Page 4 of Into the Starlight (Secrets of Sweetwater Crossing #3)

Chapter Four

It wouldn’t be like losing Father a second time, but though it would undoubtedly be difficult, Joanna needed to see where he’d died. She’d refused Emily and Louisa’s offers to accompany her, knowing this was one thing she had to do alone, and so with legs that were remarkably steady, she made her way to the barn.

To her relief, she found a peaceful scene. For the first time in her memory all three stalls were filled. Her father’s horse greeted her with a whinny, while Emily’s and Josh’s regarded her more cautiously. Grandmother’s horse—Joanna’s now—and the one Burke had driven were at the livery. It was an ordinary morning in an ordinary barn with no reminders of the tragedy that had occurred here.

After saying a silent prayer for both her father and the man who’d killed him, Joanna left the barn, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the bright sunshine.

“Do you tell your secrets to the horses?”

She turned, startled by both Burke’s presence so close to the barn and the question. She thought he’d be trying to comfort Della after the revelation that what she’d believed about Clive were lies.

“I used to,” he continued. “When I was upset, I’d confide in them.”

Joanna had no trouble picturing the boy Burke once was hiding his emotions from his family, instead pouring out his heart to a horse. Boys, Miss Albright had taught her pupils, weren’t supposed to cry, for tears were a sign of weakness. Even now, Joanna suspected Burke rarely expressed his feelings, particularly the darker ones like sorrow and regret.

She’d shed her share of tears when Kurt and Grandmother died, but she hadn’t wanted to put her grief into words, even with Marta. Kurt’s sister had railed at the doctors, then spent hours lamenting the loss of her only sibling. Joanna had simply listened.

Her eyes now accustomed to the sunlight, Joanna fixed her gaze on Burke, wondering why he’d come out here.

“I think Louisa may have talked to the horses, but I never did,” she told him. “The piano was my refuge.” Though this was an unusual conversation to be having with someone she had just met, Joanna found she didn’t mind sharing her inner thoughts with Burke, because her instincts told her she could trust him. While his question may have sounded casual, she sensed that it was the result of genuine caring, not idle curiosity.

“My family soon learned that if I was playing Chopin’s Funeral March, they should leave me alone.”

Burke extended his arm, waiting for Joanna to place her hand on it before he took a step toward the house. “I’m no musician, but even I know that’s an intense piece. What did you play when you were happy?”

She smiled, remembering. “Many things. I found Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata soothing. One of Chopin’s preludes was good when I felt a mixture of emotions. It starts and ends quietly, but there’s a thunderstorm in the middle.”

“I can’t say that I recognize those, but Aunt Della might. Perhaps you’ll play them for us while we’re here.”

“Perhaps.” The thought was appealing. Music had always soothed Joanna, and prior to her illness, it had been the primary focus of her life. Still, there could be hurdles to overcome. “Since I haven’t played in months, I’m afraid my fingers might not do what I tell them to.” Herr Ridel had insisted on hours of practice each day, warning that muscles needed regular exercise.

Burke gave her hand a long look, as if trying to identify possible weakness. That was, Joanna supposed, the result of his medical training. Though she’d expected him to offer an opinion of her hands’ readiness, he said, “If you weren’t talking to the horses, why were you in the barn? That doesn’t seem like the best place to spend such a beautiful morning.”

It wasn’t. Joanna hesitated for a moment, then realized that since Burke would be here for two weeks, he might hear what had happened to Father. It was best that he learn the truth from her.

“I needed to see where my father died. I was already in Europe, but last year Emily found him in the barn with a noose around his neck.” Though Joanna tried to keep her tone even, it wavered as she recounted what had happened that Saturday in August.

Burke stopped abruptly, his green eyes wide with shock. “That must have been horrible for your sister.”

“It was a horrible time for both Emily and Louisa. Louisa left Sweetwater Crossing soon after that, but Emily wouldn’t believe that Father had taken his own life and spent months trying to discover what really happened.”

“Did she succeed?”

“Fortunately, yes.” Joanna couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to go through the rest of their lives with the cloud of Father’s death hanging over them. “He was murdered, but the killer tried to make it look like suicide. Emily doesn’t like unsolved mysteries, and neither do I.”

