Whispers of Moonlight Read Online Free Page B

as she tried to take in both the setting at the base of the mountains and the home itself. She kept thinking of the house she'd been raised in in Philadelphia with its small rooms and damp smell; the home that her Aunt Hannah had seldom left in the last years; the one that had made her feel suffocated and ready to flee the moment she found her father's letters.
    "It's him," Rebecca breathed. Travis watched as she leaned forward in the seat.
    Indeed, Andrew had come onto the porch and was now making his way down the steps. Travis found himself petitioning God, or whoever was in charge, that the man would not die of heart failure before his daughter's eyes.
    "Oh, Papa," he heard her whisper, and even though they were far off, he stopped the buggy and let her dismount. Tears he no longer believed himself capable of clogged in the back of his throat as Rebecca ran and was swept into her father's embrace. Travis made himself drive the buggy past them toward the barn. He was certain they would want some time alone.

    "Oh, Papa; oh, Papa," was all Rebecca could say for the first five minutes. Andrew had his arm around her, leading her up the steps and into the beautiful home, but she could
see only her father's face. He looked old, so much older than she remembered, but it was still him. It was still the Papa she'd adored as a child, and in just a moment of looking into his eyes, she knew that her aunt's words had all been lies.
    "Are you all right?" Andrew was asking, his hands on her arms. "Was the trip awful? Did anyone hurt you?"
    "No, no. I'm fine. I was on the train for most of the journey. It broke down a few times, but no one bothered me." She smiled suddenly. "The stage was a bit rough."
    Andrew hugged her again and took her hand to lead her into his study. He shut the door and turned to watch as she glanced around the room and then moved to look out the window. Andrew sat on the long leather sofa. Rebecca turned from the glass immediately, a thousand questions coming to mind.
    "I waited for you," she said softly, the light to her back. "I waited so long."
    Andrew's hand came to his forehead in a gesture of weariness. It hadn't occurred to him that she would want to talk of this rightaway, but he was more than happy to clear the air. He shook his head a moment. Where to begin?
    "I'vemade mistakes, Reba, dozens of them." Andrew's eyes focused on the dark rug. "But none can compare to leaving you with Hannah and Franklin. Hannah tried to tell me about the outbreak of war, but I wouldn't listen. She said we would be cut off, but I said I had to go."
    He looked at his daughter. "I'm sorry, Reba. I never meant for it to be this way. A man should have his child with him, and a little girl should have her papa. I've let you down."
    Rebecca wentto sit beside him, her hand going to his arm. "It's not all your fault," she told him. "Aunt Hannah's not right, Papa. She doesn't think like the rest of us."
    Andrew nodded.
    "I'm to blame as well," Rebecca admitted in a soft voice.
    Andrew's eyes narrowed, and the young woman could see that he was ready to deny it. She cut him off.
    "I am, Papa. I've been living in a dream world. Hannah rarely leaves the house anymore, but she was out the afternoon your letter arrived." Tears filled the young woman's eyes. "Up until then I had no idea. I—"
    "What is it, Reba?" Andrew urged her gently. "You can tell me."
    "Your letters," she whispered. "I never saw them." She shook her head, so overcome that she couldn't go on. Andrew put an arm around her, his heart and mind trying to deal with what she meant.
    How could she have not seen his letters? She always replied to his questions. Had Hannah read them to her? He had a hard time imagining that. After all she was 19 years old. Surely his sister wouldn't . . . Andrew's thoughts halted. He'd known from her letters that Hannah was not doing well emotionally, and Rebecca had already said as much. The familiar ache came to the region of his chest, and he