One
“It was the prettiest slice of land the good Lord put on this earth,” seventy-five-year-old Hank Adams whispered, his voice frail, his eyes glazed over with a faraway look. “Did I ever tell you about White Pines, son?”
Chance held back his impatience and forced a smile. “Only about a million times, Daddy.” Seeing his father’s disappointment, he quickly added, “But I never tire of hearing about it, you know that.”
“Is the heat on?” his father asked, shifting subjects as he often did these days. He shivered and pulled the two layers of blankets a little tighter under his chin. “You sure that danged furnace is working?”
The furnace was pumping out enough heat to sizzle meat as far as Chance was concerned. The blazing fire only added to the oppressive, stifling atmosphere in his father’s small Montana cabin. But ever since Hank Adams’s health had begun to fade a few months earlier, it seemed he couldn’t stay warm enough. The only thing that seemed to distract him for long was reminiscing about the home he’d left behind decades earlier back in West Texas. The bitterness seemed to Chance to be as fresh now as it must have been on the day his daddy had been chased off by his older brother, Chance’s uncle, Harlan Adams.
“The furnace is turned up to near eighty,” Chance said. “You’ll be warm in a minute, Pop. Tell Petey and me another story about when you were growing up.”
“Yeah, Granddad,” Petey said enthusiastically. “Start at the beginning. Tell us about how my great-great-granddaddy came all the way from the South after the Civil War and built this big old mansion just like the one he’d left behind.”
“You could probably tell that one yourself,” Chance said, grinning at his son and ruffling the boy’s shaggy sun-streaked hair that so closely resembled his own.
Most of the time lately Petey’s moods ranged from difficult to impossible. He’d never been able to sit still for much more than a minute, but recently, ever since his grandfather had come home from the hospital to die, Petey rarely left the old man’s side. It was as if he knew there was only a little bit of time left to absorb all the tall tales and family history.
What worried Chance was that he was also latching on to all his grandfather’s bitterness and resentment. The fight for a share of White Pines wasn’t Petey’s. If there was going to be a battle—and that was a mighty big if—it was Chance’s to wage.
He glanced at his father and saw that he was settling back, searching his memory for stories to keep Petey entertained or, more likely, to incense him.
“Now let’s see,” his father began. “That would have been in the spring of eighteen hundred and sixty-nine.”
Petey’s eyes widened as if he were hearing the date for the first time. “Wow! That’s like a hundred years ago, huh?”
“More than that, boy. The war was over and the family’s home had been wiped out by them damn Yankees. They plundered it first and then burned the whole place to the ground. That was that hellion Sherman who was responsible,” he said, adding a colorful curse or two to emphasize his poor opinion of the man.
Then he went on. “Your great-great-granddaddy was little more than a boy then, not even eighteen, as I recall. He’d been through more at that age than most men live through in a lifetime. He knew things would never be the same for any of them there, so he packed up his mama and his two sisters and headed west to start over.”
Hank’s voice seemed to fade. It was hard to tell if he’d forgotten the rest or was merely tiring.
“Where was his daddy?” Petey coached.
“Killed in the war.”
“Did they have any money?” Petey asked, prompting his grandfather to tell his favorite part of the story.
“Some that his mama hid away, along with some jewelry. They sold that so they’d have a little nest egg for startin’ over. They sold it all but a ruby-and-diamond pin.”
“The one you brought with you to Montana,” Petey proclaimed triumphantly. “Can I see it?”
“It’s locked away safe, boy. It’s your daddy’s to give to his wife, if he ever marries again,” he said with a pointed glance at Chance. Then his eyes turned misty again. “Lordy, that pin is something, though. I can remember my mama wearing it when she got all dressed up sometimes. Looked like a little basket of ruby red rosebuds and sparkly diamond baby’s breath. There was many a day when your grandma Lottie wanted me to sell it so we’d have a little something in the bank, but I wouldn’t do it. That pin was the only legacy I had from my ancestors. Now it’s your daddy’s and someday it’ll be yours.”
Chance let his mind wander as the familiar tale washed over him. He knew the story practically word for word. He’d been hearing it since he’d been younger than Petey. Just as his son was now, he’d been enthralled by the adventure of the move from the South all the way to West Texas, by the building of White Pines and the founding of the town of Los Piños. He had a feeling his father had embellished the story a bit over time, inventing a few tussles with Indians and thieves that hadn’t actually occurred. Even so, it was a heck of a story.
He could envision the grand house that had been built as an exact replica of the mansion that had been destroyed. He could see the spread of land abloom with bluebonnets and crossed by sparkling streams and shaded by pines and cottonwoods.
“Why’d you ever leave,
