Calico Horses and the Patchwork Trail (19 page)

“I never had any grandparents except my grandma, who died last summer. I always wished I could have met my grandfathers. Do you have any grandparents?” asked Milla.

“Yeah, I have my Grandmom and Grandpa Rose in New Jersey and then there’s my dad’s mom who I hardly ever see because she lives in South Carolina. I know all about the Rose family because my mom and I traced them back to 1736.”

“What do you mean ‘traced them back?’”

“We do research online and in libraries to find information about our ancestors in our family tree,” Carrie told her new friend. “We even stopped off in Salt Lake City on our way here. We visited a cool ancestry library that has tons of information, but they really didn’t have anything new on the Rose family.”

Family tree
, thought Milla.
What had Grandma told me about our family tree? If there was anything about ancestry it would be in the chest in her Dad’s room.

“Come on,” she said to Carrie. “I think there’s something about my family tree in that old trunk in my dad’s room. My grandma showed it to me once.” The two girls opened the cedar chest and started digging through papers. There were boxes of family photos and some old documents that looked like information about property and titles of cars. There were a few fragile, yellowed birth certificates. Milla kept digging as Carrie read the birth certificates, smoothing out the wrinkles and trying not to damage them.

“Jacqueline Millicent Bradey. Oh, this certificate is so beautiful. Look at the delicate artwork,” she said, holding it up for Milla.

“That’s my grandma’s birth certificate. I was named after her. That’s my name—Millicent—only everyone calls me Milla.” The girls continued looking into every folder and envelope. Milla pulled out a large album and opened the front cover. “Here it is! I remember my grandma showing me this. This is what she called a family bible. See, it says Spencer Family Bible right here,” Milla said, pointing to the elaborate hand lettering on the first page.

“I know about these,” Carrie said. “They’re like finding gold because they have stuff inside that researchers can’t find in libraries.”

“Let’s put all this stuff away so my dad doesn’t flip out. We can take this album out to the kitchen where we can see it better in the light.” The girls did their best to put everything back into the trunk, but when they tried to close the lid, it wouldn’t shut. Milla tried rearranging things, but it only made it worse and the lid stuck up higher. She picked up a blanket that was folded on a chair and draped it over the chest. “There,” she said, “He won’t notice a thing.”

As the girls walked back toward the kitchen, Carrie stopped abruptly. She hadn’t noticed them before, but on the wall in Milla’s room were beautiful paintings of Flannel. She stood there, amazed at the artwork. There were a few rough pencil sketches of the dog that were also lying on Milla’s dresser. She turned to look at her new friend. “Did you do these?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Milla said, as she hurried back into the room, quickly turning some of the drawings over. “I was sort of, um, fooling around.”

“I didn’t know you were such a good artist. These are wonderful!” She pointed to a watercolor of Flannel lying on a colorful coiled-rag rug with her head tucked between her paws. “Oh, Milla, can I please have this one?”

“Sure,” Milla said, unfastening the thumbtacks from the corked board. “I wasn’t sure if you would even like them.”

“Are you kidding? I’m so impressed! I never knew anyone who could paint or draw like this. My mom is gonna love this one, but she’s not gettin’ it, no way. It’s going up in my room, not hers,” she said, smiling at Milla.

No one except her grandma—and sometimes her dad and art teacher—had ever admired her work. This praise coming from the remarkable girl who could train dogs made Milla feel extra special. Just then the phone rang and the girls raced to see if it was news about Hope, but it was only Milla’s dad. Work was finished and he was on his way home with a bucket of fried chicken.

The girls opened the family bible and began to look at the notes scribbled throughout the pages. There were names and dates and even little scraps of inserted papers with information about marriages and births. These tidbits were obviously meant to be added to the tree later. Some old photos with writing on the back were loosely tucked in between some of the pages.

“Wow, there’s a lot of information here, Milla,” said Carrie. “Did you know that your dad’s father was a railroad worker?”

“Yes, my grandma told me all about him. He died way before I was born.”

