Roots of Wood and Stone Page 4

  Garrett yanked on a clean pair of jeans and whipped shut the lid of his suitcase. The past was long gone. Reminiscing would only heap pain upon pain.

  The ancient stairs creaked beneath his footsteps as he descended to the living room, where Lauren, Grandma, and Sloane all huddled together, heads bent over something Sloane held.

  “There he is.” Sloane’s smile was evident in her voice.

  “Who?” He came around the edge of the sofa.

  “Pretty sure we found Annabelle’s dad.” Sloane held up a tablet, eyes shining behind black-framed glasses.

  The image of a stone monument filled the screen, a list of names and ranks engraved into its surface. Including a Lieutenant Collins, Company I, 19th Indiana Infantry.

  “This is at Gettysburg,” she said.

  “Ah, the Iron Brigade.”

  Sloane’s eyebrows arched, and he grinned, pleased to have impressed her.

  “I’m surprised he made it out alive.” He leaned down to study the picture. “That unit suffered some pretty heavy losses at Gettysburg, if memory serves.”

  “Look who knows something about history.”

  He shrugged. “I went through a bit of a Civil War phase as a kid.”

  “A bit?” Lauren scoffed. “Your cannon collection covered your entire dresser.”

  “Yes. Well.” He wasn’t about to let Lauren get started on embarrassing childhood stories. “Are we sure this is the right guy?”

  “According to his service record, he’s about the right age, and I found two more Collinses from the same town in Indiana. Nineteen-year-old Charles and seventeen-year-old Joseph. I have more sources I can check to confirm, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure this is him.”

  “Now, you let us know.” Rosie raised a finger and peered at Sloane over the tops of her glasses. “Can’t leave an old woman hanging in the middle of a good story.”

  Sloane took Rosie’s hand in both of hers, and the gesture wrapped Garrett’s heart in warmth. “I’ll give you guys a call the instant I find out anything.”

  “You’re looking a little tired, Grandma.” Lauren rose from her chair. “Would you like to lie down?”

  “I am feeling a bit tuckered.”

  “Can I help?” Garrett stood, but Lauren waved him off, a cryptic smile on her face.

  “You stay. Give me the Cliff’s Notes of whatever you find in that diary.” Before Garrett could protest, his grandmother and sister rounded the corner to the bedroom, and he was left with Sloane.

  “Diary?” he asked. “You guys found another one somewhere?”

  “Lauren did.” Sloane slipped on a pair of thin white gloves, her face alight. “Come on. Let’s see what Annabelle’s up to.”

  She looked so eager he couldn’t resist, even if he wanted to. He sank into the spot vacated by his grandmother, and Sloane scooted closer, holding the diary between them. Some fruity scent wafted from her hair. Strawberries, maybe. It brought him back to childhood summers on the farm.

  “So.” He fixed his gaze on the faded pages. “What’s going on with Miss Annabelle?”

  “It’s 1864 now. Annabelle’s twelve, and her father’s getting remarried.” Sloane’s finger traced the lines of childish handwriting. “‘I’ve had a letter from Papa, and I am to have a new mama!’”

  “What happened to her old mama?”

  “Smallpox. The whole family caught it, and they lost both Annabelle’s mother and baby sister.”

  “Wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” Garrett wasn’t aware he’d spoken aloud until he caught a glimpse of wide, concerned brown eyes.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Lauren said your mom …”

  “Yeah. Breast cancer.” The words were dull. Empty. “She’s been gone six years.”

  Sloane’s small gloved hand rested on his. “That must be difficult.”

  She sounded so sad he wanted to comfort her. “Her pain’s over now. She’s with Jesus. I wouldn’t wish her back, not in a million years.”

  “Doesn’t mean you don’t miss her, though. And for that, I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” He returned his attention to the page. “What happens next?”

  Sloane scanned the next few pages, her long eyelashes flitting back and forth. “Here’s something … Wow. Poor girl.”

  Garrett bent his head to read the text and caught another whiff of that fruity scent.

