Page 251 of The Texas Sterling Collection
Book Four: Love on the Prairie
Chapter One - 2011
Wyl stood behind Rod, eyeing the basement filled with dusty objects from generations of Bonners in the historic family home. Fluorescent lights hummed in the eerie quiet, casting odd shadows; the light did not quite reach the far corners. “When we got married, you failed to mention hazard pay.” Wyl kneaded Rod’s shoulders. “This place gives me the creeps.”
An old workbench cluttered with dust-laden tools stood in front of a shelf stacked with small pieces of wood. Sawdust mounds lay on the floor near the table saw in the corner. Wyl sniffed the air a couple of times. “Smells funky.”
“Funky? What are you, a child of the '60s? You'd smell funky too at 135 years old,” Rod said. “Some of this stuff may have been down here since Cornelius Bonner built this house.”
“You forgot I was born in the Funkadelic 1970s?” Wyl nudged Rod. “I wonder if our great-grandfathers ever connected. The rodeo banners in the coliseum last summer proved they at least knew each other,” Wyl said. “Did the Bonners and the Sterlings get along back then?”
“That’s a question we may never answer.”
Wyl nudged with his shoulder. “Yeah…people still used chisels and stone tablets, right?” He loved teasing his husband about the massive five-year age difference between them.
Rod rolled his eyes. “Did you bring your flashlight?”
Wyl tugged it from his back pocket. “Yes, sir.” He waved the beam around the basement. Shelves stacked with cardboard boxes stood near one end of the basement.
Rod’s boots crunched on the floor as he stepped further into the basement to inspect the boxes, each labeled with a name faded with age. “At some point, we’ll need to go through all these boxes.”
Wyl chuckled. “I think I’ll call General Steinburg and ask if he'll send me on another mission.”
Rod elbowed his husband. “Nice try. Not happening.” He walked to a dark corner and pointed, “I think I found my sister Jean hiding here years ago when we played hide and seek down here as kids. I didn’t think anything about it at the time.” Rod held out his hand. “Flashlight?”
Wyl handed it over.
Rod focused the flashlight beam on an odd enclosure in the unlit corner. “It may be a secure storage area of some kind. I wonder what they intended it for?”
Wyl frowned. “You're the fourth generation to grow up here, and you don’t know?”
“Mom didn’t like us playing down here. Too dirty. And Dad didn’t like us down here—too many ways to hurt ourselves. Dad heard us laughing after I found Jean and came down to shoo us out. We didn’t come down here again.”
They crouched by the enclosure. A corroded padlock, covered in dust, guarded the contents. Rod focused the light through a narrow crack. Dust motes floated inside the space, and he made out a container. “I see some kind of box,” he said. “Padlocked in this weird enclosure, it must contain valuables.”
“Shine the light through the crack again.” Wyl peered through the small opening. “My guess is, whoever put the box in the enclosure didn’t want it discovered.”
The old, sturdy wooden door didn’t give as Rod pushed his knee against it. “What length and width do you think this enclosure is?”
Wyl eyed the padlocked door, then stood to scope out the top. "Around three feet square, I'm guessing. Shine the light around the back.”
Rod did, and Wyl leaned over the enclosure. “It must be bolted to the brick walls.” He stepped back. “Whoever put it here made sure to secure it.”
“I wonder if the original house plans included this enclosure?”
Wyl clicked his cheek. "I say yes. The corrosion combined with all the dust? It was locked a long time ago.”
“I'm guessing neither Grandfather Winston nor Dad tried to open it,” Rod said. He focused the beam on the contents. “I want a better look.”
“Let’s try to pop the lock,” Wyl said. At the workbench, he pawed through assorted tools, clinking as he searched through them. “Here’s a pry bar.” His returning footsteps crunched on the dirty floor.
Rod stepped back, and Wyl wedged the pry bar behind the latch. He pushed his weight against the bar, and the metal creaked as it bent slightly. He repositioned the pry bar and tried again. The old latch squeaked and popped free. Dust flew into the air, and they both coughed and waved their hands. As the dust settled, Wyl pulled the enclosure door. The rusty hinges protested with loud squeals as the bottom scraped against the concrete floor.
Wyl grabbed the flashlight, squatted, and aimed the beam into the space. “It’s an old trunk.”
Rod peered over his shoulder. “Why would anyone hide a trunk down here?”
A dull brown sewn leather handle, with age cracks and crumbled bits along the edges, invited a pull. Two horizontal wooden slats spanned the end of the trunk. The dark and cracked varnish covered a tin exterior, now almost black with age. Tarnished brass accents protected the corners, and brass strap holders held each end of the leather handle.
