Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The next morning Megan pushed through the fire-station doors, folder clamped under her arm, searching for Braxton—bleh—ready to keep her vow to expose the lie, restore Holden’s name, and end the Murray myth her family had lived on for generations.
Unfortunately, she needed the superintendent’s sign off in order to change the pageant script.
Inside, volunteers wearing Christmas sweaters worked the long tables. A woman sorted board games into bins labeled by age. A man in a Santa hat taped tags to a row of bicycles. A kid in a puffy coat tugged at his mother’s sleeve, begging to see the fire truck lights flash.
Across the bay, Braxton stood near a folding table with the fire chief and a woman from the Chamber of Commerce. Red sweater. Sleeves shoved to his forearms. His hand drew easy shapes in the air while the others laughed. Whatever he said had already landed charm-side up.
Megan crossed the concrete without slowing, past stuffed bears and cartons of wrapped dolls. The smell of dark roast coffee and cold metal sharpened her focus.
Braxton noticed her five feet out. The smile arrived before his words, big enough for the room. “Megan! You came!”
Oh great. Now he had the wrong idea. “I just need a minute of your time.”
He scanned the space behind her, then angled toward the paperwork table. “Of course. Let’s grab a spot.”
They stopped near the donation bins. The coffee urn chugged. Pens rattled in a box when someone brushed the table leg. Braxton’s look said he already owned the outcome.
“What time would you like to have dinner?”
“I’m here about the pageant.” She kept her hands on the folder.
“The pageant.” His smile didn’t budge. “We can discuss it over pasta. Say, seven o’clock?”
“This won’t take long.” She opened the folder.
He leaned against the table, stretched his legs out so she’d have to climb over them if she wanted to leave. “You know, I’m glad you’re here. I was thinking about you last night. About us.”
Her stomach clenched. “There is no us. I’ve made that absolutely clear. Omaha was a mistake.”
“But Megan, we could be so good together. Evergreen Springs power couple. You’re brilliant, driven, beautiful—“
“Braxton.” She forced steel into her voice. “I need to discuss the script changes.”
“Script changes?” The charm faltered. “The pageant’s tomorrow. You can’t make changes at this late date.”
“I’m aware of the timeline.” She opened the folder. “Which is why I’m here now. There’s no time to waste.”
His gaze dropped to the papers. The smile thinned. “What kind of changes are we talking about?”
“The narrative’s been corrected.”
“Corrected?” He tasted the word like it might stain his teeth.
“The current script credits Captain William Murray with the 1878 rescue. That’s false.”
He straightened. “False?”
“It’s documented fact. The records show Holden Reed led the settlers through the storm.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Holden Reed? Like your volunteer friend from yesterday?”
She knew this was coming. The name match. The inevitable question. She had her answer ready, partial truth, strategic omission to protect her mother. “It’s a family name. He came to Evergreen Springs to research his ancestors and set the record straight.”
Simple. Believable. And it kept Tina Collins out of the conversation.
“Records.” He smirked. “What records?”
She reached into the folder and slid out the photocopy of the newspaper article, passed it to him. “A newspaper account from the Bozeman Avant Courier, December, 30th 1870. It documents the rescue. The original is on file in the newspaper archives.”
He scanned the article and his jaw tightened.
When he looked up, his tone was managerial.
“One newspaper article from 155 years ago doesn’t change what matters.
Captain William Murray’s name built this town.
His descendants—one of whom you are—paid for the school, the park, the library.
People need the story they already have. ”
“But it’s a lie. Theft.”
He drew a patient breath, that said, I’m coaching a stubborn subordinate. “Theft is a pretty dramatic word. A myth doesn’t need to be factually accurate. Your family turned that story into infrastructure and kudos to them.”
“That doesn’t make it true.”
“Truth and legend aren’t the same thing,” he said. “Sometimes legend serves the greater good.”
“Not when it erases the man who actually saved our town.”
“Why now? The day before the pageant? If you wanted review, we could have done this in February.”
February. The month they’d hooked up at the conference. Was he using that month on purpose? Megan clenched her jaw.
