Page 82 of My Heart Will Find You

She wasn’t fooled by his seemingly innocent question. He was testing her. “The ground shook. Vibrated. I thought it was an earthquake but Max said no, it was ten or twelve buffalo.”

Henry, a true historian, was so in awe, his jaw fell open. “Thousand,” he whispered.

“Yup. As far as you could see, nothing but buffalo.” She was looking at the desk and trying to keep sadness from overwhelming her. There was no hidden compartment, no miniature portrait. “It wasn’t real,” she whispered. “It really was a dream. I’ve had a lifetime of watching Old West movies so I made up a story, complete with buffalo and artisan beer. None of it really existed.”

“Etta,” Henry said softly.

“Maybe it’s true that my own life is so empty that I—”

“Etta!” Henry shouted. “Look!”

She went around the desk to see where he was pointing. The seven drawers lined up on the floor were nearly empty. They varied in size but there was nothing else notable about them.

“Don’t you see it? Look at the third drawer.”

It took her a moment, but she finally saw that the interior of it was shorter than the others. It was as though a piece of wood had been nailed to the inside. She looked at Henry in shock.

“Pry it off,” he said.

Etta’s hands were shaking so hard she fumbled to get the toolbox open. She grabbed a screwdriver and a tack hammer, then sat down on the floor, the drawer in front of her. When she put the screwdriver into the seam behind the wooden block, she looked up at Henry.

He gave her a nod of encouragement.

It took her a while to widen the gap. She kept moving the screwdriver around, afraid of breaking through the block and hurting what it was covering.

When she got it about a half inch away, Henry handed her a little flashlight from the toolbox and she looked inside. There was something in there.

It seemed to take forever to get the wood off, then Etta just stared. Yes, it was the case containing the miniature portrait Max had given her.

“Take it out,” Henry said gently.

As she held it in her hands, she thought of Max at the train station and saying goodbye to him. She remembered having the ominous feeling that everything was going to end.

Henry held out his hand and she put the little square into it. His hands were more steady than hers.

He opened it and stared at the picture for a full minute. “I have never seen you look so happy,” he said softly. “And Max is a fine looking young man.” He handed her the painting.

Until she saw the picture of Max, Etta had held it together. But seeing his beautiful face broke her. She collapsed, weightless, spiritless.

Henry did one of his leaps and caught her in his arms before her head hit the floor. Etta’s deep tears of grief and misery came out in full force. Henry never let go of her.

When Etta woke, it was growing dark outside. She was stretched out on Henry’s big couch in his library, and she could smell bacon. Her first impulse was to cry at the memory of being on the trail and waking to Max frying bacon.

But she didn’t allow herself more tears. For the entire day, she’d cried, then cried some more.

Henry had been very kind, saying that since seeing the portrait, his attitude changed. After the first dream, he’d laughed and made jokes. This time, he didn’t laugh. He believed her.

She got off the couch and made a quick trip to the marvelous thing called a bathroom, then went to the kitchen.

“I made us BLTs and fries,” Henry said. “I’m not as fast or as good as you, but it’s edible.”

She gave a half smile. “I won over the cook. Rufus said it was the best meal he’d ever eaten. But then, Rufus may have had a less than a happy childhood, so what comparison did he have?”

Henry handed her a plate piled high, then opened his notebook to write down what she’d just said. He gave her a glass of iced tea. “How are you feeling?”

“Alive, but that’s all.”

Henry sat down by her with his food and drink. “I guess you won’t want to, uh, remember things, will you?”

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