  My heart is broken. Papa and his new wife have bought a farm in Pennsylvania so they can be nearer to her family. And what’s worse, she is going to have a baby! Papa says she has lost babies before and is “in a delicate condition,” so she cannot travel and he cannot leave her. He assures me I will be happier with Uncle and Aunt than I ever would with him and Huldah.

  I thought I was to have a mother again. A family. But Papa has a new family now, and there’s no place in it for me.

  Garrett gave a bitter laugh. “Never thought I’d have so much in common with a tween girl from 1864.”

  Sloane arched a brow. “How so?”

  “While Mom was sick, Dad found a kindred spirit in an online support forum. A woman whose husband died of pancreatic cancer a couple months before Mom. So when she passed, Dad flew down to Florida to meet Debbie. I thought they were just friends, but the next thing I know, he’s calling from Jamaica telling me I’ve got a new stepmom.” Garrett tented his fingers. “He sold his practice, the house … I’ve barely heard from him since. It’s like he wants to close the book on that whole part of his life.”

  Sloane stared at him. “You’ve really lost everyone, haven’t you?”

  “Everyone except Lauren.” He flashed a wry smile. “I keep hoping, but …”

  Laughing, Sloane shoved his shoulder. “Come on. Lots of us would kill to have a sibling.”

  “And those of us with siblings would sometimes kill not to have them.”

  An odd expression flickered across Sloane’s heart-shaped face, but before he could decipher it she was back to business, turning pages in the diary. “Annabelle’s not writing as regularly anymore. Every few weeks instead of every few days. But at least she’s still writing.”

  “Her handwriting’s getting better too.”

  “She mentions school occasionally. Her aunt and uncle are doing right by her. In fact, she’s—” Sloane gasped. Her gentle grip on his wrist sent a jolt of heat through his body.

  “Oh, Garrett, this is big.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  September 23, 1869

  THE TICK OF the mantel clock echoed like gunshots. Annabelle gaped across the parlor, first at Uncle Stephen, then at Aunt Katherine. “He what?”

  Uncle Stephen’s eyes sparkled behind his spectacles. “Asked for your hand in marriage.”

  The room tilted. Annabelle gripped the arms of the velvet chair to steady herself. “I—I was unaware of William’s intention.”

  William Barclay, the young man with impossibly blond hair and ruddy cheeks. Her uncle’s apprentice and partner in medicine. She’d grown up with him, considered him a friend, but …

  “He’s been calling regularly.” The creases around Uncle Stephen’s eyes deepened.

  Annabelle’s brows shot up. “Calling?” Was that what all those Sunday afternoon visits had been? Visits during which William spoke more with her uncle than with her?

  “And you’ll be eighteen next spring,” Aunt Katherine piped up over her teacup. “Not so young to wed.”

  “I suppose not …” Rebecca Mead, three months her junior, had married in May. “But he never … Perhaps he mentioned marriage a time or two, but as a concept, not with intent—at least none that he made clear.” Her hand flew to her forehead. “Oh, am I truly this dull?”

  Aunt Katherine beamed. “Annabelle, dear, you’re in shock. Once you’ve had time to think it over, you’ll see it’s for the best.”

  For the best. Papa’s voice bridged the gap of years. Yes, for him, and his shiny new bride, and their children—three of them now, according to his most recent letter—it undeniab
ly was for the best not to have her hanging around, stirring up memories of a time when life wasn’t so rosy.

  She too had benefited from the arrangement. Her aunt and uncle were kind, and she’d been blessed with a thorough education, both academic and spiritual.

  But there was no denying the hole her father’s departure had gouged into her heart. The utter upheaval his decisions had brought to her life, upheaval in which she’d had no say. Upheaval that loomed larger with each word from Aunt Katherine’s lips, at the look in her gray-blue eyes, eyes so like Papa’s …

  Annabelle drew herself up in her chair. “Uncle Stephen, you’ve always counseled me to approach important decisions carefully and with much prayer. Why must this move so quickly? William is a good friend, but I don’t love him the way I want to love a husband. And he looks at me the same way he looks at his sister. Affectionate, perhaps, but not with love. Not the way Papa looked at Mama …” Annabelle studied her aunt and uncle. “What’s really going on?”

