“Pull when I tell you.”

I grabbed the slick legs.

“Now!”

We pulled together.

Once.

Twice.

The calf slid free into the mud.

For several terrible seconds it did not move.

Then it coughed.

The mother lifted her head.

Nathaniel laughed.

Not smiled.

Laughed.

The sound surprised both of us.

He dropped into the mud beside me.

“You look terrible,” he said.

“So do you.”

Rain streamed down his face.

“You have mud in your hair.”

“You have blood on your shirt.”

“That happens.”

“So does mud.”

He laughed again.

Then lightning flashed.

For one suspended moment, we simply looked at each other.

Too long.

Something changed.

I felt it.

So did he.

Nathaniel stood abruptly.

“We should go back.”

The ride home was quiet.

But

the silence between us was no longer cold.

That night I could not sleep.

Perhaps it was the storm.

Perhaps it was Nathaniel’s face in the rain.

I left my room and walked downstairs.

Lightning flickered through the windows.

As I passed the rear hallway, a sudden gust struck the house.

A door slammed open.

I stopped.

It was a narrow door beneath the staircase.

I had never seen it open before.

Inside was a small room.

Dust covered everything.

A sewing table.

A rocking chair.

A faded shawl.

A wooden chest.

And on the far wall hung a portrait of a woman.

Margaret Walker.

Nathaniel’s wife.

She was beautiful, but not in Victoria’s dazzling way.

Her beauty was warmer.

Kind eyes.

A slightly crooked smile.

Dark auburn hair pinned loosely at her neck.

I stepped closer.

Then someone spoke behind me.

“You shouldn’t be in here.”

Nathaniel.

I turned.

His face had gone pale.

“I’m sorry.

The wind opened the door.”

He crossed the room and shut a window that had apparently come unlatched.

“This room belonged to Margaret.”

“I guessed.”

“I keep it closed.”

“I’ll leave.”

As I moved past him, something on the sewing table caught my attention.

An envelope.

Yellow with age.

Half hidden beneath a wooden box.

A name was written across it.

I froze.

Nathaniel followed my gaze.

Mrs.

Eleanor Whitmore.

My mother.

Nathaniel picked up the envelope.

“You know that name?”

I could barely speak.

“She was my mother.”

Thunder rolled outside.

Nathaniel stared at the envelope.

Then at me.

“Margaret knew your mother?”

“No.”

The word came automatically.

Then weaker:

“At least… not that I knew.”

He opened the envelope.

Empty.

I searched the table.

Nothing.

Nathaniel looked toward the chest.

“I haven’t opened that since Margaret died.”

“Why?”

His face tightened.

“Because grief makes cowards of people in strange ways.”

He knelt and unlocked it.

Inside were dresses.

Books.

A dried bundle of lavender.

Letters.

Dozens of them.

We searched until nearly midnight.

Most were ordinary.

Receipts.

Notes.

Letters from relatives.

Then I found another envelope.

The handwriting was different.

My mother’s.

My fingers shook as I unfolded it.

The paper was dated twelve years earlier.

Dearest Margaret,

I cannot thank you enough for what you have done.

Franklin must never learn about the property.

If anything happens to me, protect Clara if you can.

Victoria is his pride, but Clara is the child he resents because she reminds him that not everything in this world belongs to him.

I stopped breathing.

Nathaniel leaned closer.

“What property?”

“I don’t know.”

I kept reading.

The final sentence turned my blood cold.

And Margaret, if Franklin ever comes near Silver Creek again, remember what happened in Independence.