Logan’s smile wavered, the stark reality of the situation rattling all good intentions. This would be the first interaction between Jamie’s mother and him—the woman with whom he’d had an illegitimate son back in law school—as well as a painful reminder of his betrayal of Cait.
And yet, the idea took hold, simmering in his mind until it bubbled with promise like Rosie’s homemade beef stew, words of consent warm and flavorful on his tongue. A deep satisfaction filled his soul at the prospect of doing this for his son, taking that first step to bring Jamie’s parentage full circle, hopefully to move past the shame once and for all. To give Jean MacKenna the moment of pride she so deserved as a mother. Logan exhaled a tremulous breath as his thoughts strayed to Andrew. And to give God the moment of forgiveness He so required as a Father. He cocked his head, smile pensive as he gave Bram his answer. “I think so. Jamie’s family deserves to be there, and I would do anything for my son.” He fought the emotion that stung in his nose. And for Cait.
“Well, I guarantee you, Logan, it’ll be the greatest gift you can give,” Bram said quietly, eyes sober with respect.
Logan cleared his throat. “Yes, well actually it’s the perfect opportunity to broach an idea I’ve had rolling around in my brain anyway.” He scratched the edge of his temple, nose wrinkling. “I’ve always been proud of Jamie, but never more than when he bought that ramshackle Victorian as a boardinghouse down the street from Cait’s school.” He shook his head, pride welling so fast it threatened to seep from his eyes. “And all to reach out to victimized women like Jamie’s mother used to be, helping them escape the malevolent tentacles of Barbary.” His exhale was slow and steady. “To give them a future they could never hope for in the cow-yards and brothels.” He peered up at Bram with a set of his jaw. “That’s a future I think I’d like to invest in, both for those unfortunate women and for Jamie’s family.”
“It’s certainly a noble ambition, sir, and one that will touch your son deeply.”
Logan yanked at his tie to loosen it while he settled back in his chair, deflecting his awkwardness with a casual grin. “I can wholeheartedly assure you, Counselor Hughes, that that is the very first time the word ‘noble’ has ever been used in reference to my ambitions or goals.”
“I seriously doubt that, sir.” Bram’s smile was kind.
“Well, don’t.” Logan’s grin deflated into a reflective smile. His gaze veered into a distant stare while his tone tapered to serious. “I haven’t always been the most respectable man in the past, Bram, something I’ve come to regret.”
“I don’t know much about your past, Logan,” Bram said softly, “but I do know that in the present, you are one of the men I admire most in the world. I count it an honor and privilege to work with you.” As if sensing Logan’s discomfort, Bram broke his serious demeanor with a chuckle. “And despite my deep affection and respect for Jamie and Blake, I’d like you to know, sir—my threshold for respect is pretty high.”
Logan drew in a sharp breath and released it again, a smile easing across his face. “Thanks, Bram—the feeling is more than mutual, I assure you.” He paused, feeling a pull to ask Bram a question he’d never asked anyone before, and suddenly it occurred to him just why Jamie and Blake had coined the nickname “Padre Hughes” for this humble man. Yes, Logan knew Bram was the rock foundation of the “Three Musketeers,” as the boys called themselves in law school, a true stabilizer for both Jamie and Blake with his keen mind and mild manner. And, yes, he was well aware of Blake’s complaints that Bram preferred ginger ale to beer or whiskey and intellectual chats with women rather than idle flirtations. He’d even been privy to the subtle aspirations of Bram’s parents, who hoped their son might follow in the footsteps of his Protestant uncle and become a minister. But their dreams had been waylaid by both their son’s disinterest and his preference for attending church with the McClares, and for that Logan was grateful. Not only because Bram was a godsend for Meg over the years, but because he’d become a vital and integral part of their tight-knit family. One who, at times, seemed to be the glue that bound Logan’s nieces and nephews together.
And yet looking at Bram now, Logan sensed something far deeper, far more compelling when one was alone with him—something that seldom occurred for Logan, either in the office or at family dinners or functions. Although Bram joked and teased with the best of them, he always appeared content to let Jamie and Blake take center stage, which, of course they always did, never allowing Logan to really see Bram’s deep connection with God.
