Chapter 22

22

"Coming!" Tanner called as he raced down the stairway, stuffing his arms into the sleeves of his flannel shirt.

The knocking on the front door was persistent and had only gotten louder instead of going away as he'd hoped.

He was being selfish. He was well aware of that fact. But he was a newlywed enjoying his bride this week, and he hated any and all interruptions.

Thankfully, there hadn't been many since he and Maisy had moved into their new house five days ago, the day after their wedding. Maverick and Hazel had stopped by once. Clementine had brought them food a couple of times. And a messenger had come with a telegram from Ryder, congratulating him on the marriage—in response to the telegram Tanner had sent to him.

One night he and Maisy had also been awakened by scratching on the back door. They'd gone down to find Smoke sitting in the backyard. They weren't sure how he'd been able to sneak into town without being seen, but somehow he'd managed.

Maisy had hugged and kissed the wolf and invited him inside, but Smoke had just paced toward the back fence. He'd paused and looked at Tanner as if to admonish him to take good care of Maisy, then he'd peered at Maisy with his beautiful golden eyes for a long moment. In the next instant, he'd jumped the fence and disappeared... and they hadn't seen him since.

Over the past few days, they'd speculated as to where Smoke had gone and what he would do next. Tanner guessed the wolf sensed that Maisy no longer needed him now that she was married and had someone to take care of her, but Maisy thought Smoke was ready to go find a mate of his own.

Whatever the case, Maisy had taken the wolf's leaving much better than Tanner had expected. She'd told him again, as she had in the past, that whenever she rescued wild animals, she did so with the intention of releasing them into the wild where they belonged. She claimed Smoke was back where he belonged too. For better or worse, he would have to survive without Maisy.

Tanner began to hastily button his shirt while trying to tuck it into his trousers with only one suspender holding them up. His feet were bare and his hair mussed, but he didn't care. Once he sent away whoever was at the door, he was going up and crawling right back into bed with Maisy, and he didn't care that it was the middle of the day.

The knocking paused for just a moment before resuming even louder, if that were possible.

Tanner slipped another button through a hole, making that a total of three that partially covered his bare chest. Then he unlocked the door and swung it wide.

A middle-aged man in a dark suit paused with his fist ready to knock again, gave Tanner a once-over, then tsked. Without a word, he pulled a monocle out of his pocket, placed it over one eye, and then peered through it at Tanner as if he were a rare document he was reading.

"May I help you?" Tanner asked, trying not to be brusque. But the man didn't look familiar—no one Tanner had ever seen in Summit County.

"Tanner Oakley, I presume?" With his gloved hands, the man took hold of Tanner's chin and shifted his head sideways while he continued his inspection through the monocle.

"Yes, I'm Tanner." Tanner took a step back, breaking the man's grip, having reached his short limit on being manhandled by a stranger. "Who are you?"

The man tucked the single glass back into his pocket and then slipped out a folded stack of papers. "I'm Mr. Warner, the best private investigator in Boston, dare I say on the entire East Coast."

Obviously this man had learned about Tanner's previous investigations into his family and was now stepping forward to offer to do the job—and trying to prove his credentials for taking over the case.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Warner"—Tanner began to close the door—"but I'm not hiring another investigator. I'm done with that."

Mr. Warner placed a surprisingly strong hand against the door to keep it from shutting and pinned a severe gaze on Tanner. "You don't need to hire me since I've already been hired... by your grandfather."

Every function in Tanner's body crashed to a halt, and silence descended. What was this fellow saying? What could he possibly mean? "I don't have a grandfather." He said the only logical thing.

"As a matter of fact, you do have a grandfather, and his name is Donald Hart."

Donald Hart. Donald. A tremor raced through Tanner. Donny—Donald—was the name he'd had long ago when he'd been but an infant. Did he have some connection with Donald Hart?

Mr. Warner held Tanner's gaze. "Mr. Hart has been looking for his daughter's missing sons for at least two decades."

"His daughter?"

"Your mother, Sarah."

A rush of emotion swelled in Tanner's chest. Lord in heaven above. Sarah was the name Ryder had remembered, the one he thought belonged to their mother. "How can you be sure Mr. Hart's daughter Sarah is my mother?"

Mr. Warner unfolded the papers in his hand, then took out his monocle again. "I've been keeping meticulous records for years, and all the details I've collected confirm that you are her son. Besides, the family resemblance to your father is quite evident."

"Hawthorne?" Tanner threw out the other name that Ryder had recalled.

Mr. Warner riffled through the documents. "Yes, Hawthorne Bertram."

Bertram. Tanner let the family name sift through his mind, testing it for any familiarity. But it didn't resonate, not any more than the given names.

Mr. Warner pulled out a photograph from among the stack. It was small, no bigger than the size of his palm. He turned it around, then extended it.

