Page 364 of Steamy Ever After

Not home yet, but maybe someday soon.

I turn the Jeep onto Main Street

It doesn’t take long to drive through town. Nor is it difficult to find a parking spot. I pull up right outside Shelly's Diner. I walk into the busy diner and inhale the mouthwatering aromas coming from the open kitchen. The clinking of silverware and glass slows somewhat as Uncle Pete enters. Several people give him a nod, a polite acknowledgment of respect.

He guides me to an empty booth by the window. When our waitress arrives, he orders two short stacks with chocolate chips and a pot of coffee. The girl doesn’t bat an eye, making me think his order isn't as unusual as I think.

"It looks exactly like I remember.” I lean back and peer out the window.

"Not much changes here. Of course, there's town politics and such, the never-ending feud, the occasional scandal, who's sleeping with whom. You're going to learn way more than you ever wanted about the residents. People in this town seem to think their doctor is a stand-in for their confessional.”

“Really?”

We talk about his practice, touching on the business aspects, but when our food arrives, I broach something that is bugging me.

"Uncle Pete," I begin, "how did Aunt Martha get ten thousand acres?” More importantly, how will I manage a ranch that size? The real estate taxes are going to be fierce.

"Accumulated through the generations," he says. "As a matter of fact, it is your namesake who homesteaded the very first parcel." His eyes brighten. "Oh, and you're in for a treat."

"How's that?"

He takes in a deep breath. "Well, Abigale McPhearson’s journal is waiting for you. I don’t know how much your mother told you, but Abigale immigrated to the United States during the great potato blight in Ireland when she was a teenager.”

"I remember a little bit about that." I take a sip of the dark-roast coffee, closing my eyes at the decadent flavor. "I couldn't imagine picking up your whole life and leaving everything behind."

He laughs.

"What's so funny?"

"Says the woman whose entire life is packed into three suitcases.”

I roll my eyes. “Tell me about my great-great-great- whatever grandmother."

"I'll do better than that. Remind me when we get home, and I'll give you the journal.”

"A journal? Wow, thanks. What's in it?"

He shrugs. "I have no idea. Martha says it is a McPhearson-women-eyes-only kind of thing.” He shoves a bite of pancake into his mouth and wipes his chin with a napkin. "Abigale was the first to settle down here. Back then, women weren't allowed to own land in most states, but Montana has always been progressive. As long as someone was the head of household, they could apply for a homestead. She moved out west and put down roots. Her daughter and her daughter’s twins homesteaded as well, doubling the size of the homestead parcels.”

"Twins?" I know little about my family’s history.

He nods. "Yes, can you imagine delivering twins in the late 1800s?" He pushes his food around his plate, his appetite seems to have disappeared. "Anyway, they added to the homestead and later filed the deeds to own the land. They raised cattle and bought up the surrounding homesteads as they were abandoned. Soon, they turned a thousand acres into two, and then more. Every generation continued the tradition. The land went into trust somewhere along the way. It can't be broken down and sold off. It was one of Abigale's wishes for the land to stay in the family. Martha mentioned something about it being spelled out in the diary."

“How am I going to manage ten thousand acres?”

“The arable plots are leased out to farmers who grow feed for cattle. Cattle ranchers lease out the pastureland for grazing. It’s practically self-sustaining and makes more than enough to pay the taxes. As far as managing it, there’s a manager who takes care of all that.”

"Well, if it's supposed to stay in the family, I won’t sell it.”

Ten thousand acres? What the hell am I going to do with that?

PORCH SWING

We spend the afternoon at the clinic where Uncle Pete introduces me to the staff. He fatigues as the afternoon wears on and I soon take him home, concerned by his lack of stamina.

He doesn’t talk any more about the trust, or my inheritance, except to say he scheduled a meeting with his lawyer. He brings Abigale McPhearson’s leather journal out, presenting it to me with reverence, then excuses himself for the night.

Over a hundred years old, the journal’s weathered the decades with amazing grace. The pages are yellowed with age but remain supple, not cracking as I would expect.

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