Eyes in a squint, Logan studied him now—the calm and caring eyes that seemed to penetrate the hard veneer of Logan’s pride and bore straight into his soul. A relaxed composure that was strong, steady, and sure. And somehow, expectant. As if he were waiting for what he knew Logan needed to know . . .
“Bram,” Logan said with a gruff clear of his throat, “would you mind if I asked you a question of a rather . . . spiritual nature?”
If Bram was surprised, it didn’t register in his manner. Instead, his eyes sparked with interest, dispelling any fatigue that may have been there before. “Have at it, sir,” he said with a grin. “I just happen to thrive on questions of a spiritual nature.”
Logan leaned in to cross his arms on the front of the desk, fist to mouth in contemplation. “Good, because there’s something I want to do—” He grunted. “Well, not ‘want’ per se, but need to do, and I’m not quite sure how to do it.”
Bram’s sandy brows bunched low while a faint smile played at the edge of his mouth. “What—explain the facts of life to Blake?”
Logan laughed, appreciating Bram’s attempt to lighten a difficult subject. He scratched the back of his head with a sheepish grin. “Yes, well, that too—something Cait has been after me to do for a long time now, but no.” He glanced up, eyes locking with Bram’s. “How do you . . . I mean, are there any . . . well, you know . . . specific steps one takes to . . .” The words strangled as he snatched his cold coffee and glugged until empty, clunking it down while heat crawled up his neck. “Uh . . . forgive?”
To his credit, Bram kept a straight face, the unassuming kindness in his eyes unraveling the knots in Logan’s gut. He exhaled slowly, then sat up to brace arms on the sides of his chair. “It’s been my experience, Logan, that forgiveness is—like love—a decision, the choice of one’s will to override all negative emotion and let go of hate and hurt for the common good—both for you and those you love.”
Logan nodded, thinking of Cait, knowing full well she was the only reason he needed to do this, to avoid hurting her again with his temper and jealousy. But on the heels of that very thought, he saw Andrew kissing her on the veranda, and a rush of fury pumped through his veins. “I’ve made that decision, yes,” he said in a clipped tone, “but I’m not quite sure what to do with the urgent need to dismantle this person’s jaw.”
Bram grinned, rubbing the side of his face as if he felt the clip of a punch. “That is a problem, but . . .” His manner sobered, although Logan could have sworn he saw a twinkle in his eye. “There are solutions.”
Logan jagged a brow. “Pay someone to do it for me?”
Bram’s low chuckles worked just like laudanum, melting the stress in Logan’s chest. “No, but if anyone could afford it, sir, it’s you.” He cocked his head, his gaze almost wistful. “People don’t realize just how much energy it takes to hate and hurt someone who’s wounded them, nor how destructive that hate can be.” His blue eyes were suddenly somber, the gunmetal color of the sky before the storm. “It’s like a gun aimed at themselves instead of the offending party,” he said in a solemn tone. “It can destroy them and those they love.” His chest expanded with a heavy inhale, which he slowly released, eyes never straying from Logan’s. “But . . . if one were to utilize the same level of emotion it takes to hate and channel it into God’s precepts instead . . .” The faintest of smiles hovered on his lips. “Well, then it becomes like the steam in my Stanley—all that hot air not only has t
he power to take you where you want to go, but farther, faster, and safer than allowing all that hate to grind on the gears.”
Jaw compressed, Logan stared through a slivered gaze, almost reluctant to concur for what it would cost him. He finally huffed out a noisy sigh. “Agreed,” he said in a dry tone, “but how exactly does one go about harnessing all this ‘hot air’ once the throttle is pumped and the tiller’s ready to steer?”
Bram assessed him through eyes as serene as Logan’s were stormy, a nice complement to the gale raging outside his window. “Well, I’ve certainly never been able to do it on my own, that’s for sure. But, forgiveness is God’s precept, and ironically, it’s only His power that can accomplish it in our lives.” Bram paused, as if searching for the right words to drive his point home. “But first, we have to move over and let Him maneuver the tiller, so to speak, allowing Him to channel all that angry steam into His power, which in turn, will steer us to our dreams.”
