Sophie watched from the window as Tate, followed by the two red-faced boys, dragged the tall spruce through the snow toward the house. In addition to the Biblical Christmas story, Marcus and Toby had been studying Christmas traditions around the world and had requested a tree like those used in Germany and England. Tate had built a stand for it, and this evening they would place it in the living room and decorate it with colored paper cutouts and strands of popcorn. A fire blazed in the hearth. The smell of a roasting hen wafted through the air. The scene seemed ideal, like something out of a book. Except for... Sophie clutched two unopened letters in her hand, which Sam had brought home from the Harpers’ post office—one addressed to Tate and the other, to the boys. Letters that threatened to jeopardize the happiness they had all enjoyed since she and Tate exchanged vows three months ago in a ceremony that had been quickly arranged so Caleb could give her away.
Tate and the boys came tromping into the house, laughing and talking noisily about the fact they had found the finest tree in all the forest. The rambunctious puppies added to the din. Sophie thrust the letters in her pocket and summoned a smile. “So you were successful?”
Marcus regaled her with an account of their search as he shed his coat, hat and boots. “This tree was just waiting for us,” he concluded.
“Wanna see?” Toby asked, grabbing her hand and leading her to the door. “It’s really big.”
Sophie made suitable sounds of approval. Tate put his arm around her waist. “A new tradition for our first of many Christmases together.”
The boys raced past them toward their rooms. “Lovely,” she murmured in an attempt to match his enthusiasm.
Something in her tone must’ve alerted him, for he turned her toward him and studied her face. “Sophie, dear, whatever is the matter?”
She never wanted to answer him, never wanted the perfection of her precious family to be compromised. “Let’s go to your office.”
Once there, she shrugged her shoulders in defeat. “Here,” she said, handing him the envelopes bearing a Philadelphia return address below the name Ramona Lockwood.
“What?” Tate’s face drained of color as he sat down. “Why her? Why now?”
Sophie took a seat beside him. “I don’t know.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” he said decisively. He slit the letter addressed to him and read silently.
Sophie could hardly draw a breath. What if Ramona was making a claim for the boys? Finally Tate set the letter aside and reached out a hand and clutched hers. “She does not want Marcus and Toby. In fact, she wishes legally to relinquish all claims.”
Sophie felt the tension leave her body. “I was so afraid.” She swiped at a tear moistening her cheek. “What does she want, then?”
“She’s written Marcus and Toby to explain why she cannot assume any role in their lives and to ask their forgiveness.” He held up the remaining letter. “She would like me to share this with them.”
“I should be rejoicing, but that sounds sad.”
“More than likely, not sad at all. She is marrying an English aristocrat and moving permanently to London. No doubt a dream fulfilled for her,” he added.
They sat, hands entwined, for several minutes. Sophie knew Tate was asking the same question she was: How would this communication affect the boys?
Finally, after scanning the boys’ letter, he stood. “I see no point in prolonging the inevitable, and they need to hear her message. In the long run, this may be a positive development for Marcus and Toby and for all of us as a family. I will fetch them and meet you in the living room.”
Sophie walked slowly down the hall, wondering yet again how any mother could have abandoned her children. How sad that Ramona had never come to know Toby’s charm or Marcus’s intellect.
Marcus caught up with her. “Papa says we have something to discuss.”
“Yes.”
“As a family, he said. I like being a family, don’t you?”
“Very much.”
Tate entered the room with Toby, and they all took seats around the fire, Marcus impassive and Toby fidgeting with his shirt buttons. Tate caught Sophie’s eye, cleared his throat and began to speak. “Boys, we have something to share with you from today’s mail. I have had a letter from your mother—”
Toby interrupted, “But, Papa, Sophie’s right here. Why would she write us?”
Marcus kicked his brother gently. “No, Toby. Not Sophie. Our mother from before.”
Sophie clutched her skirt and prayed for a swift conclusion to the conversation.
“Marcus is correct,” Tate said. “This is a letter from your birth mother.”
“I don’t like her,” Toby muttered.
“Son, we cannot always know what makes people do what they do. I think you will understand more fully when you read what she has written to you.”
“She can say what she wants,” Marcus argued, “but that won’t change what happened or how I feel.”
Sophie intervened, “Boys, it is natural that you would harbor hurt and resentment. But Jesus teaches us to forgive. It is not an easy lesson, but one that frees us to love even more fully. You both have so much love to give, as I’ve discovered from the generous way you have accepted me into your family. Why don’t you read your letter in the spirit of forgiveness?”
Tate raised his fingers to his lips and sent her a kiss.
“Very well,” Marcus said, removing the letter from the envelope. “I will read it aloud.”
He began in a cold, steely tone.
“Marcus and Toby, you were always fine little chaps, so I am supposing you are turning into equally fine young men. I pray you do not assume any blame for my decision to leave you and your father. Any fault was mine. I am of a fragile disposition and was accustomed to genteel ways and had always been cosseted by my family. Living in Colorado was a shock in every way. I could not summon love, but rather lost myself in resentment and pain. Ultimately, I feared for my sanity.
I am not proud of my actions or inactions and ask your forgiveness. There is no need to answer this letter. I send it only to clear my conscience and assure you that you played no part in my decision to leave. I am remarrying and will be making my home in England. You will not hear from me again.”
Marcus threw down the letter. “Just as I suspected. She never loved us. There’s not one word about love here.”
The anguish on Tate’s face wrenched Sophie’s heart. “Some people are incapable of the kind of love we need,” she hastened to assure Marcus. “Instead of anger, I pray that you will see that your mother is a tortured soul. She has reached out with the only explanation she is capable of giving. For my part, though, she is to be thanked for the wonderful young men she has left for your father and me to rear—two loving sons I am blessed to call my own.”
Toby had been sitting cross-legged, his brow furrowed, listening intently. “I’m glad I don’t remember much about her.” He shrugged helplessly. “I prob’ly shouldn’t say this, but that is a sad letter. And, Marcus, what if she was still here instead of Sophie?”
“I don’t want to think about that.” Marcus glanced over at Sophie. “If Jesus could forgive her, I ’spect we should try.”
“That is exactly what we will do,” Tate said. “Perhaps we could start by praying for her each day. I suspect she is in need of prayer.”
Sophie smiled at her husband. “That is precisely what God would have us do.”
Marcus looked thoughtful. “Maybe this letter really does help because I won’t have to worry or wonder any longer. Besides, now Toby and I have Sophie, and we know she cares about us.”
“I most certainly do.”
Toby stood up and draped an arm around Sophie’s shoulders. “I’m not calling her Sophie anymore, ’cuz she’s the mother who takes care of us and plays with us and teaches us things—our real mother. My mama.” The boy leaned down and gave her an awkward hug.
Tate crossed the room and pulled her to her feet, gathering her into his arms. Amid her joyful tears, she could feel the boys clutching her around her waist. “Mama,” Marcus said. “We love you.”
“And I love you,” she managed between sobs of joy.
Tate’s lips brushed her cheek. “You know something, Mama Sophie? As Toby always reminds us, you can do anything!”
Raising her head, she sought her husband’s eyes. “Correction. Together we can do anything.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from WAGON TRAIN SWEETHEART by Lacy Williams.