Page 36 of Christmas at Castle Dunrannoch
“It won’t be long.” She raised red-rimmed eyes to Rye’s and seemed to consider saying more but simply touched his arm. “I’ll send coffee and some hot water for washing.”
Rye had come straight away, not even changing his clothes, the dust still thick on his face. All this time he’d been away, driving the cattle up to the railhead.
He shouldn’t have gone. He wouldn’t have gone. Not if he’d realized.
Had Alejandra known?
Not that it mattered.
None of it mattered.
“I’m here, Pa.”
Rory Dalreagh turned to face his son. But for two high points of colour in his cheeks, he was deathly pale. Rye took the chair by the bed and slipped his hand into his father’s.
“I’ve something to show you, Rye.” A folded piece of paper lay on the coverlet. “I should have given it to you when it came but I wasn’t ready. Not then. I thought we had more time.” He gave the half-smile Rye knew so well, then wheezed and turned away, coughing.
Lifting his father upright, Rye brought his arms about the older man’s shoulders. “You have time, Pa.” Rye rubbed his back. “Take it slow now.”
He saw the spots of blood on the linen, and more on the pillow. Blood in the handkerchief his father held to his mouth.
“Just a bit…short of breath.”
His father took the water Rye passed him, managing a sip, though he seemed to have difficulty swallowing.
Rye’s chest constricted hard. His father had been getting weaker these past months. Now, his face was etched cruelly with pain and, beneath the thin nightshirt, his body was skin and bone. Rory Dalreagh had always been strong, working on the ranch alongside Pedro, his partner—working harder still since Pedro had died, four years ago.
“Read it.” His father’s fingers fluttered over the dove-grey notepaper, his voice insistent.
The letter was written in an elegant hand, covering both sides in tight script, and bearing a gold crest.
Dunrannoch Castle
Perthshire
December 18th, 1904
My dear Rory
I hope this finds you well and that you will be kind enough to indulge me in reading all I must impart. Please believe that I remain your devoted stepmother, despite the troubles of the past.
Your father wished to write by his own hand but is indisposed at this time, being beset by arthritis, and by a great depression of spirits, in which we all share.
He has urged me to write to you on his behalf, but please know that I write from my own heart also. I pray that this letter finds you, though it must travel such a distance to do so.
Despite the estrangement that has existed between your father and yourself these thirty years, he has never ceased to regret the angry words exchanged and your hasty departure. His dearest wish is that those offences may be forgiven, and a reconcilement achieved.
I discovered some time ago that you had kept correspondence with Mrs. Middymuckle. Owing to the circumstances under which I write, I was able to persuade that good lady to share with me your address, and to impart what news she felt comfortable to share of your life in the New World.
From her, I learnt of your wife’s death soon after your arrival in Texas, following the birth of your son. I hope you will accept my condolences. Perhaps the news I share here may gladden her, even as she watches over you from the celestial sphere, and that what may come to pass shall make some reparation for the injustices of the past.
With sadness, I must tell you that both your brothers, Brodie and Lachlan, have been lost to us within these past twelve months. We need not discuss the details at length, suffice to say that their passing was unexpected—through mishap rather than illness, and that the family has been deeply shocked and saddened. Your father’s grief, as you may imagine, has been severe.
Were I to have correctly addressed this letter, I should have named you Balmore, for the viscountcy now falls to you, as your father’s heir.
You have built a life for yourself, far from this ancestral seat, but Dunrannoch needs you.
I exhort you to return home, to take the mantle of your title, and to fulfil our best hopes.