Logan’s lips went flat, tone more of a mumble than consent. “Holy thunder, I don’t even let Hadley drive me around, much less somebody I can’t see.” He slumped back in his chair and mauled his face with his hand, finally venting with a noisy sigh. “All right, I give—and how exactly am I supposed to do that?”
Tone steady, Bram was the picture of patience. “It’s pretty simple, really—just ask Him to help you do things His way in everything you do. To help you live according to His precepts instead of your own.”
“You mean pray,” Logan clarified.
Bram nodded. “Yes, I mean pray. As believers, it’s the single most important tool we have outside of God’s grace.”
Logan considered that, face screwed in thought. “Okay, I’ve made the decision to forgive and I already prayed for God’s help.” He glanced up, ready to close the deal. “So, is that it?”
“Uh . . . actually, no.” Appearing to stifle a grin, Bram ruffled the back of his hair, disrupting the Brilliantine he wore. “I’ve always found it quite useful to exercise another key precept in this whole forgiveness process.”
A pucker wedged above Logan’s nose, his patience as thin as the slit of his eyes. “What? Bonbons wrapped in a bow?”
Bram grinned, apparently unable to maintain a serious demeanor. “Close. You need to pray for the person you want to forgive.”
Logan blinked, sure he’d misheard. His brows dipped along with his chin, eyes slivers of heat. “You mean pray he goes to the devil so I don’t have to send him there with my fist?”
All humor faded from Bram’s face while his eyes softened with understanding. “No, Logan—you pray for God to bless him.”
He jolted straight up in his chair and slammed a fist to his desk. “No, I refuse. I will not pray for God to bless some backstabbing lowlife whose only ambition is to steal my dream!”
Bram’s chest rose and fell. “Well, then I guess you have to ask yourself what’s more important,” he said quietly, gentle eyes pinning him to the wall. “Your pride or your dream?”
Logan stared, the quiet delivery of Bram’s words more effective than a punch to the gut. Pray for Andrew? For God to bless him? And what if that blessing were Cait? The possibility sucked the air right out of his lungs, and with a sharp stab of reality, he slumped back in the chair with his head in his hands. “I can’t do this,” he whispered.
“No, Logan, you can’t.” Bram paused, the weight of his words confident and resolute. “But He can.” Silence reigned for several clips of Logan’s heart before Bram finally spoke, his voice a strained monotone that sounded nothing like the man Logan knew. “A lesson I learned the hard way,” he whispered, “when my father was stabbed and robbed years ago.”
Wincing at the memory, Logan looked up, suddenly aware he’d never heard Bram talk about it before, the day Jeremiah Hughes almost died at the hands of a street thug, left for dead in a puddle of blood. Only fifteen at the time and estranged from his father, Bram had been the one to discover him on the study floor, the room in shambles and splattered with blood. When the ambulance arrived, they’d found Bram weeping convulsively, his father clutched tightly in his arms while the housekeeper ushered his sobbing mother from the room. Logan quietly sucked in a calming breath, watching the man who’d become as much of a nephew as Blake. He marveled at how such a tragedy had triggered a transformation in a boy once so prone to rebellion, now so prone to honor God.
Bram’s gaze sought Logan’s, the horror of that night still evident in the glaze of grief in his eyes. “For months I dreamed of nothing but a bloody room with my knife plunged into the robber’s chest. My hate . . . my hurt . . . was so strong I couldn’t even stand to be in that house anymore. Every fiber in the blood-stained carpet, every leather-bound volume ripped from my father’s library, a chilling reminder of the damage that demon had done . . .”
“And so you spent the bulk of your time at Cait’s.” Logan’s voice was low, his heart aching over the raw pain inflicted upon this boy and the family they all loved.
A faint smile lifted the gloom from Bram’s shoulders. “I did,” he said with a slow exhale, his trademark peace and calm returning once again. “Mrs. McClare all but saved my life, Logan, by reuniting me with the God of my youth.” A sheen of moisture glimmered in his eyes. “The same God who helped me weather every storm of my life, no matter how heinous, and battle every obstacle, no matter how high.” The strong line of his chiseled jaw rose, forged in steel by his unshakable faith in God. “That God and His precepts helped me fight the horror of my hate with love, forgiveness, and prayers of blessing for my father’s attacker. And you know what?” His smile broadened into a grin. “It worked. He’s given me my dream of restoration with my family, Logan, something I lost when my sister died. But it wouldn’t have been possible without His help, His grace, and His precepts to lead the way.”
