Chapter 15

 

The study was dark, late afternoon light filtering through the slated shades that covered the western most windows. Soon a maid would be in to draw the dark red velvet drapes and close the room for the night. Mark blinked and allowed his vision to adjust to the grey light of the room. He couldn’t resist a quick glance at the bookcases that lined the walls. The first title he caught was The History of India. A man could do a lot of reading, a lot of learning in this room.

He grinned at the thought of what a waste of time his brother Jared would think a room like this held. Not that he disapproved of reading, but it must always be for a purpose, and pleasure was not a good enough purpose for Jared.

“So you’ve brought her home safely?” The older man was seated in a rolling chair, both legs propped up in front of him. A red, white, and blue quilt rested across his legs, covering all but his feet.

Mark forced his eyes from the books. “Yes sir. Your daughter is fine, except for an ankle injury she sustained during an accident over west of New Braunfels.” Seeing concern on the rancher’s face, he hurried on with his explanation. “It came a heavy rain and there was a rockslide on one of the hills. I’m afraid the horse had to be put down and the buggy was destroyed. It was near Oscar Nagel’s place and he loaned us a buggy and horse to continue on. He will send someone to pick it up next week.”

Samson Fleming scooted around in his chair leaning his head forward as he spoke. The expression on his face reflected his displeasure. “An accident? You put her safety at risk? How could you let something like that happen?”

Mark cleared his throat. Normally, he wouldn‘t stand for anyone accusing him of something he had no control over. But the man was concerned for his own child. “It was an accident, sir. I think her ankle got a little twisted when the buggy went over. She is walking on it, but limping. I’ll be glad to fetch the doctor in.” And maybe that would be a good idea. The doctor seemed to have done wonders for Samson Fleming. The color was back in his face and his temperament was certainly getting back to its usual disagreeable state.

The old rancher leaned back in his chair, anger flashing in his eyes. “If my daughter needed a doctor, why didn’t you procure one for her when the accident occurred?”

“There wasn’t one available, sir. I thought it best to bring her home and get Dr. Stratton.” Not that she would have gone to one if he suggested it. In fact, she’d probably never take another of his suggestions. She still blamed him for the death of the horse. As if he could somehow have saved the injured animal.

“Well I can tell you that she’d better be all right, Murphy. If I find any negligence on your part. . .” he cleared his throat, “I’ll think again before I hire you for another job, if I discover you could have done better for her.”

Mark clinched his jaw for a moment before he answered. The anger might show red in his face, but his words would be civil. “Yes sir. And you didn‘t hire me, Mr. Fleming. I went to meet your daughter as a favor. A kindness from one neighbor to another.” The calmness in his words surprised his own ears.

The senior rancher’s eyes flickered. He shook his head. “There’ll be no more discussion about this, young man.”

He’d been dismissed. About time. He was ready to see Chance Creek Ranch. And get that dark-haired beauty and her sometimes presumptuous attitudes out of his mind.

 

***

 

 

“This way, Miss,” the housekeeper motioned toward the staircase as she took the bag from Addie‘s hand.

They paused at the bottom of the steps and Addie glanced back at the entryway. Large and airy, she could see Mark as entered what must be her father’s study.

“Your father will want to see you once you’ve had a moment to freshen yourself.”

Addie turned back to meet the curious eyes of the woman Mark had introduced as Birdie. Her stare was open, as if she didn’t care if Addie noticed. An awkward silence fell between them as each observed the other.

Skin the color of weak coffee, deep lines around the woman’s mouth and black eyes stood stark in the afternoon light that poured through the large glass windows. Strands of silver and white laced her black hair she wore in a thick bun on the back of her head. Her face was strong and sensible, but the stoop of her shoulders gave away her age. Addie resisted the urge to insist on taking the bag back from her, as the woman had seemed so sure she could carry it.

“Of course. I am anxious to see him, too.” Addie nodded and began to follow the woman up the stairs.

Third door from the landing, they turned in to a large room, papered in a beautiful cream and rose striped paper. A fresh vase of greenery stood on the small oak table beside the bed. The bed, covered with a blue and white quilt, looked cool in the afternoon light that filtered through the filmy curtains on the open windows. She watched as the lacey fabric danced in the warm afternoon breeze.

Her eyes at once found the fireplace mantel. Her breath caught as she looked at the scene carved into the beautiful wood. She blinked hard. If she didn’t know better, she would say it was the gate cottage at Long Meadows. She crossed the room and ran her fingers over the scene so expertly preserved in the wood.

“You look like her.”

Birdie’s voice startled her from her thoughts. “I. . . .look like my mother?” Surely this woman hadn’t lived here when her mother was living in the hovel she described.

Birdie shook her head and set the leather case on the bed. “No. Nothing like your mother. I speak of your grandmother.”

“But. . .are you saying. . .” She must mean her father’s mother. “You knew my father’s mother?”

Birdie nodded and pulled Addie’s rose-colored dress from the bag. She unfolded the wrinkled fabric and smoothed it on the bed. “I knew her all her life. There is a painting of her in your father’s study. If you look at it, you will see the resemblance.”

Addie caught a glance of herself in the mirror over the large oak dresser. She knew her dark appearance came from her father’s side. Everyone on her maternal side was blond, blue-eyed. It would be interesting to see if Birdie was right. “Can you tell me about her?”

Birdie shrugged and took Addie’s other dress from the bag. “If your father wishes.”

 

***

 

 

“Turn around again,” he commanded.

She bit her lip and considered refusing. She was not a cow on the auction block. She was his daughter. She turned to the left once, twice, the third time and finally faced him again.

“You look nothing like your mother.”

It was a statement. And true. His tone left her guessing as to whether or not he was disappointed. “No. She always told me that I looked like you.”

“I need more light, Birdie,” he said to the housekeeper, his eyes never leaving Addie’s face.

Birdie turned up the wick on the lamp on his desk and brought another one from a table across the room. She lit it and set it beside the other.

He nodded. “Yes, your mother was right. You do look like my side of the family.” He glanced to Birdie. “And you are a true beauty, too. I wish my mother could have seen you.’

“Birdie tells me you have a painting of your mother. May I see it?” What was wrong with her? She sounded like a small, timid child.

Anger flitted across his face. He turned a glaring glance to the housekeeper.

Addie was happy to see the stoic look on the woman’s face. Maybe through the years Birdie had learned to stand up to such a tyrant.

Or maybe she was being unfair in her judgment. Maybe her father wanted to tell her things about their family, rather than have the housekeeper gossip about their heritage.

“The portrait has been sent away for a few minor repairs,” he pointed to an empty area on the paneled wall. “When it is back, I’ll be glad to show it to you.”

Addie nodded and summoned up a bit of courage. “Do you think I look like her?”

His eyes flickered and he threw a momentary look to Birdie. “I suppose that you do resemble her. Especially your eyes. They are very like hers.”

She smiled. At last she looked like someone to whom she was related. If nothing else, this trip to America was answering a few questions she had spent her life wondering about. “I’m looking forward to the portrait’s return.”

The door behind her opened and she turned to see a woman wearing a plain blue dress enter the room. The white apron she wore over her gown was ironed and starched, as was the tiny white cap perched on top of her head.

“Mrs. Milton, this is my daughter, Addie. Mrs. Milton is my nurse,” he added to his daughter.

“Very nice to meet you, Miss. And now, time for your bandage change and bed,” she addressed her patient.

Relief swept through her. An easy escape. At least for tonight.