McShannon's Kin, Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Colorado, 1886

Distance is relative. What feels endless when it separates you from loved ones seems all too short when it stands between you and fear.

An ocean and a continent, Sidonie. Is it enough?

Everything and everyone I loved was back in Thirsk, in Yorkshire. That was why I was here in Wallace Flats, in the new state of Colorado. I had left home for my family’s protection as much as for my own.

For a wonder, the train was early. Waiting on the platform in the baking sun of the July afternoon, I pulled my writing case from my bag and took out my pen, ink and a sheet of paper.

Dear Mother,

Here I am in Wallace Flats. I just got off the train, and I’m waiting for Uncle Trey to arrive. I remember so little about this place, though after fifteen years that’s not surprising.

I can picture Aunt Beth’s smile, and I recall Uncle’s laughter and the way he liked to tease her. I recall that their house had red curtains at the windows and a bright patterned rug on the floor. Do you remember how frightened I was the first time I heard a coyote howl in the night, after all the fearsome stories our Trey had told me?

As for the town, it still looks much like it does in the painting Aunt sent you. It’s all dusty browns and grays, so different from the dales at home. The town square is the same, with its weathered wooden buildings and the smell of sawdust from the mill. The saloon is across the street from where I’m sitting, and there’s a man snoring on the bench under the sign – it’s probably the same bench Aunt painted, still comfortable by the look of it.

I’m looking forward to meeting my cousins and seeing the ranch again, and Granfer McShannon. Can he really be sixty-eight? I’m not surprised that Uncle says he still rides as if he’s on the racetrack and mourns because the locals have learned better than to play poker with him. I still haven’t really forgiven him for marrying here, though I’m glad he’s happy…

I looked up as a wagon carrying a family pulled up to the platform. I knew Uncle Trey immediately from his resemblance to my brother, his namesake. They had the same dark hair and brown eyes – the Surette eyes, my mother said. Uncle is her twin, but they couldn’t look more different.

“Sidonie, were so glad you’re here.” My name came off his tongue with the same inflection my mother gave it, a hint of their Southern upbringing that clung though they’d left Georgia twenty-five years ago.

He jumped from the wagon and I met him with a hug. “Aye, Uncle, it’s good to see you again. And you, Aunt Beth. Neither of you seems to have changed.”

Aunt laughed as she threw her arms around me. “Well, you were only ten when you saw us last in England. We’ve taken on character – four characters, to be exact.”

When she released me I turned to my cousins. Rochelle, the eldest at fifteen, had her dark hair twisted up in a knot – for the first time, I judged by the way her hand reached up to touch it. She had Aunt’s eyes, set off perfectly by her blue gingham dress. I had to smile at the way she took in my clothes from boots to bonnet.

“You look wonderful, Sidonie. Did you get your outfit in London?”

“Hello, Rochelle. Nay, I got it in York. There are some good shops there.” My gray broadcloth suit with its black piping became me, I knew. There is no McShannon or Surette in me as far as looks go. I am my father’s child, all Rainnie. The blue Rochelle wore so well would have overwhelmed my strawberry blonde hair and gray eyes.

“And this must be Matthew.” I held out my hand to the next in line. He met it shyly.

“Call me Matt.” He was going to be as tall as his father, but he had Granfer’s sapphire eyes and fair coloring. He reminded me strongly of my mother. In his letters Uncle had called Matthew his dreamer, and I could see it in him.

The two youngest met me together, with grins on their freckled faces. I turned to the girl first. “Hello, Abigail.”

She gave me a hearty hug. “It’s Abby. And that’s Ethan.” She stepped back to let her brother shake my hand. “Ethan is my right-hand man,” Uncle had written. “Chelle will not rest until she sees Europe, and Matt will go to sea, I think – he talks of it already, more seriously than I ever did. He remembers our trip to England though he was only three at the time. He's all McShannon on the outside and all Surette on the inside. I don't think we'll be able to hold him long, but the two little ones are mine in soul. The ranch will be in good hands as the years go on, and God willing, Abby won’t settle far away.” At ten and eight Ethan and Abby both looked sturdy and capable, but I suspected their resemblance to auburn-haired Aunt Beth went a long way toward explaining Uncle’s partiality.