Tanner reached for it, surprised to find that his fingers were trembling. As he took it and held it up, he felt as if he were looking into a mirror. The face in the picture was young and carefree and full of life. The dark-brown hair, brown eyes, angular lines, and even the unsmiling mouth were all like his.

The emotion swirling inside Tanner pushed higher into his throat and cut off any response he could give to Mr. Warner. There really were no words needed.

The man in the photograph was undeniably his father.

Of course, not everything was identical. The man had a crooked nose, as if it had once been broken. And he had a mole on one cheek and sported a dark and dashing mustache. He was attired in a suit that a wealthy gentleman might wear, with a cravat about his neck and a pocket-watch chain dangling from his coat.

Hawthorne Bertram. What kind of man had he been?

The hints of memories that Tanner had had from time to time had always made him believe his father and mother had been loving. And now he'd finally know the truth.

"Tell me about Hawthorne."

Mr. Warner skimmed down through his notes and halted on a paragraph of scribbled writing. "Hawthorne was a titled Englishman who was visiting in Boston when he met Sarah."

A titled Englishman? Tanner's fingers began to shake even more.

"He met Sarah Hart in 1852, and they were married in 1853 against the wishes of both of their parents."

"Against the wishes?"

"Your grandfather, Mr. Hart, is..." Mr. Warner pursed his lips for a moment. "Well, let us just say that Mr. Hart is a very wealthy man, and at the time, he had other aspirations for his only child."

"What aspirations?"

"For her to marry a very wealthy friend of his who also happened to be much older than her."

"And so she ran off with my father instead?"

"It was more complicated than that. She was grieving the recent loss of Mrs. Hart, and so was Mr. Hart. Without Mrs. Hart there to intervene, the situation only deteriorated."

"And Hawthorne's family?"

"Of course, your paternal grandfather, Lord Bertram, wasn't opposed to the Harts' fortune. But without the offer of a dowry, which Mr. Hart refused to give, they weren't willing to proceed with the union."

The information sounded like something from a novel, and Tanner could hardly take it all in.

Mr. Warner paged forward, peered through his monocle, and spoke again. "Without the support of either family, the newly married couple moved to Buffalo, New York, where Hawthorne worked for the railroad. They had their first child in 1854, a son named Edward after Hawthorne's father."

"Ryder thought his given name was Edward."

Mr. Warner continued as if he hadn't heard Tanner. "Sarah had a second son in 1856 named Donald after her father. They moved to Ohio in 1857, where Hawthorne continued to work for the railroad. Finally, in 1859, with the discovery of gold in Colorado, they decided to travel west and make their fortune."

Tanner could hardly believe he was having this conversation with Mr. Warner and hearing about his family. The information was everything he'd always wanted to know, but now that he had Maisy, it didn't seem quite as important as it once had.

"When Mr. Hart finally got the devastating news of Sarah's death, he also learned that the two boys hadn't been found among the dead. However, since months had already passed, he was left with no clues as to what had become of them."

If Tanner had harbored any doubts about Mr. Warner's story, he no longer did. Everything matched exactly with the little he knew. Even the dates of birth of Sarah's sons lined up with his and Ryder's ages.

If both of his parents had come from wealthy families, then it was no wonder that he'd never been able to find any information during his own investigations. He'd centered his search among simple folks, working-class people, even the immigrants who'd traveled west seeking new opportunities. He'd never considered the possibility that his parents' story had been completely different.

"Did Sarah play the violin?"

Mr. Warner glanced up from the papers, his eyes showing surprise. "Yes, she was a very skilled violinist. How did you know?"

"I have vague recollections of someone playing a violin."

"No doubt it was her."

The biggest question was still nagging Tanner. "How did Mr. Hart—how did you—track me down?"

Mr. Warner flipped to the last page of his stack and peered down at several newspaper articles that had been clipped and spread out over the sheet. One was circled and had scribbled notes beside it. Mr. Warner focused his monocle on it. "I read your advertisement in the Boston Post four weeks ago."

Tanner had been in New York City four weeks ago with Ryder. And Genevieve had been the one to suggest putting advertisements into major newspapers across the country. With her help, Tanner had crafted a short notice.

He peered at it now on the sheet in front of Mr. Warner: Seeking family. Edward (25) and Donald (23), sons of Sarah and Hawthorne, were orphaned in a wagon-train attack on the Oregon Trail in 1859. Send information to Tanner Oakley at High Country Ranch in Breckenridge, Colorado.

Mr. Warner was staring at the advertisement too. "It was a miracle to find this."

"I'd given up my own search," Tanner admitted, "and this was the last thing I did, the last thing I ever planned to do."

Mr. Warner looked up at Tanner with serious eyes. "It's a heaven-sent blessing. Your grandfather is dying, and it is his greatest wish to meet you and your brother before he passes. You must travel to Boston with me."

Tanner's heart squeezed with new hope. "When do we leave?"