Her heart broke, and a cry almost escaped her. Oh, to sit with him and have one more conversation. To tell him what was going on with her. The truth, this time. He would understand.
But . . . she hadn’t made her peace with him. Oh, they’d acted as if nothing was different, but only because they were both too stubborn to confront the situation. Not after he’d shared the truth with them about her father. Not after he’d invited Dad’s other family here. To live with them, the daughters her father abandoned.
The night they arrived was the same night that Garrett had put his hands on her.
Oh, Granddad, how could you leave me?
She sank to the edge of his bed. “I wasn’t angry at what you did. Dad deserved it. And really, you saved us. But why? Why did you keep it a secret? From me? Didn’t you think I could handle it?”
With a shake of her head, she banished the thoughts. Granddad knew what she’d seen as a child. What she’d done. What she’d endured.
Her sisters? They would never understand. They’d been so young. And they had been much more willing to show forgiveness. What would they think of her if they knew the truth of what was in her heart?
She stiffened. They wouldn’t. She’d make sure of that. It was her job now to keep them together. Keep things running.
She owed that much to Granddad.
Her fingers traced the outline of the bottle in her hand. At least she could count on this to help. To give her relief. She lifted it, took one more swallow, then put on the cap and tucked it away. She stood and walked to the door. Havyn and Madysen would be devastated, but John and Daniel would console them. Help them get through.
Who would help her?
She closed her eyes again and faced the stark truth.
No one. She really was alone now.
Her hand went to the doorjamb, gripped it to steady herself.
Focus. Focus on what needs to be done . . .
Tell her family.
Call for the pastor and the doctor.
Tell the workers.
Adjust schedules.
Start making funeral arrangements.
The list grew in her mind as she walked toward Granddad’s study. The locked cabinet in the corner called to her. She was the only one who had a key to it now. Granddad’s key. No one had even asked about it because there was no reason to.
No one else ever needed the relief she did.
She shut the door behind her and leaned against it. Granddad didn’t need his whiskey anymore. It was there for her now. She almost smiled. Granddad was still taking care of her.
It wouldn’t hurt to refill her bottle one more time. She rarely drank it anyway. Only when anxiety or pain threatened to overtake her.
Striding toward the cabinet, she pulled in a deep breath.
As she unlocked the cabinet, Granddad’s words from long ago, when he tried to explain why Dad drank, rang in her ears. “A lot of adults need to forget the bad things that have happened to them, and the bad things they’ve done.”
She nodded. She understood now.
Not that she was like her dad. Of course not! She used the tonic for medicine. Dr. Cameron had told her it was all right. The original tonic he’d given her had been more whiskey than anything else. He’d admitted as much.
She wasn’t doing anything out of order.
She poured the amber liquid into the dark glass bottle and replaced the corks. There. That should help her through the next few months. Just enough to take the edge off of everything she had to face.
Is it enough?
She stopped. Stared at the bottle. Of course it was. She was being silly.
Before she could change her mind, she placed the whiskey bottle back into the cabinet, closed the door, and slid the key into the lock.
Her head twinged.
She couldn’t avoid it any longer. She had to tell her family about Granddad.
Go ahead. Lock the cabinet.
But her hand wouldn’t cooperate. It just held the key. And shook. Maybe she should take Granddad’s large whiskey bottle back to her room––
No. There was enough in her pocket.
Setting her jaw, she turned the key. With the click of the lock, she jumped. Blinked her eyes. Felt a little like she was waking up from a deep sleep.
Shaking off the feeling, she went to grab her coat and boots. Then stopped. Why was she so jittery?
Then again, why wouldn’t she be, considering what she was about to do?
Her trembling hand slipped into her pocket, drew out the bottle, and raised it for a sip. Just one, to steady up.
Her nerves calmed with the warmth of the liquid, and she patted the bottle. Her companion and help in facing what was to come. As she passed through the kitchen, she tore a leaf off the mint plant and shoved it into her mouth to chew on. A habit she’d picked up from her grandfather.
Oh, Granddad . . . how will we make it without you?
Dr. Peter Cameron pushed his horse as fast as he dared over the snow-covered road leading to the Bundrant farm.
How could one family endure so much loss and hardship? So much unexpected and unsettling change. The Bundrant family never seemed to get a break.
Especially Whitney.
Ever since he’d met the eldest Powell daughter, he’d been impressed. And just a little concerned. Unless he was misreading her, she was keeping something hidden behind those deep brown eyes of hers. As much as he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to break through the wall she kept around herself.
But she seemed to trust him. A rarity, he’d learned, for anyone but family. Because Miss Whitney Powell kept to herself.
Especially where Mr. Sinclair’s attack on her was concerned.
At least she spoke to him as her doctor. That was a good start.
He’d spent a lot of time at the Bundrant farm checking on Chuck and getting to know the family. Christmas had passed in quiet apprehension while the family seemed to hold their collective breath, awaiting the next tragedy.
Now it had arrived.
He let out a long breath and watched it float behind him in a frozen mist. If the news from the milker was correct, they’d just lost their beloved patriarch. Lord, how will they ever endure this tribulation?
As he rode up to the house, Whitney was outside the door. Without a coat, gloves, or scarf. She stood there, stiff.
Her mussed, dark-red hair hung in a mass of curls around her shoulders and down her back. Her cheeks were ruddy and tear stained. But it was the look in her eyes that threatened to undo him.
Never had he seen such anguish and anger in one person.
“He’s gone, Dr. Cameron.”
Her clipped words and clenched jaw struck him to the core. How he longed to comfort her, to reach out and hold her close, but he knew better. After all these months, all the trauma, all the struggle, she would withdraw again. Of that, he was certain.
Would she be able to get past this and heal?
“I’m so sorry, Miss Powell.”
She sniffed. “Thank you for coming. I’ll take you to him.”
As she led him through the familiar home and down the hallway to Chuck Bundrant’s room, he caught a glimpse of the rest of the family gathered in the room with the piano. Their voices were soft, as were their sobs and sniffs.
His steps echoed on the wood floor. The hall stretched out before him. And then he saw Chuck.
“I didn’t move him––”
How was Whitney keeping her words so calm and controlled?
“––because I thought you might be able to save him at first, and I didn’t want to hurt him if he broke any bones when he fell. Then . . . well I wouldn’t let anyone else touch him.” She choked on the last word, then the stoic expression was back in place.