Ryan's Hand (20 page)

“Yes, honey, I know,” Jeth said against her hair. “I would have found out about the will and taken steps to contest it. And then I would never have met you, never known you, never loved you. Ryan was so convinced of your integrity that he knew I'd get the land back anyhow.” His voice broke suddenly. “But, Cara, he fell in love with you himself along the way. What that must have been like for him, knowing that he could never have you, never touch you—”

“Let's read his letter,” Cara suggested, her eyes growing moist, and reached for the long envelope in Jeth's jacket pocket. She also slipped out another of the white monogrammed handkerchiefs.

“I come with a lifetime supply of those.” Jeth grinned. “Not, I hope, that you'll have many occasions to use them.”

Ryan spoke to them, Cara decided as Jeth read, not from the grave, but from wherever it was that he watched over them, had watched over them from the beginning. As Jeth had suspected, the letter was addressed to both of them. Tears spilled down her cheeks when Jeth's voice broke, and she stole her hand into his to comfort him. In the ironical, lighthearted banter that she remembered, Ryan explained how he had set in motion the events, when he knew he was dying, that would lead the two of them to love. “Sonya's a good girl,” Ryan wrote, “but marriage with her would never fulfill you, Jeth. The girl beside you is the only one for you.” The letter closed with declarations of love for both of them and the dry wish that someday there might be a noisy assortment of little Langstons to make the rooms of the big house “less like those of a mausoleum.”

“Quite a man, wasn't he?” Jeth said when he had finished the letter.

“Quite a man,” Cara agreed. “One to name our first son after.”

“Cara—” Jeth's eyes were shining. “I love you with all my heart. The losses are over now. The tears are done. Ryan can rest in peace.” And he lowered his head to claim the lips of the woman he loved.

Leila Meacham is a writer and former teacher who lives in San Antonio, Texas. She is the bestselling author of the novels
Roses
,
Tumbleweeds
,
Somerset
,
and
Titans
. For more information, you can visit LeilaMeacham.com.

Roses

Tumbleweeds

Somerset

Titans

“The novel has it all: a wide cast of characters, pitch-perfect period detail, romance, plenty of drama, and skeletons in the closet (literally). Saga fans will be swooning.”

—
Booklist
(starred review)

“It has everything any reader could want in a book…epic storytelling that plunges the reader headfirst into the plot…[Meacham] is a titan herself.”

—
Huffington Post

“Emotionally resounding…Texas has never seemed grander…Meacham's easy-to-read prose helps to maintain a pace that you won't be able to quit, pushing through from chapter to chapter to find the next important nugget of this dramatic family tale. It is best savored over a great steak with a glass of wine and evenings to yourself.”

—BookReporter

“Bestselling author Meacham is back with a prequel to
Roses
that stands on its own as a sweeping historical saga, spanning the nineteenth century…[Fans] and new readers alike will find themselves absorbed in the family saga that Meacham has proven—once again—talented in telling.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“Entertaining…Meacham skillfully weaves colorful history into her lively tale…
Somerset
has its charms.”

—
Dallas Morning News

“Slavery, westward expansion, abolition, the Civil War, love, marriage, friendship, tragedy, and triumph—all the ingredients (and much more) that made so many love
Roses
so much—are here in abundance.”

—
San Antonio Express-News

“A story you do not want to miss…[Recommended] to readers of Kathryn Stockett's
The Help
or Margaret Mitchell's
Gone with the Wind
.
Somerset
has everything a compelling historical epic calls for: love and war, friendship and betrayal, opportunity and loss, and everything in between.”

—
BookPage

“4½ stars! This prequel to
Roses
is as addictive as any soap opera…As sprawling and big as Texas itself, Meacham's epic saga is perfect for readers who long for the ‘big books' of the past. There are enough adventure, tears, and laughter alongside colorful history to keep readers engrossed and satisfied.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“[An] expansive generational saga…Fans of
Friday Night Lights
will enjoy a return to the land where high school football boys are kings.”

