Roots of Wood and Stone Read online

  “You’re in a good mood.” Lauren stood in the doorway, one arm propped on the burnished wooden frame.

  He reached for another cookie. “Heard a good band.”

  “Must have. It’s one in the morning.”

  “You sound like Mom.” He rummaged through the fridge for something to wash down the cookies. Soy milk … almond milk … hemp milk? Was there no room in the world anymore for normal milk produced by cows, the way God intended?

  “So I was right then? About Marty’s?”

  “One-hundred-percent.” Almond milk looked the least offensive of the choices. He reached for the carton, closed the fridge, and found Lauren behind him with a glass in her outstretched hand.

  “You met someone.” It wasn’t a question.

  He took the glass and set it on the counter. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because you just admitted I’m right. You never do that. So you either met someone, or you had something stronger than club soda with a lime.” She leaned in and sniffed the shoulder of his shirt. “No, you smell more like chocolate than anything else. Maybe a little perfume.”

  Garrett stepped back. “Did you literally just smell me?”

  “Who is she?”

  “You mean you didn’t know?” She’d been awfully insistent he go to Marty’s, and trying to fix him up was not beyond her.

  But Lauren’s expression was blank. “Know what?”

  “Sloane’s the lead singer.”

  Lauren’s eyes almost popped out of her head. “Sloane is the singer? Oh ho. No wonder you stayed out so late.”

  “Okay, whatever you’re conjuring up right now, don’t. Sloane and I are just friends. I live three hours away, remember?”

  Lauren tilted her head. “Uh-huh. Is she why you smell like chocolate?”

  “We had dessert, yes. Delicious dessert, with sugar and carbs and everything.” He sloshed a little almond milk into the glass, took an experimental sniff, then tossed the cold beverage down his throat.

  Hmm. Not bad. Not anything he’d ever mistake for actual milk, but … not bad.

  “Can’t have been that delicious, the way you’re chowing down on my cookies.” Lauren jerked her head toward the pile on the plate, which had shrunk considerably. “Who bought this carb-a-palooza?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “So you did.”

  “A man can buy a woman dessert without ulterior motives.”

  “And keep her out until one in the morning? Also without ulterior motives?”

  He slid his empty glass into the dishwasher. “Lauren. Sloane sang beautifully, and then we sat and had cake and a conversation. We’re friends. That’s it.” The statement didn’t ring quite as true as he’d like.

  But that had to be it. He had Grandma to think about. His Series 7 exam to prepare for. Clients to focus on. He couldn’t let himself get distracted, no matter how enticing those distractions might be.

  Jenny Hickok had been one such distraction. And look what a disaster that turned out to be.

  “Okay.” Lauren still looked like she didn’t believe him.

  His brow creased. “You really didn’t know Sloane sang at Marty’s?”

  “Don’t you think I’d be gloating like nobody’s business if I did?”

  “Good point.” He grabbed another cookie, then pulled Lauren close for a quick hug. “G’night, Lo.”

  “Night night, lover boy.”

  Her singsong voice chased him all the way upstairs.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SUNDAY AFTERNOONS DIDN’T normally find Sloane in the depths of the museum’s archives, but her burning curiosity about Dr. Stephen Maxwell meant a post-church date with dusty documents, regardless of the day and time. The good doctor’s tireless dedication to caring for the earliest settlers was well-known, as was his rise to prominence as a physician and surgeon. But she was fuzzy on some of the details, like how one of the first churches in the area had met in his home. How he’d donated a portion of land in 1884 for the construction of a permanent church building.

  How one of the first schools in the township had met nearby. Taught for two terms by his niece, Miss Annabelle Collins.

  Eager to share her findings, Sloane pulled out her phone to call Garrett, but it buzzed in her hand before she got the chance. The flash of his number on-screen drew a smile.

  “I was just about to call you,” she said by way of greeting.

  “You were, huh?” Was she imagining it, or was there a flirtatious note in his voice? The sound brought a wash of memories from last night and a rush of pleasant goose bumps to her arms.