  The pair exchanged a telling glance, and Uncle Stephen cleared his throat.

  “These last weeks I’ve felt a certain … disquiet in my spirit. I always planned to live out my days here, but I’ve recently received a call from the Lord to move to Kansas—”

  “Kansas?” The word was a squeak.

  “Please don’t interrupt, darling,” came Aunt Katherine’s gentle reprimand.

  But Uncle Stephen seemed not even to have heard. “The frontier communities are in desperate need of doctors. Preachers. Teachers. People of all walks of life. So I’ve filed for a claim in Sedgwick County.”

  Outside the open window a bird burst into song, its cheerful serenity out of tune with Annabelle’s heart.

  “But what about your patients?”

  “They’ll be in good hands. Dr. Barclay is more than qualified to take over my practice.” Uncle Stephen’s words tumbled out more rapidly than usual. “I arranged for him to do so when I retired. But it seems the good Lord has a different plan.” He reached toward Aunt Katherine, who intertwined her fingers with his. They gazed at each other like a couple twenty years younger.

  Annabelle scrabbled for traction. “How do you know this is the Lord’s will?”

  “The Great Commission calls us to go and make disciples of all nations, even to the ends of the earth. I’ve been drawn to that passage the last few nights, though I wasn’t certain why. I’ve read it—prayed over it—countless times, asking the Lord to reveal to me what I am to do with his instruction.” Uncle Stephen leaned forward, color in his cheeks. “Then one night I dreamed—vividly—of a young dark-haired man holding an infant, begging the Lord to send a doctor.” His eyes shone. “That’s when I knew.”

  “And you’re in agreement?” Annabelle looked to Aunt Katherine, who nodded. “That’s it then? You’re moving to Kansas, and you want to marry me off so you won’t have to worry about me? So I won’t be in the way?” Panic turned the question shrill.

  “Of course you wouldn’t be in the way.” Aunt Katherine’s eyes were soft. Earnest. “We’d love to have you with us. But …”

  “The frontier is a harsh, dangerous place.” Uncle Stephen’s voice lowered with warning. “And there are no shops. No railroads. Everyone is starting from nothing. The luxuries, the comforts to which you’ve grown accustomed simply don’t exist there.”

  Annabelle stared. “You’re bartering me off to William Barclay so I can keep my porcelain teapots and lace curtains?”

  “It really is for the best.” Aunt Katherine’s gaze dropped to the floor.

  “How is it for the best for me to sit on a shelf while everyone else does something worthwhile with their lives?” Annabelle braced for the inevitable reprimand, but none came. She pressed her advantage. “I’ll not stay here and live in comfortable boredom, tethered to a man I don’t love, merely reading about the Great Commission while the only family I have left is living it out.”

  “But—”

  “Who will assist you with patients if William stays here? You know Aunt Katherine gets queasy at the sight of blood. Or you said they need teachers too. Why could I not do that?”

  A line formed between Uncle Stephen’s bushy brows. “You would forgo a comfortable, companionable marriage in favor of teaching in a ramshackle schoolhouse? Or setting broken bones and treating burns?”

  Annabelle met her uncle’s gaze. His was uncertain, but she’d never been more certain of anything in her life.

  “I’ll not be left behind again. I simply won’t. Especially not without any say in the matter.”

  Her aunt and uncle exchanged another glance. The mantel clock ticked ever louder as Annabelle awaited their verdict.

  Finally Uncle Stephen spoke. “I didn’t realize you’d feel so strongly about it.”

  Aunt Katherine nodded. “We thought you’d rather stay here with William.”

  “Remember the day you gave me my first diary?” She looked from her aunt to her uncle. “And how you said the Lord was cooking up a grand adventure for me? One that would take everything I’ve got?”

  Uncle Stephen smiled. “I do recall saying that, yes.”

  “I think Kansas may be my adventure.” Conviction flooded her as her lips formed the syllables, and she lifted her chin. “I know it is. I feel it to the marrow of my bones.”

