Page 75 of All We Thought We Knew
Nash didn’t seem bothered by the question. “I’d like to think there’s a place better than this world. No wars. No disease. Just this.” He gazed at the beauty around us.
I nodded, suddenly wishing I knew for certain if heaven was for real. Were Mark and Mama right about God and everything they believed? Or were they fools, clinging to made-up fairy tales?
The sun began its quick descent, and we headed back to the barn as the air grew chilly.
“I’ll take care of the horses,” Nash said after we’d both dismounted. Once again, he used the platform, and I realized it was as beneficial for him as it would be for Fred.
“Thanks for suggesting we go for a ride.” I handed Moonlight’s reins to him. “It was nice.”
His eyes took on a mischievous look. “The first time I ever met you, you were on the back of a horse.”
“Really? I don’t remember.”
“It was the summer when we were eight years old. My family had just moved to Tullahoma, and I wandered away from our house and got lost. Your dad and Mark were coming from town and found me walking along Highway 55. I couldn’t tell them where I lived, so they brought me here, to the farm.”
He glanced out the barn door to the corral across from the entrance. “You were in there, riding a big black horse.”
“Midnight Pride. She was Moonlight’s mama.”
“I couldn’t believe this little girl was sitting up on that big ol’ horse and wasn’t a bit afraid. Your hair was wild and for somereason you were wearing a red winter scarf, and I couldn’t help but be awestruck.” He met my gaze. “I’ll never forget that day.”
I watched him lead the horses away, a sudden awareness of being known, reallyknown, by another living soul. Nash McCallum had been in my life longer than anyone who wasn’t blood kin. He’d seen the best of me... and the worst. He’d known Mark. Deeply. Brotherly. In the best possible way.
Why had I never taken notice of Nash before? He’d practically lived at our house during high school when things at his own home were bad. I’d dated a few boys over the years, and I’d been Clay’s girl while I was in California, but I’d never seen Nash as anything other than Mark’s friend. Something about him now—the man he’d become and how he was determined to overcome what life had thrown at him—made me wonder if I should take a closer look.
I left the barn and headed for the house. I’d visit with Mama before starting dinner. Dad was just coming down the stairs, carrying a load of soiled bedsheets.
At my silent question, he said, “She had an accident.” Sadness shone in his eyes. “LuAnn warned it might happen more frequently as your mother’s muscles begin to weaken.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Can I help?”
“It’s taken care of.” He glanced up to the landing. “She will be happy to see you.”
Mama sat in the chair with a crocheted afghan wrapped around her, staring out the window when I arrived in the open doorway. She didn’t respond when I spoke until I walked across the room and touched her arm.
“Mattie, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You looked like you were far away.” I settled on the floor at her feet.
A shadow crossed her face. “I was remembering the first time I saw the farm. It was spring, and everything was fresh and new. I had such hope for the future.”
It didn’t sound like a happy memory. “Was that after you and Dad got married?”
She met my gaze, a troubled look in her eyes. “Have you read the letters from the box?” she asked rather than answering my question.
I nodded. “The ones that came from Hawaii, but I don’t understand who they’re written to or who sent them. Is Ava Delaney a relative of Granny’s?”
Mama’s brow tugged into a deep frown. “Will you do me a favor? Go to the cottage and look in the bottom drawer of the bureau in the bedroom. You’ll find a photo album. Bring it here, and I’ll explain everything.”
The strange request baffled me, but I complied. Crossing the yard, I saw Dad and Nash tinkering with the tractor. Only Jake, lying nearby, took notice of me.
I found the album where Mama said it would be. On my way out of the bedroom, I stopped short. There in the corner of the tiny living room was an easel with an unfinished painting on it. A small table with tubes of oil paints, brushes, and a can of turpentine sat next to it. I couldn’t recall Granny ever being interested in painting, nor did it seem likely that the art paraphernalia belonged to either of my parents.
That left only one person as the mystery artist.
Nash.
I took a closer look at the image on the canvas. Clearly it was of a horse’s head, but light pencil sketches here and there revealed something or someone else was planned to join the animal. The room was too dim for me to make out what they were intended to be, but the surprising discovery of the painting floored me.
