Chapter 5
She parked behind Aidan’s truck, noting the collection of vehicles that suggested the full clan was still present. Through the windows, she could see movement—someone washing dishes, children running past, the comfortable chaos of family in its natural habitat.
The kitchen door opened before she could knock. Aidan stood there in jeans and a button-down shirt that suggested he’d changed after church but hadn’t quite made it to completely casual.
“Good timing,” he said. “I just escaped dish duty.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“Told Mom I had important research to do for Grandda’s treasure hunt. She’s a sucker for anything involving family history.”
He led her through the kitchen where Anne and Sophie were putting away leftovers, both women greeting her warmly but not stopping their conversation about Wednesday’s church social and who was bringing what.
The hallway to Mick’s office was lined with photographs—decades of O’Hara history captured in frames. Weddings and christenings, first days of school and championship rodeos, the visual DNA of a family that had stayed long enough to document its evolution.
“Dad’s in the living room yelling at the Broncos,” Aidan said, opening the office door. “We should have at least an hour before he remembers this is his sanctuary.”
The office was exactly what Dylan would have expected from Mick O’Hara—masculine but warm, organized but lived in. The massive walnut desk dominated the space, and Aidan had spread papers across it like he was conducting an archaeological dig.
“Your grandmother’s diary,” Dylan said, spotting the leather-bound journal.
“She wrote about everything. The weather, the ranch, the boys. And Patrick.” Aidan’s voice softened on his grandfather’s name. “She wrote about their courtship, their marriage, their life together. It’s like having a window into who they really were, not just the stories everyone tells.”
He opened the diary to a marked page, his grandmother’s precise script filling the yellowed paper.
“‘Patrick showed me the old well today,’” he read aloud. “‘He says his grandfather used it to water the first garden they planted, that the water has special properties that make things grow. He made me drop a penny and make a wish. I wished he would kiss me. He did.’”
Dylan felt heat climb her neck. “That’s…personal.”
“There’s more. Listen to this part. ‘Patrick says the well keeps secrets better than any lockbox. That what goes down into that darkness stays there until someone knows the right way to call it back up.’”
“She knew,” Dylan breathed. “Even then, she knew he was the type to hide things.”
“Look at this.” Aidan turned the page, pointing to an entry dated years later.
“‘Patrick and the boys spent all day at the old homestead. He’s teaching them about their history, he says, but I know he’s really teaching them about belonging.
About staying. About being part of something bigger than themselves. ’”
Dylan traced the words with her finger, careful not to damage the delicate paper. “He was preparing them even then. For this.”
“For what, though? Just finding a ring?”
“For understanding what the ring means,” Dylan said without thinking, then caught herself. “I mean, the family legacy and all that.”