Though there had always been questions about Clive Finley’s disappearance, as far as Joanna knew, no one had believed there was anything sinister about it. But now, faced with the falsehoods in the letter Della had received, the situation took on a different color.

“I want to learn what happened to Clive. I know it’s been more than twenty years, but the answer has to be here in Sweetwater Crossing.”

Joanna wasn’t certain who was more surprised by her statement: Burke or herself. The words came out seemingly of their own volition, but as she uttered them, she was filled with a sense of rightness. Della deserved to know the truth, and Joanna needed to know who’d sent the letter pretending to be her father.

Burke nodded as if he understood her reasoning. “Would you like a partner or even an assistant as you search for the answers? I don’t know anyone here, but I’d like to help. I hate to see Aunt Della so upset.”

“So do I.” The woman’s distress had made Joanna’s heart ache. Though she hadn’t been able to help Emily expose their father’s killer, she was here now and had nothing else to occupy her days. Her homecoming hadn’t been what she’d expected, but maybe this was why she’d arrived at the same time as Della and Burke. Maybe this was what she was meant to do.

“There has to be a way to uncover the truth,” she told Burke.

“Then let’s work together.”

“I’d like that.”

The surprises continued. As if the revelation that the letter Della had cherished for so long was a lie wasn’t enough, there had been the equally shocking news that Joanna’s father had been murdered. And now, though Burke had thought she might have retreated to her room to recover from what she’d learned, Della was waiting for him and Joanna as they returned from the barn. Her tears had dried, but sorrow still shone from her eyes.

When they were close enough to hear, she looked at Joanna. “Where is the cemetery?”

Apparently Della had forgotten that they’d caught sight of it when they arrived yesterday.

“Directly west from here.” Joanna tipped her head to indicate the direction. “It’s on the northwest corner of Creek and Center. You can’t miss it.”

Della gave a quick nod, acknowledging the directions. “I know it’s futile, but I want to see it.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

This time Della shook her head. “Thank you, Joanna, but no. Just Burke.”

And so they headed for the place where Clive Finley was not buried. Della’s steps were firm as they approached the cemetery, but after half an hour of reading the inscriptions on all the headstones, her energy seemed to flag. “Joanna was right,” she said slowly. “Clive’s not here. I simply didn’t want to believe it.”

Wishing there were something he could do to lessen her disappointment, Burke looked around. Spotting the steeple gave him an idea. “There’s one more place to try. The church will have burial records.” While unlikely, Clive might have been buried outside the cemetery. Burke knew that some families had small cemeteries on their ranches, wanting to keep their loved ones’ remains close.

A spark of enthusiasm lit Della’s eyes. “You’re right. It’s possible that the minister can help us.”

Suspecting they’d find the minister in the parsonage, Burke knocked on the door of the stone building next to the church. The man who opened it appeared to be close to fifty, old enough to have remembered Clive if he’d lived here then. Burke doubted that was the case, since Joseph Vaughn had been the town’s minister for many years, but he needed to ask. Few would comment on the current pastor’s medium height, graying brown hair, or brown eyes. Instead, his most distinguishing characteristic was his thinness. It wasn’t, Burke thought, the result of an illness but rather a trait he’d inherited.

“Good morning.” His smile was warm and welcoming. “I’m Harold Lindstrom. How can I help you?”

After Burke introduced himself and Della, he said, “We wondered whether we could see burial records for early 1861.”

If Pastor Lindstrom was surprised by the request, he gave no sign. “I didn’t live here at the time, but the records are next door in the church. May I ask whose you’re seeking?”

“Clive Finley.”

A small gasp confirmed that Della had managed to surprise him. “The man who built Finley House?” There was a note of incredulity in the reverend’s question.

“Yes. Della is the woman he planned to marry.”

The minister gave Della a sympathetic look. “As I said, I wasn’t here then, but I heard that he died in the war.”

When Della did not respond, Burke continued the explanation. “My aunt was told otherwise. We’re trying to explore every possibility.”

“Certainly.” Harold Lindstrom led the way to the church, then ushered them into a room off the narthex. With space for only the minister’s desk and chair, two other chairs for visitors, and open shelves filled with books behind the desk, the office was smaller than Burke would have expected.