We collected my trunk and I climbed to the seat of the wagon beside Aunt. Granfer and his wife were in Denver, so I would have to wait to see him again. As we started out of town, Rochelle broke up a poking match between Ethan and Abby and coaxed her mother at the same time.

“Mother, do you think it would be all right if I wrote to Aunt Chelle and asked if I could go over with Sidonie when she goes home? I’m old enough now.”

I smiled to myself as Aunt and Uncle exchanged a glance. A good try, Rochelle. Aunt pursed her lips.

“I think that can wait three or four years yet. It’s a long way from home and a big responsibility for your aunt, not to mention the fact that you aren’t through school yet.”

Rochelle’s pretty brows drew together. “I already know enough math and English and history. I want to see the museums and galleries over there before I go to art school. Ethan, if you don’t stop that you’re going to be sorry.”

Uncle turned around with a look I was sure his children knew well. “You heard your mother, Chelle. You can learn plenty here yet. Ethan, if you want your hide tanned you just keep on.”

Rochelle swatted Ethan’s poking hand away and cuffed his ear for good measure. “I wish you’d stop calling me Chelle. I don’t like it.”

Uncle’s laugh hadn’t changed. “Force of habit. Blame it on your aunt. I doubt if any of us can break it now.”

By the time we reached the ranch, I was convinced that there wouldn’t be much opportunity for brooding in my uncle’s household. The children kept up a constant, mostly good-natured raillery, so that the hour’s drive passed in what seemed like minutes.

The original cabin that Uncle had built when he settled here was still standing, but additions on either side had turned it into a long, low ranch house, shaded by a verandah with red roses climbing the posts by the front door, giving up their fragrance to the sultry air. There was a second barn now, and three roomy paddocks extended behind the two, where foals chased each other around their sleek mothers. Granfer must be pleased. To raise horses bred to run was a shared dream between him and Uncle Trey, and it had been years in the making.

Aunt took my arm. “Come inside and clean up. There’ll be plenty of time to show you around later.”

The inside of the house was as warm as I remembered, though it had taken on some elegance over the years. The red curtains at the windows were a rich damask, and a handsome braided rug had replaced the one I remembered. A gleaming grandfather clock perched in a corner and a substantial sideboard and pantry cupboard had replaced the rough counter Uncle had built. A horsehair sofa and chair stood against the side wall, near the ladder that led to the loft where my brother and I had played. Doors to the bedrooms opened into the main room on both sides. The place was no longer a settler’s home. Aunt smiled as I looked around.

“It’s more comfortable than it was at first, but I hated giving up the old furniture and things. Too many memories. I didn’t know the first thing about keeping house when I came here. Your room is over here, next to the girls’ room.”

We stepped in, followed by Uncle and Matt with my trunk. There were white muslin curtains here, and the iron-framed bed was covered with a blue quilt in the pattern my mother called Beggar’s Blocks. Another of Aunt’s paintings hung on the wall. She wasn’t well-known in England, but over the years she’d built a solid reputation in her own country. An original E.M. Underhill wasn’t without value. I was no expert, but I liked the vibrant colors she used.

She had taken the time to fill a vase with roses from the veranda and place it on the nightstand to scent the room. I found myself suddenly close to tears.

“The room is lovely, Aunt Beth. I’m so glad to be here.”

She pulled me down beside her on the bed and put her arm around me. “Your mother wrote that you had reason to want to get away for a while. We aren’t going to pry, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

Reason to get away. I knew what Mother had told them – that I’d broken off an affair with a young man at home and he was being difficult about it. That was as much as anyone knew.

“Thank you.” The truth was, I had no idea how long I would be staying. I couldn’t go home as long as Trevor Langdon was in Yorkshire. If I did the truth would come out sooner or later, and that would probably result in my father or my brother being hanged for murder.