by Kay Hooper
“Particularly when the dead remained buried?”
“Exactly.” Falcon hesitated, then said, “Ironic, isn’t it? They went to all that trouble—and the man they had so carefully picked to replace the president was assassinated two years later anyway.”
Jesse asked about The Raven, and Tyrone explained briefly. Falcon told Tyrone the details of what had happened in New Mexico and Texas, filling in the rest of the story.
With a touch of rueful amusement Tyrone invited them to remain a few days. He thought it odd that after so many years of him and Falcon warily circling each other, they should at last have reached a point that appeared to be the cautious beginning of friendship. He was pleased when they accepted the invitation to stay in his house.
Later, as they were all cleaning up before lunch, Tyrone and Catherine had their first moment alone since the confrontation out on the cliff.
In the bedroom they shared, Catherine said fiercely, “You were going to throw yourself at Sheridan, weren’t you?’’
“It wasn’t,” Tyrone said in a wry tone, “an option I was entirely happy with.”
“But you would have done it?”
He eyed her somewhat warily. After all she had gone through these last days, Catherine had been far more subdued than he was accustomed to seeing her; it seemed, however, that she was now rapidly regaining her more normal stubborn, sharp-tongued assurance.
She stood facing him squarely, slender hands on her hips, blue eyes gleaming. Her dark hair fell about her shoulders like a silky curtain, and the simple white blouse and dark skirt she wore made her look delicate and feminine.
He thought she was beautiful.
“Marc—”
Tyrone cleared his throat. “It didn’t come to that, after all.”
She stepped toward him and lifted her chin high. “If I had wanted a lapdog,” she said, her voice losing
none of its fierceness for being soft, “I certainly wouldn’t have fallen in love with you. However—”
“However?” he asked.
“You promised to grow old with me.”
He smiled slowly. “Yes, I did.”
“And I’m going to hold you to that promise. So I expect you to stop being so infernally reckless.”
“I’m never reckless.”
“Marc . . .”
Chuckling, he pulled her into his arms. “I told you before, darling. A man with as much to live for as I have isn’t an easy man to kill.”
She melted against him. “You just make sure of that, dammit,” she said.'! intend to wed only once.”
“I’ll make very sure of that,” he promised, and kissed her.
Victoria watched as Falcon found his journal in the bags they had brought from the ship. “An end to the story?” she asked.
He carried the leather-bound journal to the small secretary in their bedroom and sat down, looking at it thoughtfully. Then his gaze lifted to his wife. “It’s a private journal,” he said slowly. “And all the damaging information is in my own code. The chances of anyone else understanding or even reading what I’ve written in it are slim.”
She smiled. “And it isn’t really ended until you write it all down?”
“And old habit,” he had apologized.
“What will you do with the journal?”
He shrugged. “Take it back to Killara, I expect. There are a few journals from various members of the family stored there. Mine will join them.” He smiled crookedly. “To molder away into dust through the years.”
On impulse, Victoria gave him the assurance he was looking for. “Then make the entry. You won't be really content until the entire story is there, questions answered. The search for the gold was a large part of your life—and mine. It’s too important not to finish in every way.”
Falcon nodded and picked up a pen.
Later that afternoon Tyrone asked Jesse about another of his ships. “Is The Ladyhawke back in New York yet?”
Jesse shook his head. “Probably on the return journey from San Francisco by now. Why? You want me to send her down here?”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Tyrone said in a polite tone. “I hesitate to ask after your explosion—”
Jesse made a rude noise. “The ships don’t bother me. It’s the damned paperwork I hate. So you’ll be staying on here for a few months?”
“Yes, I think so. Whether we spend most of our time here or in New York is up to Catherine, so—”
“What’s up to me?” Catherine asked, coming into the room.
“The decision about where we’ll live,” he told her.
Calmly she said, “No, it’s up to you.”
He eyed her.”Why?”
“You have a shipping business to think of.”
“I may hire that manager Jesse recommended,” Tyrone said thoughtfully. “I’d like to show you the world.”
“Will you show me that house in Spain?”
He started laughing. “No!”
“They wouldn’t let me in?” she asked curiously.
“They wouldn’t let you out, more likely.”
Jesse was bewildered. “What house in Spain?”
“Never mind,” both Catherine and Tyrone said repressively, and Jesse retired, crushed, to wonder about houses in Spain.
Late that afternoon, as the sun was setting, they buried Abraham Lincoln on a bluff overlooking the sea. The grave was unmarked and in time would become a part of the wild landscape behind Tyrone's big stone house. The blue sky would become a head-stone, and ivy would grow a protective layer over the ground. The sound of the ocean was steady and constant there, the eternal rhythm of the earth’s heartbeat.
No words were said over the grave.
When Reuben, Sarah, and Mrs. Tully had gone back to the house, the others stood in silence for a while.
Of all those involved, they were the five whose lives had been most intertwined with a stolen shipment of Union gold and a deception the world would never know about. They had each played a vital role in history that clearly had also enormously altered their own lives.