Once they were seated, the minister pulled one of the volumes from a shelf and laid it on the desk. “Here we are, the war years. Sadly, too many of Sweetwater Crossing’s men are buried elsewhere. My predecessor listed their names and as much information as he had, even though they aren’t in our cemetery.”

When Burke started to open the book, Della shook her head. “Let me.” She leafed through it for a few seconds, then studied one page carefully. “There’s nothing. Clive is not buried here.” Her voice was steadier than Burke had thought possible, but the way she clasped her hands together to hide their trembling told him she was as devastated by the absence of any reference to Clive as she’d been by the revelation that the letter she’d received so many years ago was filled with falsehoods.

“Thank you, Pastor Lindstrom,” Burke said as he helped Della to her feet. There was no reason to linger, and unless he was mistaken, Della was on the verge of tears but didn’t want a man she’d met only a few minutes earlier to see them.

The somber expression in the minister’s brown eyes made Burke suspect he’d reached the same conclusion about Della’s state. “I wish you’d found what you sought.”

“It’s not your fault,” Della said softly. “You can’t show me records that don’t exist.”

Her head held high, she walked out of the church. That was Della, doing her best to project strength, regardless of her true feelings.

“This trip hasn’t been what you hoped for, has it?” Burke asked as they made their way slowly toward Finley House. While there’d been no reason to linger in the minister’s office, there was also no reason to rush to their temporary home. “Would you like to start back to Alabama on Monday?”

“No.” Once again, Della’s voice was firm. “It may seem foolish to you, but I feel closer to Clive than I have in years. He may not be buried here, but this is where he lived. I want to stay for the full two weeks.”

“All right.” It was more than all right, for Burke had no desire to leave early. Though he had yet to resolve the questions about his future, there were reasons to remain in Sweetwater Crossing, including his desire to help Joanna solve the mystery of his uncle’s death.

Perhaps it was because she and Burke had discussed music. All Joanna knew was that she felt drawn to the parlor. The piano was in the same spot it had always been. The music she’d left in the bench was undisturbed. Some things hadn’t changed, but she had.

She seated herself in front of the piano, opened the fallboard, then winced when she pressed a few keys. Her beloved piano was woefully out of tune.

“Oh, Joanna, I’m so sorry.” Emily, apparently drawn by the sound, entered the parlor. “If I’d known you were coming home, I would have tried to have it tuned. To be honest, though, I don’t know who could have done it now that Mrs. Sheridan is gone.”

Though the doctor’s wife was only a mediocre musician, she’d taught herself to tune pianos when she’d insisted that her daughter learn to play and had always tuned the Finley House piano.

“I suppose we could ask Miss Heppel,” Emily continued. “She stopped giving lessons earlier this year, but she’s still the church pianist.”

Joanna smiled, thinking of the woman who’d nurtured her love of music. It had been Miss Heppel who’d written to Grandmother Kenner, telling her Joanna had the makings of a concert pianist and urging her to take her to Europe on her next trip.

Joanna’s maternal grandmother had been so angry when her father had moved to Sweetwater Crossing shortly after Joanna’s birth that she’d never visited her only grandchild. She had, however, sent occasional letters and gifts from her extensive travels.

When the invitation to accompany her to Europe and be tutored by masters had arrived, Joanna had been shocked but had agreed immediately. Not only was it the opportunity of a lifetime, but it would also take her away from Sweetwater Crossing and the dream that had died almost as soon as it had been birthed.

Looking up at her sister, who stood at the end of the bench, Joanna said, “I’m surprised Miss Heppel is no longer teaching. Who took her place?”

“No one.”

Another change. Though Joanna had been home less than twenty-four hours, those hours had revealed one change after another. Perhaps that was why she felt as if she were adrift, floating through a landscape that looked only slightly familiar.

“I imagine Miss Heppel would help us.”

“We don’t need her,” Joanna told her sister. “The first thing Herr Ridel did was teach me to tune. He said every pianist should know how, because we couldn’t be assured that instruments would be ready as promised. ‘Emergencies happen, and so does sloppiness,’ he said.”

Joanna rose and studied the strings. “I suspect it’ll take less time to make this sound good than to convince my fingers to perform. Don’t be surprised if you hear some horrible sounds.”