  Sloane paged through the diary as quickly as she dared. “I wonder if Uncle Stephen is Dr. Stephen Maxwell, one of the county’s first physicians.”

  “And if it is?” Curiosity sparked in Garrett’s cobalt eyes.

  “Then these diaries are quite the find. We know a fair amount about Dr. Maxwell but not much about his family.” She set the diary on the sofa beside her, then stripped off her gloves and reached for her tablet. With a few taps on the screen, she opened an early history of Sedgwick County, scrolled, and—

  “Here. ‘Dr. S. A. Maxwell, Jamesville, born in Ohio County, Kentucky, son of Arthur and Evangeline Maxwell. Married in 1849 to Miss Katherine Collins. No children, but brought his niece Annabelle with him to the county.’” Sloane beamed at Garrett, the joy of discovery bubbling within. “There she is.”

  “What’s up, Annabelle?” Garrett waved at the screen, and Sloane dissolved into laughter. Maybe she was just that happy to find Annabelle.

  Or maybe it was the thrill of sharing her passion with someone. Someone warm and strong, whose eyes were the same deep blue as the river on a clear day …

  Before her thoughts could wander too far in that direction, Sloane skimmed the rest of the brief biography. “Let’s see, came to Kansas from Brown County … settled near Jamesville in 1871 … founding member of the Methodist Episcopal Church …”

  Garrett leaned closer, a hint of fresh soap and woodsy cologne in his wake. “Is Annabelle in there anywhere?”

  “It’s unlikely there’d be an entry about her, since most of the early histories focused on the men. But we could try the census index. Since they didn’t take their land until 1871, it might be difficult to pin them down. There was another census in 1875, though, so let’s check there.” A few more taps to her tablet and the census popped up. “Martinson … Matthews … here we are. Maxwell. Stephen A., doctor, fifty-two, Katherine, forty-nine. That’s got to be them.”

  “Where’s Annabelle?” Garrett asked.

  “Not living with the Maxwells in 1875. That’s all we know for sure. Given her age, it’s likely she married, but frontier life was no cakewalk. She may not have made it to 1875.”

  “Nah. She’s made of tougher stock than that.”

  “You have a lot of faith in her.”

  Garrett’s mouth quirked. “Just a stubborn sense of optimism.”

  Smiling, Sloane slipped the tablet into her bag. “Well, now that I know who Uncle Stephen is, I can do more research. Look at land records, find exactly where their claim was, see if I can track down Annabelle.”

  Garrett’s brow furrowed. “That’s a lot of trouble to go to for people who’ve been dead a hundred years.”


  “A few names get all the attention, but the ones who don’t show up in the textbooks are just as important. We owe it to them to learn their stories. Sometimes it helps fill in our own blanks.” Avoiding his probing gaze, she slid the diary into a protective sleeve. “I was abandoned as a baby. Adopted by strangers. So my family, my heritage … there are a whole lot of blanks.”

  Garrett was slow to answer. “I see.”

  She picked at the dry cuticle on her right thumb. “My parents—my adoptive parents—gave me everything I could’ve wanted. But …”

  “You don’t know who you really are.”

  The chasm within yawned, as it did whenever she allowed herself to consider the questions that had defined her existence. “Pretty much.”

  “Have you tried looking for your birth family?”

  “Off and on. There’s a website I search sometimes. Adoptees looking for birth parents and vice versa. But there’s not much information available. I didn’t even know I was adopted until I was nine.”

  Dark blond brows lifted. “Really?”

  Sloane picked at her cuticle with more determination. “I wondered, y’know. Because my parents are both tall, fair, and blond. And then there’s me. This short, chubby brunette.” She sighed. “I remember watching my mom curl her hair one day, seeing how light it was compared to mine, how thin she was … half kidding, I asked if I was adopted.”

  Blue eyes turned serious. “And they told you?”

  Sloane pressed her lips together and nodded. “They did, but it was just confirmation at that point. Because she paused. My mother paused.” A mirthless chuckle slipped out. “What biological parent has to pause when their child asks if they’re adopted?”