“There isn’t much information about your dad’s father but a lot on your dad’s mother’s side, see?” Carrie said, pointing to some notes that had been recorded on the family tree.

“Yeah, I know. It’s a big mystery. My dad always wanted to know about the Spencers but his father never told him too much. My great-grandfather abandoned his wife and kids and nobody really spoke about him. Grandma told me that my dad even tried to find stuff at the library, but he never really got too far.”

Carrie looked closely at the inscriptions and noticed that the handwriting didn’t match. The bible had been handed down through the generations and had been carefully recorded by different members of the family. It was exactly like looking at a roadmap of Milla’s relatives, only with a huge detour—the missing information of Devon Spencer’s grandfather.

“Where’s your computer?” Carrie asked.

“Over there on the desk. Do you think we can find stuff out about my dad’s family?” asked Milla.

Before Carrie could reply, Devon opened the front door and hollered, “Dinner!” He was carrying several steamy bags of fast food and looked like he was dancing as he tried to avoid tripping over Flannel, who raced to meet him. Ah, non-vegetarian, thought Carrie, pulling herself away from the computer. It smelled delicious and the mystery of the Spencer Family Bible was soon forgotten as they dashed into the kitchen where dogs and chickens danced.

Chapter 34

Devon Spencer thought about the call he received just before leaving work—how the little foal Hope would probably not make it through the night. Anne was going to nurse the animal but it was a sad hard fact that foals separated from their mothers had the odds stacked against them. He knew Milla and Carrie were sitting by the phone and had decided to distract them with food and maybe a game or two of cards.

The girls were happy—even giddy, he thought. He pulled into his driveway and shut off the engine. The house seemed quiet and he wondered how the two were getting along. There was a tension that had been growing between him and his daughter regarding her stay with Mrs. Adams, as well as Milla’s constant begging for a pet. She had asked him for a puppy ever since she could talk. The life of a BLM manager didn’t leave much time for raising daughters, let alone puppies. Meeting Carrie and her collie seemed to increase her desire for a dog. He looked at the flyer about the horse and art camp Anne had given the girls. He tucked it between his teeth, grabbed the bags of hot steamy fast food, and was greeted by two squealing hungry girls.

Devon noticed the difference in Milla’s attitude and was relieved. She seemed more relaxed and was quite chatty. Flannel was lying under the table between them, ready to catch a fry that might happen to drop her way. Devon grinned when Carrie showed Milla how to dip her fries into her milkshake, something his daughter would never have dared before. Milla teased Carrie about referring to her glass of pop as soda and the two of them shared examples of the language differences of New Jersey vs. Nevada.

He wanted to catch up on the news so he left the two of them giggling in the kitchen and moved into his easy chair in front of the TV. Flannel joined him and he stroked her softly along her back. She laid her head on his lap and looked up with big eyes. “Don’t you start now,” he said. The dog sent him a look as if saying,
Don’t you want a dog of your own, too?
He clicked on the TV and saw footage of a helicopter chasing wild mustangs into a netted enclosure. He quickly switched the channel—he
really
needed a break from work. He waded through stations showing forensic crime dramas, cooking shows, and a few science fiction movies before he gave up and just clicked it off. What a waste of money, he thought, tossing the clicker aside. He noticed the large album lying on the table and reached over and opened it. The first page read, “The Spencer Family Bible.”

“Hey, Milla, did you get this out?” he asked. “I hope you weren’t digging through my personal things,” he warned.

“I was just looking at stuff Grandma showed me. Carrie’s an ancestry expert and she was helping me trace my roots,” Milla explained. Carrie shot her a look of disbelief and Milla quickly put a finger to her mouth to silence her. The last thing she needed now was her dad spazzing out over her curiosity.

Devon looked at Carrie. “I thought you were only a dog expert. How did you become an ancestry expert?”

“I’m not really an expert. My mom’s been doing research since I was a baby and now she’s got me hooked. We’ve traced our roots back to 1736, to a man named Winston F. Rose. He’s my oldest relative and we call him our brick wall.”

“Wow,” said Devon. “All the way back to 1736. Why is he called a brick wall?”