But that didn’t happen. Once the piano was tuned, Joanna began five-finger exercises, then graduated to her favorite Chopin prelude, and as she did, she felt herself relax, remembering how music had always soothed her. It didn’t change what had happened—Kurt and Grandmother were still dead—but the pain that clenched Joanna’s heart lessened while she was playing. That, her mother had told her, was a gift from God.

Leaving Della on the front porch where she claimed she wanted to rest and reflect for a few minutes, Burke entered the house, then stopped abruptly, almost mesmerized by the music coming from the parlor. Though he’d listened to music in church and at various social functions, he’d never heard any that touched his emotions so deeply. He sank onto the staircase and gave himself over to listening.

At first the notes were soft, like gentle rain. Then they grew louder, conjuring the image of thunder and a heavy downpour. Finally, they became soft again. The storm was over. As the final chord died, he rose and entered the parlor, clapping as he did.

“That was magnificent. Is that the Chopin prelude you mentioned earlier?”

Joanna turned and nodded. Though she was still clad as she’d been when they’d walked from the barn, her demeanor had changed. Her shoulders were straighter, the angle of her head more confident, her expression more peaceful.

“It’s Opus 28, Number 15.” She gestured toward the sheet music in front of her. “I thought I’d forgotten it, but once I started playing, the notes came back to me.”

Burke was impressed that she’d memorized what seemed to be a complex piece. Perhaps that was what came from repetition. He took a step closer, then when she gestured an invitation, sat on the edge of the piano bench.

“Your family didn’t exaggerate when they said you’re an accomplished musician. I don’t claim to be an expert. All I can tell you is that I’ve never heard music so filled with emotion. It was glorious, and that’s a word I’ve never used before.”

Joanna’s pleasure was evident in the soft blush that colored her cheeks. “Thank you. My grandmother took me to Europe to determine whether I had any genuine talent.”

“What did you learn?”

“That I might have become a concert pianist if only ...” She paused so long that Burke feared she would not complete the sentence. At last she said, “Everything changed when I caught scarlet fever and then pneumonia. The doctors said my lungs were permanently damaged and I’d never have enough stamina for a concert tour.”

Pneumonia. No wonder Louisa had asked him to teach her everything he knew about ailments of the lungs. Her sister hadn’t died, but her life had been irreparably changed by the dread disease. Doctors kept searching for better ways to treat it, but so far no one knew how to prevent it.

Burke’s heart began to race. Was this the answer to his question about the future? Was he meant to do more than treat disease? No one had been able to prevent pneumonia, but that didn’t mean it was impossible. A century ago, people despaired of preventing smallpox until Edward Jenner developed a vaccine. Surely it was possible to eradicate pneumonia with a vaccine just as Jenner had done with smallpox. The question was, was Burke the right man to do it?

After taking a deep breath to slow his heartbeat and bring him back to the present, Burke studied Joanna, searching for signs of weakness. “I hadn’t realized playing was so strenuous.”

Those brown eyes that reminded him of hot chocolate had lost the sparkle they’d had when she accepted his compliment. “It’s not the performing itself. It’s the schedule. There are so many stops and so many rehearsals that there’s very little time to rest. The doctors warned me I could do further damage if I overexerted.”

The discouragement in her voice touched Burke’s heart and made him resolve to help her. “And so you abandoned your dream.”

“Yes.” Discouragement was replaced by resignation. “Being a concert pianist wasn’t always my dream. I had others that died before I went to Europe, but when I saw how powerful music can be and the way it touches so many people, I knew that was what I wanted from my life.” She gazed at him for a moment before adding, “It’s more than that I wanted to be a musician: I felt as if that was what I was meant to do.”

Burke understood the feeling. From the first time he’d assisted the town’s older doctor, he’d believed that healing people was his mission in life. It had given him a sense of fulfillment. But even before the fatal overdose of morphine, that fulfillment had begun to fade. Della had joked that Burke had outgrown Samuels, and perhaps she was right. He knew that old life was gone. It was time to find a new one.

“It might still be possible for you to be a concert pianist,” he told Joanna, wracking his brain for ways to increase her pulmonary stamina. “Your doctors might have been wrong.”

She shook her head. “They weren’t.”

Her voice was devoid of hope, and that disturbed him more greatly than the diagnosis itself. Somehow, someway he’d prove those other doctors wrong.