—
Chicago Tribune

“Meacham scores a touchdown…You will laugh, cry, and cheer to a plot so thick and a conclusion so surprising, it will leave you wishing for more. Yes, Meacham is really that good. And
Tumbleweeds
is more than entertaining, it's addictive.”

—Examiner.com

“If you're going to a beach this summer, or better yet, a windswept prairie, this is definitely a book you'll want to pack.”

—
Times Leader
(Wilkes-Barre, PA)

“[A] sprawling novel as large as Texas itself.”

—
Library Journal

“Once again, Meacham has proven to be a master storyteller…The pages fly by as the reader becomes engrossed in the tale.”

—
Lubbock Avalanche-Journal
(TX)

“Like
Gone with the Wind
, as gloriously entertaining as it is vast…
Roses
transports.”

—
People

“Meacham's sweeping, century-encompassing, multigenerational epic is reminiscent of the film
Giant
, and as large, romantic, and American a tale as Texas itself.”

—
Booklist

“Enthralling.”

—
Better Homes and Gardens

“The story of East Texas families in the kind of dynastic gymnastics we all know and love.”

—Liz Smith

“Larger-than-life protagonists and a fast-paced, engaging plot…Meacham has succeeded in creating an indelible heroine.”

—
Dallas Morning News

“[An] enthralling stunner, a good, old-fashioned read.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“A thrilling journey…a treasure…a must-read. Warning: Once you begin reading, you won't be able to put the book down.”

—Examiner.com

“[A] sprawling novel of passion and revenge. Highly recommended…It's been almost thirty years since the heyday of giant epics in the grand tradition of Edna Ferber and Barbara Taylor Bradford, but Meacham's debut might bring them back.”

—
Library Journal
(starred review)

“A high-end
Thorn Birds
.”

—TheDailyBeast.com

“I ate this multigenerational tale of two families warring it up across Texas history with the same alacrity with which I would gobble chocolate.”

—Joshilyn Jackson,
New York Times
bestselling author of
gods in Alabama
and
Backseat Saints

“A Southern epic in the most cinematic sense—plot-heavy and historical, filled with archaic Southern dialect and formality, with love, marriage, war, and death over three generations.”

—Caroline Dworin, “The Book Bench,” NewYorker.com

“This sweeping epic of love, sacrifice, and struggle reads like
Gone with the Wind
with all the passions and family politics of the South.”

—
Midwest Book Review

“The kind of book you can lose yourself in, from beginning to end.”

—
Huffington Post

“Fast-paced and full of passions…This panoramic drama proves evocative and lush. The plot is intricate and gives back as much as the reader can take…Stunning and original,
Roses
is a must-read.”

—TheReviewBroads.com

“May herald the overdue return of those delicious doorstop epics from such writers as Barbara Taylor Bradford and Colleen McCullough…a refreshingly nostalgic bouquet of family angst, undying love, and ‘if only's.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Superbly written…a rating of ten out of ten. I simply loved this book.”

—
A Novel Menagerie

F
rom a chair beside her bed, Leon Holloway leaned in close to his wife's wan face. She lay exhausted under clean sheets, eyes tightly closed, her hair brushed and face washed after nine harrowing hours of giving birth.

“Millicent, do you want to see the twins now? They need to be nursed,” Leon said softly, stroking his wife's forehead.

“Only one,” she said without opening her eyes. “Bring me only one. I couldn't abide two. You choose. Let the midwife take the other and give it to that do-gooder doctor of hers. He'll find it a good home.”

“Millicent—” Leon drew back sharply. “You can't mean that.”

“I do, Leon. I can bear the curse of one, but not two. Do what I say, or so help me, I'll drown them both.”

“Millicent, honey… it's too early. You'll change your mind.”

“Do what I say, Leon. I mean it.”

