby, naked on a bearskin rug.”
“Open it.”
“Do I get spanked again if it’s in pieces?”
“Could be. It cost more than all the damned parlor furniture put together.”
“You could have lied, you know, and said it wasn’t worth anything—to make me feel better.”
“I thought we agreed there’d be no more lies—even little white ones.”
With a sinking heart, Elyn untied the faded green string that held the crushed box together, and pried off the top. Two layers of discolored tissue paper later, her fingertips touched something smooth and hard, and she pulled out a wooden harp—a two-feet tall, ornately carved, golden harp.
She began to cry. “But, when?” she sobbed.
“A few years ago,” Griff explained. “I saw it in a catalogue and figured you might like it.” He pointed to a small leather book that lay in the bottom of the box. “There’s a song book, too. Take a look at page eight.”
She picked up the little book, and leafed through the first few pages. “I can’t read it,” she said sadly. “The writing is in…”
He knelt beside her and opened the little book to page eight. “Gaelic. All the songs are translated at the back, though.”
Elyn smiled as she read aloud the title at the top of the page he’d selected. “Eileen a ‘Roon. It’s kind of pretty, now that I see it written on a page like that.”
“I know a valley fair,
I know a cottage, there,
And in the valley shade,
I know a tender maid, Flower o’ the hazel glade,
Eileen a ‘Roon.
“Now wilt thou come away,
Eileen a ‘Roon?
And wilt thy come to stay,
Eileen a ‘Roon?”
Griff took the book from her hand, then stood up and pulled her to her feet.“The tub’s ready,” he said.
She glanced down at the pile of old blankets. “Would it be warmer if we… if we were… If we just slept in the same bed, I mean.”
He nodded. “I’m sure it would. I need to warn you, though. Amos likes to crawl in with me when he gets lonely for company.”
She ran her finger across the tall headboard. “I’ve been meaning to ask about that,” she said, pointing to a design burned deep into the wood. “That’s the brand you use, isn’t it?”
He traced his own finger over the two large letters, one on each side of a central figure. A ‘G,’ and an ‘H’—for Griffin Harper.”
“And what’s the other thing?” she asked. “The odd little humped shape between the G and the H?”
He shook his head. “The blacksmith in Mill City didn’t know what a harp looked like. That was his best try. At the County Land Office, the deed to this place is actually registered as The Golden Harp ranch.” Griff’s face flushed. “Like they say, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
“That harp of yours has been in the box for a few years, by the way,” he said, quickly changing the subject, “so, it’s probably going to need some new strings. And knowing Wells Fargo, that’s going to take a while—maybe ‘til spring.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Elyn said softly. “Unless you still want to throw me out.”
Griff touched his lips to the top of her head—possibly the only completely clean spot left on Elyn’s body. “That could happen faster than you think,” he announced, “unless you get moving and get your backside in that tub. Since I got old enough to know better, I try not to sleep with filthy women.”
Elyn smiled, and then stood on her toes to kiss him. “I won’t be long.”
“Take your time,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere either.”
THE END
April Hill
April Hill is a best-selling author of women’s romance, known for her wry humor, sensitive character development and of course, the love.
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But Honey, I Can Explain! Volume One
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Anthologies:
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