  “Not like … I mean, I found some stuff about Uncle Stephen. Not my Uncle Stephen. I don’t have an Uncle Stephen. Annabelle’s Uncle Stephen. Dr. Stephen Maxwell.”

  He chuckled. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

  “You’re annoying when you’re perceptive.”

  “So what’d you learn?”

  Sloane cleared her throat. “I confirmed that Stephen Maxwell filed for a quarter section in Sedgwick County in 1870, and another source mentioned his niece Annabelle teaching at a school nearby. I was about to look through the school district’s records to see if I could learn more.”

  “I suppose you could find out that way. Or you could hear about it from the girl herself.”

  Sloane’s eyebrows shot up. “You found another diary?”

  “Knew that’d get your attention.” His I’m-so-proud-of-myself smirk was audible, but her anticipation was too great to care. “Lauren found it in the spare bedroom.”

  “Have you read it? What does she say?”

  “Come on. What fun would it be if we didn’t look through it together?”

  Together. The word brought an exhilarating zing.

  “That does sound fun.” She reached for her day planner. “When can we meet?”

  “Are you near a window? Say, facing Main Street?”

  She crossed the room. “I am now.”

  “Look down.”

  She did, down three stories of limestone to the sidewalk, and there was Garrett, phone to his ear and that smirk on his face. In his other hand was a small book, with which he gave a jaunty yet careful wave.

  “I swung by on the off chance you might be digging up some dirt on Annabelle. Patience doesn’t seem like your strong suit.”

  Right again. As always.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  She stepped from the dim lobby into bright spring sunshine and found him sitting on a bench beneath a tree, surrounded by a sea of colorful blossoms. Their sweet fragrance wafted on the breeze as she settled beside him.

  “Hello again.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, the same way they had last night at Marty’s. But now up close, in broad daylight, through a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses …

  “Hi.” Pulling her archival gloves from her bag, she turned her attention to the diary. “What do we have?”

  “First page says May 29, 1871. Annabelle’s, what, eighteen? Nineteen now?”

  “Nineteen. Hey, I thought you said we’d read it together.”

  “I peeked.” One corner of his mouth quirked in an adorably mischievous way. “Surely that doesn’t count as reading.”

  “I suppose I’ll let you off the hook.” She threw him a glance of mock severity. “This time.”

  “Good.” Garrett leaned closer as she opened the diary.

  He must not have shaved since last night, because a hint of reddish blond stubble glinted in the sunlight. Sunlight that threw his cheekbone into shadow and highlighted the crease beside his mouth, and—

  Why was she staring at stubble and sunglasses when Annabelle Collins’s voice called to her from the pages of the diary in her hands?

  “Shall we?” Her voice was a little too bright. Her cheeks felt hot. Had Garrett noticed? She didn’t dare look at him, not now, but she caught a hint of a charmer grin out of the corner of her eye anyway.

  Drat. He’d noticed.

&
nbsp; The charmer grin deepened. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  May 29, 1871

  Pushing back her bonnet, Annabelle breathed deep of fresh spring air and tilted her face to the sun’s warming rays. There was a time long ago, so long she could scarce remember, when she’d have been reluctant to let sunlight kiss her skin lest she freckle. Back in Indiana. In the land of before.

  That covered-wagon trip to Kansas was the curtain separating the girl she’d been from the woman she’d become.

  Parts of that girl came with her. Like the diary on the corner of the worn quilt beneath her, pinning the tattered edge of fabric in place. She’d expected to need something heavier—a stone perhaps, or a sturdy branch—but the normally ceaseless wind was still today. As though even it were willing to take a Sabbath rest.

  The creek wasn’t, though. A week of rain had muddied its banks and stirred its lazy waters to life. Wild indigo bloomed brilliant in the fields. Sunbeams danced through shimmering cottonwoods, whose fluffy tufts drifted before her face like snowflakes. God’s presence brooded thick here on these Sunday afternoons by the creek. Thicker than it ever had in Indiana.

  A lock of sun-streaked hair blew across her eyes. As she brushed it back, movement in the creek caught her attention. Splashing. An otter perhaps?

