The Son & His Hope (The Ribbon Duet 3)

With my tongue between my teeth in concentration, I cracked it open and gasped.

Folded neatly and tucked safely in its new silver shell was Mom’s lace.

My cheeks heated. My heart raced. My hands shook as I scurried off the bed toward the dressing table and its aged mirror. It took a few goes to fasten the chain around my neck, but once I did, the weight of the jewellery filled me with something I’d never felt before.

Contentment.

Relief.

Acceptance that Mom had gone, and I didn’t need to fret myself over answers. There was also gratefulness, awe, and the undeniable need to hug Jacob as hard as I could for such a thing.

What he’d given me in the stables that night had somehow calmed the anxiousness in my brain. To finally be spoken to rather than babied made the urge to be close to him squeeze unbearably around my heart. It hadn’t been easy for him talking about it, I knew that. But he’d done it anyway.

He’d done it for me.

And now, he’d bought me something I would treasure forever.

My fingers stroked the locket reverently.

It was the perfect size to fit in my palm.

It was the best gift I’d ever received.

See, Jacob is my friend. Even if he doesn’t realise it.

There was no way he’d send something like this if he didn’t like me just a little bit. Only a true friend would’ve been so thoughtful, so kind, so pure to send me something so precious.

I have to thank him.

Rushing back to my workbooks on the side table, I ripped out a blank page, pinched a ballpoint from my pencil case, and curled up on the hardwood floor to write the most important letter of my life.

A letter that, at the time, I had no idea would set me on the path of utter heartbreak and utmost desolation.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jacob

* * * * * *

Seventeen Years Old

DEAR JACOB,

Today, Dad took me to a local pub where he let me try Guinness and we played a game of darts where I accidentally speared the pool table instead of the bull’s-eye.

I got told off by the pub keeper, but Dad bought a round of drinks for everyone, and they cheered.

It was fun.

I’ve been riding three times a week lately. A stocky little highland pony called Haggis. He can’t jump, but he can hack for miles and is bombproof on the narrow country roads.

You’d love it here, Jacob.

Everything is so green and rugged. There are rock walls made by king’s men and ancient castles destroyed by Vikings.

I used to hate history, but now Keeko and I can explore for days, researching Anglo-Saxon wars and royal battles. Sometimes, I can even taste the gunfire when I’m standing on the turret of some ancient fortress where the Scots were tortured and hung by the redcoats.

Dad has signed up for a second season, so I guess the TV show is going well. Have you seen it over there? He’s had to grow this shaggy beard and comes home smelling of wood smoke from filming in smoky manors.

Oh, I almost forgot!

I had a small part two episodes ago. I was the tavern’s daughter and poured ale for a troop of riders. I would’ve much rather ridden myself, but it was cool.

Anyway, enough about me.

What did you do for your birthday?

Did you get anything nice?

Are you still farming?

What do you do on your days off?

Do you have a girlfriend?

Been to see any movies lately?

How’s Forrest?

Is Binky still around?

I haven’t heard from you in a while, and I don’t want to bug you, but I’d love to have a letter back!

P.S. It would be a lot easier to talk if you were on Facebook or email. You sure you won’t open an account?

Love, Hope.

I sighed as I re-folded the letter and stuffed it into the envelope decorated with Scottish stamps. Hope had been gone a year, and in that time, I’d received thirteen letters.

I’d replied to just three of them.

And only under threat of agony from my mother.

The first had gushed with thanks for what I’d sent her.

The second had begged for a reply.

Now, she just treated me as a diary entry, sharing her world with me when I didn’t ask to be a part of it.

“Hope again?” Mom asked as I shoved the envelope into the box I’d packed from my room.

I nodded curtly.

The topic of Hope never ended well. Ever since Mom found out I’d sent her a silver locket that I’d bought from Mr. Pickerings Personals—the only antique store in town—she’d watched me closely whenever Hope’s name was mentioned.

To start with, I’d indulged her.

I let her think we were friends and that I had the strength to care about another person who wasn’t blood. But as the months went on and the letters kept coming, Mom’s questions became more personal.