To Have and To Hold by Ruth Ann Nordin Page B

April.”
    She frowned. “Is that it? Didn’t I tel you anything else?”
    “No. You let me see a couple of letters over the years, but those contained information about
    who had a baby. I wish I could say I remember the birthdays and names, but I don’t.”
    “Did I get letters often?”
    “Mostly from Grace, but the ones from your mother come about twice a year.”
    “But doesn’t Grace say more than who is born and when?”
    “She mostly writes about what her two children are doing and comments on what you told her
    about Isaac and Rachel.”
    Mary sighed. That wasn’t much to go on. “Do you know my parents’ address?”
    “No. You end up throwing the letters out.”
    None of this was making sense to her. “Why do I throw them out?”
    “Wel , there was one letter you didn’t throw out. It was written shortly after we were married,
    and you said your father paid you a compliment that meant a lot to you. But we don’t have the
    envelope for that one because Isaac ripped it up when he was two. I reckon the other letters
    didn’t mean that much to you because you threw them out.”
    “Do I throw Grace’s letters out?” she wondered, trying to piece together the situation because
    so little of it made sense to her.
    “No, but her return address is from New Jersey so that doesn’t help us.”
    Frowning, she reluctantly joined him in leaving the train station. Something was wrong. The
    trouble was that she couldn’t figure out what or why, and she had no discernible feeling to help
    answer her questions.
    He nodded toward the street. “Let’s go to the post office. They’l know where your parents
    live.”
    Adjusting her bonnet to shield her eyes from the sun, her gaze traveled the length of the smal
    business district. “This is a lot different from Omaha. Barely anyone’s here.”
    He chuckled. “When you first came to Omaha, you were startled by al the people, and now
    you’re startled by the lack of them.”
    Amused, she grinned. “It depends on what you’re used to, I suppose.”
    “It looks like the post office is over there.”
    She fol owed the direction of his gaze and saw it. Turning her attention to the few people who
    lingered around the businesses, she tried to dig up something familiar about the place.
    Releasing her breath, she decided to stop trying so hard. She hadn’t forced the memories
    back in Nebraska, and they were coming back to her. Trying to force them now was probably
    a mistake.
    Giving her an encouraging smile, he led her to the post office. Reluctant, she walked with him,
    knowing there was a good reason she hesitated but not able to figure out why. When they
    entered the smal building, they approached the smal desk.
    The post master looked up and smiled. “Wel , aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Mary Peters, I
    didn’t think we’d ever see you again. Is this the man you went to marry?”
    Mary was surprised the man remembered her, but she figured in a smal town, it was easy to
    remember people, as long as someone didn’t get amnesia.
    Before she could answer the man’s question, Dave put one of the carpet bags down and shook
    the man’s hand. “Yes, I’m her husband. Name’s Dave Larson.”
    “Walter Smith. Nice to meet you.”
    “Nice to meet you, too. Mary had an accident earlier this month, and she has amnesia. We
    got a letter from her sister saying her pa has taken il . Anyway, we were wondering if you
    could tel us where her parents live.”
    “Sure. Just go down the street for three blocks and take a right. Their house is the one with
    the large oak tree in the front yard. Can’t miss it.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Welcome. And it’s nice to see you did so wel , Mary.”
    She wondered at the subtle suggestion in his tone, as if it surprised him but decided to leave
    the matter alone. As they walked down the street, she continued to inspect the buildings. At
    one time, she used to go in them to do business. The post office, the mercantile, the