  Annabelle’s breath caught. It was no otter. It was a child. A little boy.

  She sprang to her feet and raced for the water’s edge. Stumbled through the brush, half tripping, almost falling, but unwilling to tear her gaze from the struggling form. The boy’s head disappeared and her heart stopped, but then a thatch of dark hair surfaced. His mouth gaped. His eyes wide with terror.

  A fallen cottonwood branch caught her eye, and she grabbed it. If she acted now—got his attention, gave him something to hold on to—perhaps she could save him. Frantic, wordless prayers burned in her chest.

  “Hey!” The swollen stream drowned her words. She tried again. Louder. “Hey!”

  Spinning in the current, weighed down by his clothes, the boy looked up. His eyes locked on hers.

  “Take hold.” She held the branch out over the water. The boy’s small hand reached for it but missed by several inches. His head bobbed beneath the surface again.

  Too far away. She needed to get closer.

  Sinking in cold, muddy water to the tops of her shoes, Annabelle grabbed the trunk of a nearby cottonwood for support. Stretched the branch as far out as it would go. If she didn’t grab him now, she’d never catch him. And that was a possibility too painful to consider.

  “Take hold! Now!”

  The boy’s hand stretched from the water. Tantalizingly close. Just an inch or two. Father God, just give me one more inch. She leaned over the water as far as she dared. Her palm stung with the pressure of the tree’s rough bark. One more inch …

  There. Small fingers gripped the branch. One hand, then the other. She stumbled under the weight of the boy and his waterlogged clothes but remained upright, and the lad held on.

  Thank you, Father.

  “Now hold tight. I’m going to pull you up. Whatever you do, don’t let go.”

  The boy nodded his agreement, and Annabelle pulled with all her might. She dragged and yanked until his booted feet touched the muddy bank and he fell to his knees, coughing and spluttering. Wobbly with relief, Annabelle tossed the branch aside and knelt before him. Chilly mud seeped through her skirts.

  “Are you all right?” Placing her hands on the soaked shoulders of his cotton shirt, she peered into deep blue eyes that looked much too old for a face so young. He couldn’t be more than four or five.

  The trembling boy burst into tears.

  “You poor dear.” Annabelle scooped up the drenched child and carried him the short distance to where she’d been sitting. “How frightened you must have been. But you were very brave. And you’re safe now.”

  Pulling the quilt from beneath her belongings, she wrapped it around the boy and comforted him as best she could. When his sobs subsided, she released him from her embrace and tightened the quilt around his shoulders. “There you are. You’ll be warm and dry before you know it.”

  The boy wiped his nose on the worn edge of the fabric.

  Who was he? Too young for her schoolroom, but perhaps a student’s sibling? She scanned the small face for familial resemblance but found none.

  “My name is Annabelle.” She sat back on her heels, hands folded in her lap. “What’s yours?”

  “Oliver.” He gave a small sniffle.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Oliver, though I wish it were under better circumstances.” Smiling, she glanced around. “Where’s your mother?”

  The boy shook his head. “I don’t have one, ma’am. Not anymore.”

  Her heart gave a painful squeeze. “Your father, then?”

  “Don’t have one of those either.”

  Cooing with sympathy, Annabelle drew the lad closer. “Haven’t you anyone in this world?”

  “Oliver!”

  The deep, desperate shout carried on a cotton-tufted breeze. A dark-haired man sprinted along the banks of the creek behind her, his attention fixed on the fast-moving waters.

  “I’ve got him, sir,” Annabelle called. “He’s all right.”

  The man stopped and stared, wild-eyed. “Oliver?”

  Joy dawned on the boy’s face. “Uncle Jack!”

  Breaking into a run, the man easily covered the remaining distance, then dropped to his knees and wrapped Oliver in a fierce embrace.

  “Thank the Lord.” He pulled back to look at the boy, concern etched in fine lines around his eyes. “Are you all right, lad?” A hint of an accent colored his speech, one Annabelle couldn’t place.

  Oliver managed a shaky nod. “I—I think so.”

