Legacy of Love

Gabe laughed. “I can see how confusing it would be. Why don’t you join us for dinner after Sunday worship? Then you can meet the whole clan.”

After worship? God wouldn’t want him in His house, not after what Brandon had done. “I’m busy.”

“Heading home for Christmas?”

Though agreeing would end the conversation, Brandon couldn’t lie. “This is home.” At least it was now.

“Then your family is coming here. Please, invite them too. The more the merrier.” The pastor chuckled and added as an afterthought, “Though I suppose I should give my wife, Felicity, an idea how many to expect.”

“I doubt my brother will visit.”

The minister’s brows drew together in puzzlement. “But Sunday is Christmas Eve. Surely you’ll get together for Christmas.”

The little hole in Brandon’s heart that had started to open when Gabe first mentioned family now expanded into a painful gap. “I haven’t celebrated Christmas since the war.”

His leg had begun to ache after so much standing, and he shifted to place more of his weight on the cane. Though Brandon thought he’d moved discreetly, the pastor noticed.

“Then I insist you join us. We would be honored to include a war hero at our table.”

Brandon’s composure wavered for a second before he regained control. The pastor didn’t know what had happened, and Brandon intended to keep it that way. “Thank you, no. I prefer to dine at home.”

After a moment of surprise, the pastor nodded. “Too bad. Ma Simmons will be disappointed. She talks of you constantly, like you’re family. And we could use help getting her into the house.”

That did not make sense. By Brandon’s count, at least two able-bodied men would be in attendance. “Isn’t her son coming?”

“Yes, but the parsonage has a lot of steps to climb. Many hands make light work. Won’t you reconsider?”

Brandon knew when he was being cajoled. Brutal honesty was the only way out. “I don’t attend church services.”

Pastor Gabe didn’t even flinch, as if he knew that Brandon had strayed from the straight and narrow. “Church attendance isn’t required, though you’re always welcome. We’re a family, sharing our joys and troubles, and our arms are always open. Come to worship if you wish. If not, you’re still invited to dinner.”

The pastor had effectively trapped Brandon. He fought his way out. “Christmas Eve is a time for family. You’ll be exchanging gifts.”

“Any gifts or tokens would be exchanged privately on Christmas Day. Sunday is for family.”

“I’m not part of your family,” Brandon pointed out.

“We’re all part of God’s family. You too.” Gabe grabbed the door handle. “We’d love to have you. Two o’clock.”

The man would not relent, but Brandon could be just as stubborn. Work came first, regardless of the day of the week or year. “I’ll be busy getting this shop ready. It has to open early in January, the sooner the better. You said you knew someone who could do some carpentry. Perhaps a youth who’s good with his hands?”

Gabe mused for a moment. “I think I know the perfect person. Come to dinner on Sunday, and I’ll introduce you.”

Brandon had been outmaneuvered. If he wanted help, he had to endure Sunday dinner. “Very well.”

“Wonderful. We’ll have a real celebration then.” After a parting grin, Pastor Gabe took off down the sidewalk whistling “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.”

Brandon shut the door on the hymn and the wily minister. He had no intention of celebrating on Christmas or ever. He didn’t deserve to be happy, not when his men had died.

* * *

Unfortunately, the main house had fared little better than the carriage house. First thing the next morning, Anna stood alone at the entrance to the imposing parlor and surveyed the massive task ahead of her. The brass and silver had tarnished to such an extent that she doubted she could bring back the shine even if she polished for a month. Dust coated everything. Dampness had seeped into the very fibers of the wool carpets, leaving the place with the moldy smell of a cellar.

“It’s impossible,” she murmured.

“What’s impossible?” Brandon’s question made her jump. He stood in the hallway leading toward the back of the house, impeccably dressed in a dark gray suit, overcoat already on and cane in hand.

She backed into the doorway. The solid plaster walls gave her a sense of protection. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d left for the day. I didn’t see your car.” At least he hadn’t mentioned the fact that she didn’t make him breakfast this morning. The car had been gone by the time she’d dressed.

“I returned to fetch a book.” He withdrew a slim volume from his coat pocket to prove the point. “Which reminds me, I promised to lend you Davis’s book. Follow me.”

Clearly he was accustomed to commanding people. As she hurried after him, she recalled Ma’s speculation about where he suffered his injury. “Were you an officer in the war?”

He stopped in his tracks. “My past is no concern of yours.”

His glare sent icy shivers down her back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just curious.”

As quickly as it had come, his anger dissipated. “Apology accepted. However, I would appreciate it if in the future you could contain your curiosity about my personal life.”

Anna swallowed hard. What had she said to set him off? She’d only asked if he was an officer. Maybe Ma was right about the injury. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to talk about it.

“I will,” she promised.

“Thank you. Now let’s fetch Mr. Davis’s report from the library.”

His house had a library? Anna’s pulse quickened. Libraries contained hidden passages and secret rooms. Everything interesting happened in libraries.

He strode down the hallway, his steps strong and confident with barely a hint of the limp. She followed, eager to see the room. The library. The word alone invited intrigue.

Brandon stopped at the third closed door on the right. “Wait here.”

He ducked inside, and she barely saw the floor-to-ceiling books before the door shut behind him. Seconds later, he reappeared.

“Here it is.” He handed her the slender volume. It had less than a hundred and fifty pages, and a lot of those were illustrations.

The Tombs of Harmhabi and Touatânkhamanou. She read the title, no doubt incorrectly pronouncing the unfamiliar words. “I thought this was about King Tutankhamun.”

“It is.” He pointed to the last word in the title. “Mr. Davis simply spelled it differently than the reporters do.”

“Oh.” Somehow the volume wasn’t as exciting as the newspaper stories. She flipped to the title page and noticed the date of publication. “1912? Mr. Davis found the tomb ten years ago?”

“Actually, that’s when the report was published. His work came earlier.”

She couldn’t hide her bewilderment. “Then why didn’t he take the treasure?”

“Read it,” Brandon urged.

He was deliberately holding back, and she could tell by the teasing smile on his lips that he had a surprise in store for her.