The Baby Gift

I won’t cry. I won’t, she told herself fiercely. Nobody’s going to know how I feel. Nobody.

But she knew this could not remain true. She could no longer keep things to herself.

The time had come. She must act.

FRANKLIN HINKS was the postmaster of Illyria, Missouri. His father had been postmaster before him, and Franklin could clearly remember Victory Mail, the three-cent letter stamp and the penny postcard.

He had vivid recollections of many things—including Briana Morris as a child, back when she’d been little Briana Hanlon. He’d seen her every day she’d gone to Illyria Elementary School, right across the street from the post office.

This morning he’d seen her stop her aging pickup truck in front of that same red brick schoolhouse. He’d seen her kiss her daughter goodbye and the child run up the snowy walk to the building.

He had watched Briana signal for a turn, then pull into his parking lot. She got out of the truck and came up the walk, her arms full of seed catalogs and her breath feathering behind her, a silver plume on the gray air.

She had been a pretty child, Briana had, and now she was a pretty woman—tall but not too tall, slim but not too slim. She had long dark hair with the hint of a wave and dark eyes that had something exotic in them.

She looked nothing at all like her father or brother, big Scottish-Irishmen with pale eyes and square faces. No, Briana looked like her mother, a quiet brunette with a slightly Mediterranean air.

Briana came in the door of the post office. She wore an old plaid jacket and a black knit hat and gloves. The wind had tossed her hair and burnished her cheeks to the color of fiery gold.

She smiled at him. She had a good smile, but lately—for the past two months or so—he’d discerned something troubled in it, deeply troubled. But he could tell she didn’t want people to know. Franklin was discreet. He pretended he noticed nothing.

“Morning, Franklin,” she said with a fine imitation of blitheness.

“Morning, Briana,” he said and nodded at her stack of catalogs. “Folks must be dreaming of spring.”

“They must be,” she said. “We got thirty-two orders by the Internet this weekend.”

Franklin made a tsking noise. “That Internet’s going to put me out of business.”

She set the catalogs on the counter. “Nope—look at all this. It’s bringing you business. And next week, I’ll start sending seeds out. I’ve got a huge pile of orders to fill.”

“Hmm,” Franklin said, stamping the catalogs. “Well, don’t send every seed away. Save me some for those tomatoes I like. What are the kinds I like?”

“Brandywine and Mortgage Lifter,” Briana said with a grin. “You’ll have ’em. I’ll even start them for you.”

He knew she’d keep her word and that she wouldn’t take any money from him, either. That was Briana.

“You’d save yourself some postage if you’d bulk mail,” Franklin advised, “Keep a mailing list and send out two hundred or more at a time.”

“Someday,” she said. “I have to talk Poppa into it. Getting the farm into the computer age was tough enough.”

Franklin nodded but said nothing. Leo Hanlon was a good man, a kindly man, but set in his ways. Didn’t he realize the greatest asset he had on his farm was his pretty, brainy daughter, a woman who wasn’t afraid of new ideas?

“Well, guess I’ll check the mail and be out of here,” Briana said. “It’s Larry’s birthday. Got lots to do to get ready.”

“Oh, you got mail, all right,” Franklin said. “One package too big to fit into the box. For Nealie. Maybe from the neighborhood of—oh, from the stamps, I’d say Russia.”

Briana was always careful to guard her expression, but a light came into her eyes. He thought what he’d thought so many times in the last years—she still had strong feelings for Josh Morris, more than she’d ever admit.

“I’ll get it for you,” he said. “It’s in the back.”

The glow faded from her face, and the trouble crept into her dark gaze. “I’ll check our box.”

He moved toward the back room, knowing, of course, what was in her post office box. It included a letter for Nealie, also from Russia.

Franklin had got a card from Josh in the morning’s mail. Josh knew the older man saved stamps, and he always remembered to send him colorful ones from his travels. Such a man could not be bad, Franklin thought, no matter what some people liked to say.

When he returned to the counter, Briana was there, her mail tucked under her arm. She made no comment about Nealie’s letter from Josh. She showed no emotion when Franklin set down the tattered package.

“It looks like it had a rough journey,” she said.

“It’s come a long way,” he said. “Across half the world.”

“Yes,” she said in almost a whisper. “A long way.”

She picked up the bulky package gingerly, as if it might have some magical power she didn’t want brushing off on her. Then she flashed Franklin a smile and set off, her gait sprightly.

A man less observant than Franklin might have been fooled by that sprightliness. She had a problem, and from the kind of mail she’d been getting—support groups, medical foundations—he thought he could guess what.

He prayed to heaven he was wrong.

JUST AS BRIANA was stowing Nealie’s package in her truck’s cab, a sleek Cadillac swept in and parked beside her.

Briana suppressed a groan and forced herself to smile, even though the cold hurt her face. The car’s driver, Wendell Semple, heaved himself out of the driver’s seat.

“Briana,” he said heartily. “Just the woman I want to see. Come over to the café. Have a cup of coffee with me. I need to talk to you.”

Briana’s smile felt as if it were freezing into place. “Sorry. My limit’s two cups a day, and I’ve already had it. Thanks for the offer, though.”

Wendell was vice president of the bank. He was heavy with what Briana thought of as a prosperous man’s solid weight. He had a prosperous man’s confidence, as well, the booming voice, the air that all his opinions were important and all his decisions were right.

“I said I need to talk to you, little lady.”

She didn’t like his tone and she feared what he wanted to talk about. “Sorry. I’m on a tight schedule.”

Wendell’s smile didn’t fade, but it hardened. “Briana, this is about money. Tell me. Aren’t you happy with the way I do business?”

Her heart plunged, and she felt caught out.

“I’d really like to know,” he said. “Why’d you take all your own money out of my bank? Weren’t you satisfied?”

Stay out of my affairs, she wanted to snap, but instead she made an airy gesture. “Nothing like that. It’s no big deal.”

He leaned closer. “It is to me. When I lose a customer, it’s always a big deal. Your family’s done business with my bank for what? Almost fifty years.”

She said nothing.

He went on. “We’ve not only done business together, we’ve been neighbors all this time. But now you’ve taken away your personal business. I’d like an explanation. I think I deserve one.”