Chapter One
Prologue
When thunder rolled through the air and lightning lighted up the sky, dark-haired Clara Rowman hurried to stable her horse and headed for her small home in the Sierra hills. Though, when she saw the door slightly ajar she put her hand on the top of the pistol she constantly wore on her side...a habit the young widow had no intention of breaking. Just as she stepped onto the porch, rain started falling. However, she paid no attention as she pulled her weapon and swung open the door only to be stunned by what she saw.
Chapter One
Jarrod sat in his office looking over some paperwork he'd finished the night before. As far as he could see everything was in order and ready for Henry Marvin to pick up whenever the rancher was in town. He stood up, thinking he'd go grab lunch when his secretary opened his office door.
"There's a gentleman by the name of Claude Rowman here to see you. Should I send him away?" Esther looked as if she wondered if she should send the stranger away. After all, her boss had had an early start and been busy all morning.
A part of Jarrod did indeed wish to wait until after lunch before seeing the gentleman, would have insisted on it, only he had a feeling roll over him-one telling him to go ahead and talk to the man. "No, I'll see him now." He sat back down. Seconds later, Esther was showing the gentleman in.
Jarrod watched as the stranger, a man who stood roughly five eight inches who wore his long dishwater blonde hair back in a ponytail, walked through the door. The man's clothes were made out of buckskin and a pistol hung on his right side while what appeared to be good sized knife hung in its sheath on his left. He was also carrying a small bag. There was no way the famous Stockton attorney was going to try to guess the man's exact age- though he would venture to say the man was in his twenties. Jarrod started to stand only to have the stranger tell him not to bother. "I've never been one for formalities, though I do my best to be polite. Like I told your secretary, my name is Claude Rowman. Only, folks call me Badger."
Jarrod didn't ask how the man had received such a nickname, and Mr. Rowman didn't offer any explanation as he sat in a chair off to the side of Jarrod's desk. "What may I do for you?" Jarrod asked once the man calling himself Badger had seated himself.
"I don't know that you can." Badger set the bag on Jarrod's desk. "When I was a small child, I was left in a young widow's cabin. This bag was with me. Due to this letter," Badger reached into the bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper out. Mama Clara kept me and did her best to raise me-even if it was evident that whoever left me at her cabin did not know she had lost her husband. Well, she assumed they didn't as they addressed the letter to Mrs Rowan instead of Widow Rowan. She only told me everything when I reached twenty-one-I have the letter to thank for that." He held the paper out to Jarrod and then took out the few items still left in the bag-one of which was a small book. "I want to know who my parents were and why I was left with Mama Clara. I had hoped this small book would tell me everything only it doesn't. I mean, not enough for me to have all my answers. I thought I had put the clues together and started searching quite some time ago. Only, now, I believe I must have put the clues together wrong-or I missed something. I've heard you're pretty good at putting clues together...and getting answers."
"I may have an excellent track record only I cannot promise you anything." Jarrod unfolded the paper with the intention of reading it only to find himself staring at the handwriting. He'd see it before, but where? After a moment, he shook the feeling off and began reading the first paragraph in the letter.
Mrs Rowan,
C B needs a home. Your reputation precedes you. You are a good woman who has been unable to bear your husband any children. I cannot care for him, and I do not want him in an orphanage. Please, raise him-and say nothing to him about this until he's grown. That is, until he reaches twenty one year of age. ...
Jarrod stopped reading for a split second; he was still bothered by the fact that he knew he should know the handwriting. He then glanced through the letter. There was nothing that jumped out as a clue to Badger's trued identity-just a list of foods he was allergic to and a few instructions. He put the paper down and asked for the book. Badger handed it over to him.
"There is enough there to know that whoever I had belonged to had-at that point-been in both California and Nevada, most likely lived on- or near a ranch. At first, thanks to what's in the first part of the book, I thought the person I was looking for lived in the Modesto area under the name of Barton only," he shrugged his shoulder, "No one with the last name lives in Modesto-and none of the older timers in that town were of any help-as they didn't recognize the last name as one belonging to anyone around there."
"Do you mind if I take this home and read all of it?" Jarrod closed the book he held in his hands.
"Fine with me. Maybe you will catch what I have missed." Badger stood up. "If you are successful, if you find out who my parents were-know this. I am not after any name or any money. I have a good name, and I am making my own way in this world. Guess, when it comes down to it, all I really want to know is who left me at the Rowan cabin and why. My wife and I have a room over at the Stockton Hotel. We'll be here for a couple of weeks, as her sister and brother-in-law just moved to Stockton. I believe you know them or soon will...Reverend Carl Johnson and his wife Amy."
Jarrod's eyes widened in surprise. He had indeed met the young minister and his wife, as Reverend Johnson had taken Reverend Stacy's place when the older gentleman had started having severe health issues and had been forced to step down from leading the congregation. "I'll keep in touch with you." Jarrod stood up as well and shook the man's hand, and then watched the gentleman walk out of the office.
Again, Jarrod picked up the letter and read it. Then he folded the paper, slid it into the small book and slipped the book into his briefcase. "I have to remember where I've seen that handwriting before. If I can remember that, half the battle is won." He picked up his briefcase and headed for home.