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“Maybe someone or something is trying to communicate.”
I exhaled my frustration, then held up the diary. “I finished organizing the journals in chronological order, and this is the next one. Want to read it—maybe find a clue?”
“Why not?” With a shrug, he pulled out a barstool. “Might as well sit down and be comfortable.”
I opened the diary to a vintage baby portrait mounted on cardstock. “Wonder whose picture?” I handed Luke the stained photo.
The scrawled date on the back read November 19, 1900. “Ramona? She was born in October that year.”
“Maybe the journal mentions it.” As I scanned the handwriting, I caught my breath. “Wow.”
“What?”
“December twenty-second, nineteen-twenty, the ranch. Today we buried our daughter Ramona. She just turned twenty.
“Marianna outlived both her children.” I grabbed my stomach, counteracting the sinking sensation.
“December twenty-fifth, Christmas. I had no appetite to cook or bake. Instead, I sat in the rocker, thinking. After a premature birth, miscarriage, and the death of my only child, I’m not a mother. And if I’m not a mother, what am I?
“January first, nineteen-twenty-one, New Year’s Day. As I sat rocking with my locket in my hands, I fondled Kenneth’s hair. If my babies are ghosts, does that make me a ghost mother?”
“Kenneth?” Glancing from the journal, I caught Luke’s gaze. “Do you suppose…?”
“Marianna mentioned the rocker, locket, and hair in the same sentence.” Lips pressed together, he nodded. “I’d bet Kenneth was the premature baby, and—”
“It’s his hair in the locket!” Jumping to my feet, I closed the journal. “Are you thinking what I am?”
“Let’s go see.” He opened the door.
“Come on, Teddy.” I whistled, and the puppy bounded ahead.
Outside, the sun was slipping behind the violet-blue mountains. The sky was a rich twilight blue—deepening yet crystal clear, as if clarifying the situation.
Bluing. I recalled my grandmother adding bluing to laundry to whiten the wash. What made me think of that? I shook off the memory with a laugh. “Didn’t realize the time.”
The vineyard reflected the rusty-red tones of the late winter sunset.
Dusk. I held back a sigh as I glimpsed the winery and cozy cabin. Heartrending in its homey beauty, the scene tugged at my earliest recollections.
The child of vagabond parents, I was often on the road at dusk, just as the lights began coming on in the houses we passed. Growing up without a permanent address, I fantasized about living in one of those comfortable homes instead of viewing them through the car window.
“Gets dark early in the mountains.” He caught my gaze, did a double take, then stared.
“Is something wrong?”
“Your hair…”
“Is something on it?” I swiped at my head.
“No.” He chuckled. “The sunset captures your hair’s highlights—gives it a reddish glow.”
“Oh.” Pleasantly surprised, I gave a nervous laugh as the heat crept to my cheeks. “Thanks.”
He reached out his hand and hesitated. “May I?”
“Sure.” Wondering what he was doing, I quivered as his hand swept my hair behind my ear. As arousing as a caress, the gesture sent a shockwave through my body.
Then his hand molded itself just above my neck, gently supporting my head as he leaned toward me.
