EPILOGUE – December 25th, 1863

oooooooooo

"Pa?"

Ben started and sat up, a little embarrassed to find that he had fallen asleep in the chair by the fire – and without the influence of brandy! Joseph stood before him. His son's rampant curls were tousled and the boy was wearing his robe.

"You been there all night?" he asked.

He glanced at the window above the dining table. The dawn light was spilling through it. Ben's smile was chagrined.

"I guess so."

"Keepin' watch over the tree?"

The older man's eyes went to the splendid fir. His lips twitched. "Maybe."

Joe sat on the edge of the table. His son pivoted on the polished wood so he, too, was facing the tree. He watched the boy's eyes climb it to the tattered angel that graced its top. For a moment Joe was silent and then his lips quirked with amusement. When he turned to face him, his son had 'that' look in his eyes.

"You sure you weren't sparkin' with Anne? I know you're sweet on her."

He nodded. "Fifteen years now and we haven't missed a date."

Joe chuckled, but sobered quickly as his eyes went back to the little angel. "Pa..."

"Yes, son?"

"Was she real? The lady with the yellow hair, I mean?"

Ben's gaze followed his son's. "She's right there."

Joe looked at him. "You know what I mean. Not," he nodded toward the tree, "that lady. The other one. The one in my room."

They hadn't spoken about it for years. As Joseph grew, his son became self-conscious. Of course, his brothers hadn't helped. They'd teased him mercilessly about the little yellow-haired angel. It had taken a patriarchal edict to put a stop to it and, after that, the matter had dropped.

No one said anything.

He wondered now what had prompted his son to broach the sensitive subject again.

"What do you remember, son?"

Little Joe shrugged. "Not much. I was pretty little." The boy rose and walked over to the tree. He stood there a moment, fingering one of the branches, and then said, "I remember you were...sad."

"I wasn't sad. I was mad, Joseph. Mad at the world. Mad at God."

Joe turned and looked at him. One corner of his mouth quirked. "Yeah, I remember that too."

Ben rose and walked over to the boy and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "I'm sorry, son, that I ever made you afraid of me." When Joe began to protest, he went on. "Don't deny it. I...lost myself after your mother died. I wasn't there for you and for that I apologize."

"It's okay, Pa –"

"No. It's not. I was so mired in self-pity that I forgot I wasn't the only one who was hurting. I thought you boys would be better off without me."

Joe shook his head. "Pa, no! Never!"

"I know that now." Ben looked up. "And I owe it to your maternal grandmother and her gift."

His son sniffed back his emotions as he too looked up. "You know Pa, I think..."

"What do you think, Joe? Tell me."

"I think...it was mama's mama who came to visit me." He winced, knowing it sounded peculiar. "You don't think I'm crazy do you?"

No, he didn't think his son was crazy. After that night, he had hired a private detective to track down Marie's mother. By the time the man located her, she had passed. The detective had gathered what information he could and sent him a file, which he had placed in his desk and never shared with his son.

Until now.

"Wait here, Joe."

Joseph's puzzled look followed him across the room and back. Upon his return, Ben opened the file and drew a heavily decorated small leather case from it and handed it to his son.

"What's this?" Joe asked.

"Open it."

When he did, his son's mouth fell open. Tears welled in his eyes. "Pa, that's her!" he exclaimed, looking at him. "It's the lady with the yellow hair!"

Ben took the image back from his boy and gazed at it. Marie's mother had been a wealthy woman. The daguerreotype was hand tinted. From its shining metal surface a handsome, bold, and determined woman looked back at him. Her blonde hair was winged with silver and she wore a pale blue dress. Behind her was a curtain of pink.

Her name was Anne.