The Lost Sheenan's Bride

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Does the S in Sean S. Finley stand for Swan then?”

“Possibly. But maybe not.” He saw her expression and added, “The name was changed on my birth certificate, so I have my original name given to me at birth, and then the name on the amended birth certificate.”

“Who changed your name?”

“According to Montana records, my parents. Their names and signatures are on the petition.”

“What did they change?”

“My last name.”

“Why?”

His lips curved but there was no warmth in his eyes. “That is the million dollar question.”

“You have no idea?”

“I have an idea, but no supporting evidence.”

“So your pen name, is it the name you had on the original certificate?”

“Not exactly. But it’s a variation. My grandmother did not read or write well. She could do basic math but reading and writing were quite difficult for her, and so when she’d take me to the doctor, she’d give them my name but would never check or correct the spelling. So if you looked at my various medical records you’d see that my name is different on each—Sean. Shane. Swan. Finley.”

“What did your grandmother call you?”

“Shane. Sean. Swan. Finley.” He smiled faintly. “I think I was all of those. But usually Shane Swan or Sean Swan.”

“Who was Swan?”

“That was my grandmother’s maiden name. She was a member of the Salish and Kootenai Tribe. The reservation is near Flathead Lake.”

“I’m not familiar with the tribe.”

“Not many people outside Montana and the Pacific Northwest are.”

“Did she live on the reservation?”

“Yes.”

“But you weren’t born on the reservation?”

“No. I was born in Marietta, at their hospital over by the rodeo and fairgrounds.” His smile turned grim and he turned his spoon over. “But I never went home with my birth parents. There was a complication at birth so my mother and I were both kept at the hospital for a week, and then my mother went home while I remained for another week, and then her mother came for me—supposedly because my mother was too weak to care for me.”

Jet waited for more but he said nothing else. “You’ve clearly learned the art of cliff-hangers.”

He laughed once, deep and low. “My grandmother took me with her back to Flathead Lake. She raised me until I was four years old.”

Jet tried to hide her shock. “And you never saw your parents again?”

“Apparently my mother used to come see me once or twice a year. She had a small cabin at Cherry Lake—” He broke off. “Are you familiar with Cherry Lake?”

She shook her head.

“It’s a little town on Flathead Lake, just south of Big Fork, before you come to Polson. Apparently my mother would come to the cabin with the other children and sneak away to see me.”

“Do you remember her?”

“Barely.”

“What do you remember?”

“I’m not sure if I remember her, or the pictures I’ve seen of her. She was very striking. Long, dark hair, high cheekbones, hazel eyes with these incredible black eyelashes that were so dark and thick, I think they had to be fake.” He paused. “She was supposed to come back for me. That’s the part I remember clearly. I refused to be adopted, would never even consider it, because she was going to come for me.”

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. Jet knew the rest. His mother didn’t return, and he grew up without a home, his childhood spent waiting for this fantasy mother to claim him. “I’m sorry.”

His mouth tightened. Creases fanned from his eyes. “Me, too.”

“And your father?” she asked, not certain she should probe but wanting to know the answer.

“Who knows? He is part of that million dollar question.”

“He wasn’t Native American?”

“No.”

“Where is he now?”

“Dead. Both my parents are gone.”

“You said your mother would bring the other children with her to Cherry Lake. That means you have brothers and sisters.”

He was silent so long she didn’t think he was going to answer, and then he looked up, right into her eyes, his expression shadowed. “Brothers, yes.”

She suddenly saw a glimpse of the boy he must have once been—quiet, dark-eyed, introspective, and probably quite sensitive. “Have you tried to find them? Do they know about you?”

“Yes, and no. It’s complicated. But life is full of mysteries. Sometimes we get lucky and find the answers, and sometimes we don’t. Maybe that’s why I write.”

“It makes sense.” Jet paused to take the menu from the waiter but she didn’t even glance at the options, too interested in Shane. “How old were you when you knew you were a good writer?”

He was looking down, his gaze skimming the menu. “I don’t remember,” he answered, sounding almost careless.

She didn’t believe him, not for a minute. “Really? No idea at all?”

His dark head lifted and he gave her a piercing look. “You sound like a teacher again.”

“Good. I am one.”

This earned her a reluctant smile. “Apparently, I learned to read early and seemed to always be writing. I wrote my first story the year after I went into foster care.”

“Do you remember the story?”

“The Raven and the Swan.”

His tone was sharp and mocking, as if he was somewhat embarrassed of the boy he’d been. She hated that, as he must have been absolutely lovely…lonely, but lovely. “What was it about?”

His dark eyes met hers and held. “You’re very persistent. Are you always this curious about everyone?”

“If it’s someone I’m interested in. And I am interested in you. Not because you’re Sean S. Finley, but because you’re Sean Shane Swan Finley.” She smiled at him to hide the fact that her chest felt tender and a funny little lump was growing in her throat. He had not had an easy life and yet he’d achieved so much. It really was remarkable. He was remarkable. “So tell me about your story, The Raven and the Swan. What do you remember about it?”

“It was a story of a little bird taken from his nest and told he could no longer be a raven anymore.”

Oh. Jet swallowed hard. The lump in her throat grew.

“It was a very simple little story,” he added lightly, the mockery back. He had no patience for the child he’d been. “Not much to it. The raven just wanted to go home.”

His impatience with who he’d been bothered her, almost as much as the aching innocence of his story.

She blinked, eyes hot and gritty. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Don’t. The raven eventually became a swan. It all worked out fine in the end.”

She reached across the table and touched his arm. His skin was so warm she felt a crackle of energy race through her. “You don’t like being a swan?”

His gaze was on her hand where it rested on his wrist and she drew her hand back, fingers balling, still able to feel the sizzle of heat.

“I am who I am,” he said. “I can’t dislike being Shane Swan, just as I can’t dislike the childhood spent as a raven. They are all me…good and bad.”

“I admire you.”

“Not sure I deserve that.”

“I am.” She studied him a moment, seeing past the long, black hair, the dark beard, the hard handsome features, and realizing he was very much a self-made man. “I don’t know if you get asked this all the time, but would you be willing to come talk to my students before you leave Marietta? I think it’d be so inspiring for them to hear you talk.”

“And what would I say?”

Her shoulders shifted. “Whatever you wanted to say. You could talk about your past, your books, your life as a writer…the fact that you were born right here in Marietta at the hospital,

just like most of them were.”

He glanced from her hand up into her eyes. “I don’t know that that would be such a good idea, the Marietta part. It’s probably better to leave my convoluted past in the past.”

“But you’d consider coming in to the school?”

“If you don’t think I’d bore the kids too much.”

“Impossible. There’s nothing boring about you. They’ll love you.” She smiled. “They’ll be fascinated by you and will probably have a ton of questions for you. But to be honest, they might ask you more about your tattoos than your writing.”

“I’m happy to come in. I’d love to see you at work. I have a feeling you’re a great teacher.”

“Average—”

“Not average. Not in any way.”