Leon rose heavily. His wife's eyes were still closed, her lips tightly sealed. She had the bitterness in her to do as she threatened, he knew. He left the bedroom to go downstairs to the kitchen where the midwife had cleaned and wrapped the crying twins.

“They need to be fed,” she said, her tone accusatory. “The idea of a new mother wanting to get herself cleaned up before tending to the stomachs of her babies! I never heard of such a thing. I've a mind to put 'em to my own nipples, Mr. Holloway, if you'd take no offense at it. Lord knows I've got plenty of milk to spare.”

“No offense taken, Mrs. Mahoney,” Leon said, “and… I'd be obliged if you
would
wet-nurse one of them. My wife says she can feed only one mouth.”

Mrs. Mahoney's face tightened with contempt. She was of Irish descent and her full, lactating breasts spoke of the recent delivery of her third child. She did not like the haughty, reddish-gold-haired woman upstairs who put such stock in her beauty. She would have liked to express to the missy's husband what she thought of his wife's cold, heartless attitude toward the birth of her newborns, unexpected though the second one was, but the concern of the moment was the feeding of the child. She began to unbutton the bodice of her dress. “I will, Mr. Holloway. Which one?”

Leon squeezed shut his eyes and turned his back to her. He could not bear to look upon the tragedy of choosing which twin to feast at the breast of its mother while allocating the other to the milk of a stranger. “Rearrange their order or leave them the same,” he ordered the midwife. “I'll point to the one you're to take.”

He heard the midwife follow his instructions, then pointed a finger over his shoulder. When he turned around again, he saw that the one taken was the last born, the one for whom he'd hurriedly found a holey sheet to serve as a bed and covering. Quickly, Leon scooped up the infant left. His sister was already suckling hungrily at her first meal. “I'll be back, Mrs. Mahoney. Please don't leave. You and I must talk.”

Barrows homestead near Gainesville, Texas, 1900

O
n the day Nathan Holloway's life changed forever, his morning began like any other. Zak, the German shepherd he'd rescued and raised from a pup, licked a warm tongue over his face. Nathan wiped at the wet wake-up call and pushed him away. “Aw, Zak,” he said, but in a whisper so as not to awaken his younger brother, sleeping in his own bed across the room. Sunrise was still an hour away, and the room was dark and cold. Nathan shivered in his night shift. He had left his underwear, shirt, and trousers on a nearby chair for quiet and easy slipping into as he did every night before climbing into bed. Randolph still had another hour's sleep coming to him, and there would be hell to pay if Nathan disturbed his brother.

Socks and boots in hand and with the dog following, Nathan let himself out into the hall and sat on a bench to pull them on. The smell of bacon and onions frying drifted up from the kitchen. Nothing better for breakfast than bacon and onions on a cold morning with a day of work ahead, Nathan thought. Zak, attentive to his master's every move and thought, wagged his tail in agreement. Nathan chuckled softly and gave the animal's neck a quick, rough rub. There would be potatoes and hot biscuits with butter and jam, too.

His mother was at the stove, turning bacon. She was already dressed, hair in its neat bun, a fresh apron around her trim form. “G'morning, Mother,” Nathan said sleepily, passing by her to hurry outdoors to the privy. Except for his sister, the princess, even in winter, the menfolks were discouraged from using the chamber pot in the morning. They had to head to the outhouse. Afterward, Nathan would wash in the mudroom off the kitchen where it was warm and the water was still hot in the pitcher.

“Did you wake your brother?” his mother said without turning around.

“No, ma'am. He's still sleeping.”

“He's got that big test today. You better not have awakened him.”

“No, ma'am. Dad about?”

“He's seeing to more firewood.”

As Nathan quickly buttoned into his jacket, his father came into the back door with an armload of the sawtooth oak they'd cut and stacked high in the fall. “Mornin', son. Sleep all right?”

“Yessir.”

“Good boy. Full day ahead.”