Catherine thought of what her life would have been if Tyrone had not built his secret home on Port Elizabeth, thought of the emptiness she would have suffered without him. Of tbem all, she had been least hurt by the secrets.
She became aware, gradually, that Falcon, Victoria, and Jesse had quietly gone, leaving her and Tyrone alone. She looked up at him as they stood close together, and asked the final question.
“It’s over?”
He looked at her, and his lips curved in the smile that had changed her life forever. “It’s over, Catherine. The past is buried for good now.”
Then he put his arm around her, and walked with her back to the house.
Epilogue
The final entry in Falcon Delaney’s journal was dated less than a year later. It was brief, uncoded, and occupied a single page alone.
Under the date of August 1872 were the words:
Born to Marcus and Catherine Tyrone this month, a son.
Named Abraham.
Wednesday Evening
Fairweather Farm
Kentucky
My Dear Maureen,
I know it’s been several months since you’ve heard from me, but as you can see from the heading of this letter, I've been traveling again. I’m writing you from Mr. Shane Marston’s Thoroughbred farm here in Kentucky; you should remember he’s the husband of Miss Addie Delaney of the Australian branch of our family. Miss Addie was the only one of the three girls who decided to live here in America, and I must say I’m glad to have at least one of them “nearby.”
If you’re wondering why I’m here, it’s because none of my dear boys would hear of me going off to Australia just now, especially since Miss Cara is due within the month. Mr. Burke said firmly he’d have me for his firstborn, just like his brothers did. Isn’t that nice!
Anyway, since I had a hankering to see Miss Addie’s little girl, Mr. Burke sent me out here for a coupl
e of weeks, but made me promise I’d come home the instant he called—as if there was any doubt of that!
Oh, Maureen, you should see Miss Addie’s little girl! She’s a toddler now—Katie they call her—and she’s a love. A tiny redhead, with big dark eyes like her mother and the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen. Already, she has everyone around scrambling to please her, and it’s fair magic the way that child has with animals. Why, Miss Addie’s koala, that Sebastian, just follows her around like a puppy—even though I’d swear that creature was asleep most of the time.
Miss Addie’s the same as Katie, with that soft voice and sweet smile. You can see that the people around here, friends and employees, just dote on her. As for her husband, why Mr. Shane looks at her with such a glow in his eyes it brings tears to your own. And that little Katie can wrap her father around her tiny finger any time she pleases. It’s a good thing that child is so sweet-natured; she’d be spoiled rotten other-wise! Mr. Shane swears they're both enchanted, and I think he’s right. My Delaney family is special—I’ve always said so.
We had visitors here from Australia a few days ago. The pretty lady who used to valet Miss Addie when she was racing came here with her new husband. Her name is Storm, and her husband’s name is Tate Justin. They’re a fiery pair and no mistake! One minute they're standing toe to toe snapping at each other, and the next they’re cooing like turtledoves. They must be Irish!
I’ve been here a week now, and have had a fine time. Kentucky is quite a change from Arizona, being so green and shady, almost like Ireland. It’s a lovely place, but I suppose I’ve been too long in Arizona to feel a kinship with such a climate. I find myself missing the browns and golds and hot dry air of my beloved Southwest. I think Miss Addie and Mr. Shane know I've been homesick, for it’s so kind they’ve been. Nothing would do but for Mr. Shane to tease me until I made a batch of my gingerbread for him. He pronounced it grand, and he must have meant it because later I saw him feeding some to Sebastian.
I believe I’ll finish this letter back at Killara. I know you’ll want to know about Miss Cara’s babies, and since I’m going home next week . . .
More later.
Tuesday evening
Killara
Maureen—
The babies are here, fine and healthy, and Miss Cara is doing wonderfully. They’ve named my darlings Brianne and Patrick, after two others of the family who lived long ago, and Mr. Burke is so happy he can’t stop smiling.
This family is so blessed! I’m looking forward to seeing to the babies and watching the next generation grow up strong and healthy, just as my boys did.
I was right in what I told you before, Maureen— the years I've spent at Killara and Shamrock have been full of love, and these people, these wonderful Delaneys, do indeed have a grand richness of spirit. How blessed I am!
Love,
Kathleen
P.S. One last thing I wanted to tell you, and thinking of how little Brianne and Patrick are named for long- ago Delaneys made me remember. I know I mentioned to you about all those dusty old journals Mr. Rafe is so crazy about? Well, when he and Miss Maggie came to see the twins, I heard them talking to the others.
It seems there’s one special journal, Falcon Delaney’s it is, and it’s written very oddly—code, Mr. Rafe says. Anyway, Miss Maggie has talked Mr. Rafe into sending the journal off to be deciphered. She thinks it’s bound to have exciting things in it, bits of history and all.
Just between you and me—and I’d never breathe a word to Mr. Rafe or Miss Maggie—I think they'll be disappointed. I mean to say, what could have happened that would have been so exciting?
Kathleen
Table of Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
Epilogue