“It’s a term genealogists use when they can’t move backward any further,” Carrie explained.

“Well, my brick wall is my grandfather,” Devon said. “He left my dad when he was six and my grandmother had to fend for herself with five kids to feed. I’ve tried to learn about our family’s origins but after striking out at the library, I gave up.”

“I can try to help,” said Carrie as she wiped the counter and tossed a pile of bones into the bin. Flannel sniffed the trash.

“Can’t she have a chicken bone?” asked Milla.

“No,” Carrie replied. “Chicken bones are dangerous to dogs because they can splinter and cause problems.”

“Sorry, Flannel,” Milla said as she quickly bagged the trash and disappeared out the back door.

Devon turned to Carrie. “Do you really think you can help with our family mystery?”

“All I need is a computer,” she replied. “That family bible has a lot of clues.” She pulled a bag of dog treats from her backpack and handed them to Milla. Flannel seemed to smile, knowing that her patience would finally deliver a reward.

Devon spent the next few hours sitting by the computer watching Carrie navigate through federal censuses, death certificates, and old newspaper articles. Milla took notes and the three of them felt as if they were on a treasure hunt. Devon learned that one of his grandfathers was a shoemaker and a great-grandfather was a blacksmith. Carrie was not entirely positive, but had found a farmer in Virginia around 1795 that might be his great-great-great-grandfather. He shook his head in wonder as she taught him how to look for clues in old obituaries and newspaper articles about social events. It wasn’t until Milla fell asleep with her head on her notebook that Devon looked at the clock.

“Oh my gosh, it’s after midnight,” he said to Carrie. “It’s way past my bedtime and yours, too, I’ll bet.” Carrie stretched and powered off the computer. Devon nudged Milla toward her room and watched as she stumbled into bed. He went to the closet and got out some bedding for Carrie. He was about to make up the couch, but she was already lying on it sound asleep. He carefully pulled a blanket over her and slipped a pillow under her head. Flannel was stretched out on the rug beside her. Devon turned off the lights and quietly went to his daughter’s bedroom to make sure she was all tucked in. The photo of his mother twinkled as if to wink at him in the moonlight.

He went into his room and quietly shut the door. Removing the blanket that had been hastily thrown over the trunk, he lifted the lid and thought of all the stories he had heard from his grandmother about his father’s childhood. She never had anything good to say about his grandfather, and his dad had died before ever knowing anything more about him. It was ironic that a ten-year-old girl with a few clicks on a keyboard could unravel so much history of his family. He straightened a few boxes and closed the lid, wondering what all this new information would mean. Did any of it really make a difference, he wondered—and then his thoughts moved to his daughter and how she was the only family he had. Perhaps all this family research just might give them some sort of connection to a group of people who had hoped and dreamed and laughed and cried and were a part of the blood that ran through him and through Milla.

The moon was full and the night grew cool, and as Devon closed his eyes he began to dream of a time when Spencers made shoes for horses and men.

Chapter 35

Brenda locked the door and turned off the lights. It had been such a long day. Her body ached from the physical labor and she just wanted to relax with a bit of reading before falling asleep. The emotional roller coaster of a missing dog and injured horse was behind her. Well, at least for now. She gathered her grubby clothes covered with spackling and sanding dust and carried them to the small washing machine beside the kitchen. There was a lot of work to be done and she knew this was only the beginning. But it was exactly the kind of project to keep her from worrying about her personal problems.

She thought of the message left on her phone from her husband, Mark. She heard the anger in his voice and decided not to return his call. Not tonight. She stopped in the kitchen and poured herself a glass of iced tea. The bungalow was eerily quiet without Flannel and Carrie but she was glad to be alone. She looked at the clock on the tiny stove and realized it was too late to check on her daughter. I guess she’s staying busy with her new friend and forgot to call to say goodnight. Maybe that’s a good thing and she’s cheerful for a change, I sure hope so. “She’s fine. Stop worrying,” she said to herself out loud as she picked up a book and some mail and walked down the hall to her room.