“Yessir.”

It was their usual exchange. All days were full since Nathan had completed his schooling two years ago. A Saturday of chores awaited him every weekday, not that he minded. He liked farmwork, being outside, alone most days, just him and the sky and the land and the animals. Nathan took the lit lantern his father handed him and picked up a much-washed flour sack containing a milk bucket and towel. Zak followed him to the outhouse and did his business in the dark perimeter of the woods while Nathan did his, then Nathan and the dog went to the barn to attend to his before-breakfast chores, the light from the lantern leading the way.

Daisy, the cow, mooed an agitated greeting from her stall. “Hey, old girl,” Nathan said. “We'll have you taken care of in a minute.” Before grabbing a stool and opening the stall gate, Nathan shone the light around the barn to make sure no unwanted visitor had taken shelter during the cold March night. It was not unheard of to find a vagrant in the hayloft or, in warmer weather, to discover a snake curled in a corner. Once a hostile, wounded fox had taken refuge in the toolshed.

Satisfied that none had invaded, Nathan hung up the lantern and opened the stall gate. Daisy ambled out and went directly to her feed trough, where she would eat her breakfast while Nathan milked. He first brushed the cow's sides of hair and dirt that might fall into the milk, then removed the bucket from the sack and began to clean her teats with the towel. Finally he stuck the bucket under the cow's bulging udder, Zak sitting expectantly beside him, alert for the first squirt of warm milk to relieve the cow's discomfort.

Daisy allowed only Nathan to milk her. She refused to cooperate with any other member of the family. Nathan would press his hand to her right flank, and the cow would obligingly move her leg back for him to set to his task. With his father and siblings, she'd keep her feet planted, and one of them would have to force her leg back while she bawled and trembled and waggled her head, no matter that her udder was being emptied. “You alone got the touch,” his father would say to him.

That was all right by Nathan and with his brother and sister as well, two and three years behind him, respectively. They got to sleep later and did not have to hike to the barn in inclement weather before the sun was up, but Nathan liked this time alone. The scents of hay and the warmth of the animals, especially in winter, set him at ease for the day.

The milk collected, Nathan put the lid on the bucket and set it high out of Zak's reach while he fed and watered the horses and led the cow to the pasture gate to turn her out for grazing. The sun was rising, casting a golden glow over the brown acres of the Barrows homestead that would soon be awash with the first growth of spring wheat. It was still referred to as the Barrows farm, named for the line of men to whom it had been handed down since 1840. Liam Barrows, his mother's father, was the last heir to bear the name. Liam's two sons had died before they could inherit, and the land had gone to his daughter, Millicent Holloway. Nathan was aware that someday the place would belong to him. His younger brother, Randolph, was destined for bigger and better things, he being the smarter, and his sister, Lily, would marry, she being beautiful and already sought after by sons of the well-to-do in Gainesville and Montague and Denton, even from towns across the border in the Indian Territory. “I won't be living out my life in a calico dress and kitchen apron” was a statement the family often heard from his sister, the princess.

That was all fine by Nathan, too. He got along well with his siblings, but he was not one of them. His brother and sister were close, almost like twins. They had the same dreams—to be rich and become somebody—and were focused on the same goal: to get off the farm. At nearly twenty, Nathan had already decided that to be rich was to be happy where you were, doing the things you liked, and wanting for nothing more.

So it was that that morning, when he left the barn with milk bucket in hand, his thoughts were on nothing more than the hot onions and bacon and buttered biscuits that awaited him before he set out to repair the fence in the south pasture after breakfast. His family was already taking their seats at the table when he entered the kitchen. Like always, his siblings took chairs that flanked his mother's place at one end of the table while he seated himself next to his father's at the other. The family arrangement had been such as long as Nathan could remember: Randolph and Lily and his mother in one group, he and his father in another. Like a lot of things, it was something he'd been aware of but never noticed until the stranger appeared in the late afternoon.