With a quick tap of his palms on the arms of his chair, he rose, slipping his jacket back on with an energy that hadn’t been there before. “Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you, bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you.” He puckered his nose in a show of distaste. “A bitter pill to swallow, true, but after it goes down?” He winked as he buttoned his coat. “All that nasty hate goes away and I guarantee—you’ll never feel better in your life.” He glanced at his watch. “Gotta go—my parents are waiting on dinner, but I’ve enjoyed this, Logan.”
Logan rose and extended his hand, clutching Bram’s in a firm shake. “Me too, Bram. You know, I think you may have missed your calling as a doctor or minister—your chair-side manner’s pretty darn good.”
Bram chuckled. “And let Jamie and Blake grab all the legal glory at the Barrister Ball?” He turned with the flash of a grin. “Not good for the boys’ humility, I’m afraid.”
Shaking his head, Logan couldn’t help but laugh. “I suppose that includes their boss too?”
“Naw, they could take a few lessons from him, I think, judging by our conversation tonight. See you tomorrow, Logan.” Turning, he strode for the door.
“G’night, Bram—and thanks.”
“Sure thing.” He paused to toss a grin over his shoulder. “Oh, and about your dream?” His nose bunched in a tight-lipped smile. “Trust me—it’s safer in His hands than yours.”
23
Okay just one . . . more . . . pin.” Meg held her breath while Alli focused on positioning a hairpin in just the right spot in Meg’s upswept hair, the delicate cream roses with mossy leaves the perfect complement to her pale-green gown. Her sister stepped back to observe her handiwork and grinned at Meg in the mirror with a waggle of dark brows. “Don’t trip over your tongue, Devin Caldwell, she’s only yours for one night.”
A weak giggle drifted from the canopy bed where Cassie lay in her nightgown, limp as the rag doll perched on top of Meg’s chiffarobe. “Yes, siree, Megs—that boy will have drool all over his face for sure.”
Alli chuckled while she tugged Meg’s lacy scoop-neck bodice up another inch. “And egg,
if I have anything to say about it,” she muttered, squinting in the mirror at Meg’s bosom. “Good heavens, Meggie, how can a girl lose weight everywhere but there?”
Color blasted Meg’s cheeks as she eyed the very noticeable cleft in her neckline. She sighed and took a turn at yanking it up, helping somewhat. “I honestly don’t know, Al. And Rosie even added some lace.”
“Humph, not enough to suit me with the likes of Devin Caldwell around.” Palms on Meg’s shoulder, she gave her a wink in the mirror. “I guess it’s not so bad when you pull it up like that, so just give it a tug every now and then, okay?” She leaned to kiss her sister’s cheek, then circled her in a tight hug. “You look absolutely beautiful, Megs, and if Devin Caldwell isn’t a perfect gentleman tonight, you just let me know, and I’ll send Cassie over to sneeze on him.”
“With my stinky rope,” Cassie volunteered in a nasal tone, handkerchief dabbing at her cherry-red nose. “Right before I truss him up like a snotty-nosed little calf.”
Alli’s eyes lit up. “Ooooo, or you can take my skewer-size hatpin or atomizer bracelet!”
Cassie sneezed, then managed a watery grin. “Or hide one of my spurs in your purse.”
Meg giggled, grateful for the humor that always helped to settle her nerves, something she desperately needed right now. Although a part of her did feel badly over the disparaging remarks about Devin. After all, he’d apologized several times. And his behavior at the office had been nothing but gracious and kind. She peeked up, her smile a bit wobbly. “Poor Devin—maybe we should just let bygones be bygones?”
“Poor Devin?” Alli plunked hands to her hips. “Megs—this is the twerp that made most of your life miserable! Have you forgotten all the tears you cried in this very room alone?”
“Well, no . . .” Head bowed, she fiddled with her fingers. “But you know Mother has always taught us to forgive, and well . . .” She gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders, suddenly noting how bare they looked in this off-the-shoulder gown. “I’ve forgiven him.”