“Maybe it will shed some light on our family connection.” Seamus sat at the table by Finn. The man blended in as if he’d always been a part of the household.
“Anyone here good at picking hundred year old locks?” Nicole glanced around at the fallen faces. “I’m guessing no?”
“Wait.” Aunt Eileen jumped to her feet. “We used to have a ring of old skeleton keys that belonged to the house before modern doors and locks were installed. Let me see if I can find it.” The woman hurried out the kitchen and down the hall.
Eloise came from around the table and kissed her fiancé on the cheek. “Any more word on your parents?”
“Yes, when is our beloved in-law arriving?” The man who had to be Ryan’s Uncle Brian reached for the coffee pot.
“I spoke to Patrick last night.” Uncle Sean squatted down to examine the lock on the trunk. “The only way he could get Mariah to agree to come to the wedding was to promise they didn’t have to stay anywhere near the ranch house.”
“As difficult as ever.” Uncle Brian sighed.
“Why do you say that?” His wife looked at him. “I mean, before they disappeared, I didn’t find her all that difficult.”
“That’s because she avoided you like the plague after she found out that you and Patrick had once been engaged.” Brian took a long first sip of hot coffee. “I should have seen this coming. Patrick was always stressing over not upsetting Mariah. At first it was simple things. Her feelings would be hurt if he didn’t notice she’d bought a new dress, or changed her hair style. But after the wedding, the woman seemed to keep a score card over how much time Patrick spent with people instead of with her. Once the kids started coming she didn’t seem to have as much time to focus on herself and her insecurities, but obviously, that didn’t last long.”
Nicole knew very little about the family dynamics except for the few things she’d overheard in passing, but the other uncle’s comment lined up with her theory that someone did something to upset Mariah Farraday the way that the Sherman Brother’s wife was offended and cut everyone else out.
Without asking, Ryan set a hot cup of coffee in front of her and settled into the chair beside her, his shoulder momentarily brushing hers, his smile reminding her of the last few minutes locked in the storage room.
She took one sip and was warmed at the revelation that he knew how she liked her coffee as much as she was by the hot brew or the memories of being locked in his embrace. Moreimportantly, she got the feeling there were no regrets for what happened and that made her much happier than it should.
Throughout the week, she’d watched him navigate workspace, filming crew, and family drama with a steady, quiet patience. He was a builder, focused on the foundation rather than the trim. It was that solidness—the way he handled the chaos of filming and building without losing patience—and she was very much aware that this was not a relationship, or friendship, she was ready to walk away from.
“Here we go.” Aunt Eileen carried a large metal ring with enough keys dangling to qualify her as a turn of the century jailer. “This may take a minute.” Dropping to the floor in front of the trunk, one by one, she began testing each key.
The family watched in almost total silence. Under the table, Ryan had taken hold of her hand and every so often gave it a little squeeze. She was pretty sure that was his way of saying he wasn’t ready to walk away from whatever was happening to them either.
“Eureka.” Aunt Eileen shoved the lid up and sprang to her feet with the agility of a much younger woman.
Everyone stood, eager to see the new find. A heavy scent of cedar and aged paper billowed out, filling the kitchen with the smell of a century gone by.
First, Aunt Eileen pulled out a small, rectangular packet wrapped in yellowed parchment and tied with a fraying piece of twine. “It’s hair,” she whispered, her fingers trembling slightly as she carefully unwrapped the paper. Inside laid a lock of dark auburn hair, curled into a tight ringlet and bound by a faded blue silk ribbon. The color remained vibrant, a shocking bit of life preserved in the middle of all that dust.
“Whose hair do you think it is?” Ryan asked softly.
Aunt Eileen shook her head.
“Most likely that of a deceased loved one.” Nicole shared what she’d learned through the years when doing family research. “Could be a deceased child. Could also be from someone left behind.”
“Bridget,” Uncle Sean spoke in a voice that was almost worthy of a prayer.
Beneath where the packet had rested lay a heavy fabric bundle. Quinn helped his aunt lift the weight out, unfolding it across the kitchen table to reveal a patchwork quilt. The fabric was worn thin in places, most likely made from clothing remnants. The patterns—a mix of beiges, browns, and blues—remained clear. In the bottom corner, embroidered with painstaking block letters in thick red thread, were the initials B N.
“Definitely Bridget,” Nicole sighed. “Probably from her dowry given to her husband to take to the land of opportunity in preparation for their life together.”
“You really think?” Ryan looked to her, not anyone else.
She shrugged. “No telling, but it fits.”
“Especially if you read these.” Aunt Eileen held a bundle of letters that had been carefully tied in the same twine as the hair package. “Letters from Bridget telling him about life on the farm, and her dreams of when they’re together again.”
“He kept them.” Quinn reached for Eloise’s hand.
Aunt Eileen sighed. “He did love her.”
“Which,” Sean sat straighter, “doesn’t sound like the act of a man planning on lying to his wife about his death.”
