airtight wil for him. After he passes, he wants no one thinking they have a claim to the farm but you.” Reagan understood.
“Second,” Liz continued, “he wants you to cash in a few of those bonds and do some good. He decided he wants to be around to see what he can do to help the people of Harmony, but he doesn’t want anyone to know where the money comes from. He asked me to give you a list of ideas, but it’s your decision.”
Reagan sat back. “I can’t wait for number three.” Liz didn’t smile this time. “I argued with him over the third thing he wanted to tel you, but he insisted you know.
When he had your name changed before you turned eighteen, he hired an agency. It took them two years . . . but they found your mother.” Liz paused for a moment to look at Reagan before going on. “He didn’t know if you’d want to see her, so he told me to tel you about her, but he wants you to understand that he knows no more than what is in the report and he doesn’t want to talk about it. Reagan, I think this report reminds him that you’re not truly kin and that’s one thing he doesn’t want to think about.” Reagan looked out the window, watching people passing by across the street. Suddenly she realized she was doing what she’d always done as a child—staring at faces of strangers, looking for a resemblance, looking for something she might remember of a mother. Only now, she didn’t want to see anything in a stranger’s face.
“I don’t want to meet her. Not ever.” Reagan stood.
“She’s dead to me. I’m a Truman now. You keep the report.
I don’t even want to see it.”
Liz shrugged. “I’l lock up the report. We can talk about it at a later date if you like. Or, it wil lie in the bottom of my safe forever.” She thought for a moment and added, “This is the one file I wil not pass on to my cousin, Rick Matheson. While I’m out with the babies, you’l have to wait if you need legal work on this subject. Is that al right?”
“You can burn it for al I care. I’l never ask to see it.” Liz nodded. “I think this last heart attack real y frightened the tough old man. I assured him you shouldn’t have any trouble when the time comes. The farm is already in your name, you can sign on al accounts, and I’l be in your corner if there is ever a problem.”
AFTER REAGAN LEFT THE OFFICE, SHE CLIMBED
INTO HER old pickup and cried al the way home. When Foster saw her he knew something was wrong, but he didn’t ask any questions. He just fil ed her in on Jeremiah’s day and said they should celebrate; her uncle was growing stronger.
That night, curled up in her bed, Reagan cried silently.
Change was coming. Jeremiah knew it and she felt it. He’d held her hand a little tighter when he said good night. “I can’t lose him,” she whispered. “I can’t be alone.” Reagan tried to think of al the people who were her friends. Who would come and help if something happened?
Then she thought of her best friend, Noah.
If she cal ed and asked him, he might come, but if he didn’t, Reagan wasn’t sure she could stand to hear her own heart breaking.
That night she dreamed of a woman with rust-colored hair chasing her, pul ing at her skin as if she could pul a piece of flesh off her.
When her own cries woke her, Reagan curled into the covers. The word mother had always been nothing but a word. Knowing that the woman who had given birth to her was stil alive meant little, but questions whispered in the aftermath of the nightmare. Would her mother have the same color hair? Had she ever tried to find the child she’d left at the hospital? Did Reagan ever cross her mind?
Reagan reached for her phone and hit speed dial for Noah McAl en. After several rings, he picked up.
“What’s the matter, Rea?” he said, stil sounding half asleep.
“What makes you think . . . ?”
“You wouldn’t have cal ed this late unless you need to talk. Give me a minute to pul my jeans on and
“Second,” Liz continued, “he wants you to cash in a few of those bonds and do some good. He decided he wants to be around to see what he can do to help the people of Harmony, but he doesn’t want anyone to know where the money comes from. He asked me to give you a list of ideas, but it’s your decision.”
Reagan sat back. “I can’t wait for number three.” Liz didn’t smile this time. “I argued with him over the third thing he wanted to tel you, but he insisted you know.
When he had your name changed before you turned eighteen, he hired an agency. It took them two years . . . but they found your mother.” Liz paused for a moment to look at Reagan before going on. “He didn’t know if you’d want to see her, so he told me to tel you about her, but he wants you to understand that he knows no more than what is in the report and he doesn’t want to talk about it. Reagan, I think this report reminds him that you’re not truly kin and that’s one thing he doesn’t want to think about.” Reagan looked out the window, watching people passing by across the street. Suddenly she realized she was doing what she’d always done as a child—staring at faces of strangers, looking for a resemblance, looking for something she might remember of a mother. Only now, she didn’t want to see anything in a stranger’s face.
“I don’t want to meet her. Not ever.” Reagan stood.
“She’s dead to me. I’m a Truman now. You keep the report.
I don’t even want to see it.”
Liz shrugged. “I’l lock up the report. We can talk about it at a later date if you like. Or, it wil lie in the bottom of my safe forever.” She thought for a moment and added, “This is the one file I wil not pass on to my cousin, Rick Matheson. While I’m out with the babies, you’l have to wait if you need legal work on this subject. Is that al right?”
“You can burn it for al I care. I’l never ask to see it.” Liz nodded. “I think this last heart attack real y frightened the tough old man. I assured him you shouldn’t have any trouble when the time comes. The farm is already in your name, you can sign on al accounts, and I’l be in your corner if there is ever a problem.”
AFTER REAGAN LEFT THE OFFICE, SHE CLIMBED
INTO HER old pickup and cried al the way home. When Foster saw her he knew something was wrong, but he didn’t ask any questions. He just fil ed her in on Jeremiah’s day and said they should celebrate; her uncle was growing stronger.
That night, curled up in her bed, Reagan cried silently.
Change was coming. Jeremiah knew it and she felt it. He’d held her hand a little tighter when he said good night. “I can’t lose him,” she whispered. “I can’t be alone.” Reagan tried to think of al the people who were her friends. Who would come and help if something happened?
Then she thought of her best friend, Noah.
If she cal ed and asked him, he might come, but if he didn’t, Reagan wasn’t sure she could stand to hear her own heart breaking.
That night she dreamed of a woman with rust-colored hair chasing her, pul ing at her skin as if she could pul a piece of flesh off her.
When her own cries woke her, Reagan curled into the covers. The word mother had always been nothing but a word. Knowing that the woman who had given birth to her was stil alive meant little, but questions whispered in the aftermath of the nightmare. Would her mother have the same color hair? Had she ever tried to find the child she’d left at the hospital? Did Reagan ever cross her mind?
Reagan reached for her phone and hit speed dial for Noah McAl en. After several rings, he picked up.
“What’s the matter, Rea?” he said, stil sounding half asleep.
“What makes you think . . . ?”
“You wouldn’t have cal ed this late unless you need to talk. Give me a minute to pul my jeans on and
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