  “I thought I’d lost you.” His voice ragged, the man pulled the little boy close once more.

  Annabelle rose and shook out her soaked, mud-covered skirts, eyes stinging at his unabashed display of emotion. Most men weren’t as forthcoming with their feelings. Despite the cold, wet patch where she’d cradled Oliver’s head against her bodice, there bloomed a curious heat in her chest.

  The man kissed the top of Oliver’s head, then stood, his hand resting on the boy’s shoulder. “We were fishing by the creek, you see, and young Oliver tripped over a tree root and lost his balance. He knows how to swim, but the current was fast with all the rain—I’d no idea how fast—and …” He trailed off, still winded from his sprint, and looked at his nephew with love in his eyes. “The good Lord was watching out for you today.”

  “The good Lord and this lady.” Oliver rewarded Annabelle with a shy smile.

  “You saved him?” The man’s deep gray eyes, fierce and cloudy as a prairie thunderhead, fixed on her, and she flushed under their intensity.

  “I was here, where I spend Sunday afternoons, and I saw his struggle. A branch was nearby.” She gestured to the lifesaving limb. “I held it out to Oliver, and he grabbed on. He was so very brave, and strong, and—”

  Whatever else she might have said was cut off by the man’s lips on her forehead. Warm, firm hands cupped the back of her neck. His beard and mustache tickled her sensitive skin.

  It was over in a heartbeat. As though scorched, he released her and backed away, blinking. He looked as stunned as she felt.

  This kiss wasn’t her first. That little imp Thomas Warner, who’d dipped her braids in his inkwell more times than she could count, had stolen a kiss in the schoolyard one warm autumn day when she was eleven.

  But that was a child’s kiss. This kiss had come from a man. A man who was all muscles and glittering eyes and dark beard and strange accent. A man whose forehead shone with perspiration, whose tanned cheeks flushed a deep scarlet.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Miss … ?”

  “Collins, sir.” Her face flamed. “Annabelle Collins.”

  “Miss Collins?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, at least you haven’t a husband to co
me after me.” With a sheepish smile, he brushed a thick lock of hair off his forehead. “Forgive me, Miss Collins. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “You were worried for your nephew.” She glanced toward young Oliver, still huddled in her quilt, dark eyes wide and curious. “No harm done, Mr…. ?” Oh, dear.

  “Brennan. John’s my Christian name, but please … call me Jack.”

  She managed a smile. “I suppose we have moved through the usual nice-ties rather quickly, haven’t we?”

  Mr. Brennan—Jack—burst into deep, rich laughter that chased away the lingering awkwardness. That laugh was as unabashed as his relief had been earlier, one that begged her own to bubble forth. When it did, she met his eyes, creased at the corners and sparkling with mirth. The warmth in her chest grew all the warmer at their shared amusement.

  “Uncle Jack?” Oliver tugged on his uncle’s trouser leg, and Jack turned his attention to the boy.

  “What is it, lad?”

  Oliver rubbed his left shoulder, the motion causing the quilt to slip to his waist. “My arm hurts.”

  The lightness of laughter disappeared from Jack’s face, replaced by lines of concern.

  “Now that the shock’s worn off, the pain may be setting in.” Annabelle stepped closer. “May I have a look? I know a bit about it.”

  Blue eyes large and wary, Oliver nodded.

  “I’m going to move your arm a little. I’ll be gentle, and it shouldn’t pain you, but if it does, I promise I’ll stop at once.”

  Oliver braced himself. Praying she wouldn’t cause the lad any more discomfort than he’d already suffered, she bent down and carefully guided the tiny arm in all directions, as she’d seen Uncle Stephen do time and again. Though the boy moaned slightly on the last rotation, the blood-curdling shriek for which she’d braced herself never materialized. With a sigh and a smile, she let go of his arm and tucked the quilt back around the small shoulders.

  “It doesn’t appear serious,” she said to Jack as she rose. “No dislocation, and likely no fracture either.”

  “God be praised,” murmured Jack, who then eyed her with skepticism. “Where did you learn all that?”