“Because I just found out a few days ago and I’ve been wrestling about this very dilemma, but I can’t stay quiet. We must set the record straight.”
“This isn’t about correcting history,” he said, a malice gleam coming into his eyes. “This is because you’ve got the hots for Holden Reed.”
“You’re making this personal.”
“I’m making it personal? You’re the one who showed up here the morning after I asked you to dinner, conveniently armed with evidence to champion some cowboy you just met—“
“A cowboy researching his family history who brought me documented proof that we’ve been lying to our town for generations.” Okay, she was the one lying now, but it was to save her from exposing her mother.
“Or a man who sweet-talked you into believing whatever story suited him.” Braxton’s smile turned cold. “You always were a sucker for a project, Megan. A cause to champion. It makes you feel important.”
Her throat tightened. “I’m not forming a committee to decide whether facts are facts. We’re presenting a lie to children. Fixing it is my job.”
“And your mother’s job,” he said, quieter, “was to keep her family safe. You’re a Murray descendent. Do you want to be the one who undoes generations of community trust?”
Megan kept her hands on the folder. She won’t rise to the bait. “My job is to keep faith with the children who stand on that stage and read the words I give them.”
He tilted his head. “You think that line plays well out there?” He gestured toward the volunteers and the banner that read GIVE JOY. “You think donors and parents will praise your integrity when you tell them their founding story is based on a lie the day before Christmas?”
“I don’t know how they’ll react. That’s not mine to control.”
“What you control is whether the pageant uses the approved script.” His jaw tightened.
A child chased a toy truck across the floor. His mother laughed and called him back.
“Twenty-four hours’ notice. In writing.” She pulled out the letter and slid it across to him.
“And I’m denying your request.” He balled up the letter in his fist. “The pageant will use the approved script.”
“No.”
He went still. Then set his palm flat on the table and leaned in.
“Excuse me? You forget who you answer to. The district doesn’t revolve around your personal crusade. You don’t tear down a community tradition the day before it happens because some cowboy showed you a newspaper clipping.”
“You have been notified.” She stepped back.
“That is not consent.”
“It’s a record.”
“Records can be erased.”
“Not all of them.”
He studied her through that thin public smile, the one people mistook for kindness. “You’re making a big mistake.”
“I’ve made them before,” she said eyeing the biggest mistake of her life. “I know what they feel like. This isn’t one.”
“You think truth protects you? It doesn’t.” He rubbed his thumb along his jaw, the gesture meant to look reflective. “The board meets in January. Bring your evidence then. Let us handle it with process.”
“You’re asking me to keep lying until it’s convenient for you,” she said.
“I’m asking you not to light a match in a room that smells like gasoline.”
“The room smells like gasoline because the cans are stacked in the corner.”
He leaned closer. “Megan Collins, If you change that script without my approval, your job is in jeopardy.”
* * *
Megan made it to her car before the shaking started.
She dropped into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut. The folder landed on the passenger seat. Papers shifted, the photocopied article sliding free.
If you change that script without my approval, your job is jeopardy.
Idol threat or did he mean it?
She stared at the fire station through her windshield.
Volunteers moved behind the glass doors.
Braxton would be back at that folding table by now, laughing with the fire chief, playing the community hero.
Already rewriting this morning’s confrontation into a story where he handled a difficult employee with grace.
One year. She’d been principal for one year.
A year of drowning in her mother’s job. Budget meetings that bored her out of her skull, parent complaints she couldn’t satisfy, staff evaluations that left her second-guessing every word.
A year of starting wake at 3 a.m. wondering if she’d made the right call about a special education placement or a teacher’s performance review.
Eleven months of failing to be Tina Collins.
And now Braxton might fire her.
The thought should have terrified her. Instead, something close to relief flickered through her chest.
Then guilt crushed it. What kind of person felt relieved about losing her job? What kind of daughter gave up on maintaining her mother’s legacy after a year?
The second she stood on that stage tomorrow afternoon and read the corrected narrative into the microphone, Braxton could end her career.
She turned the key. The engine caught. Heat blasted from the vents but couldn’t reach the cold spreading through her body.
She could fix it. Go back inside. Tell Braxton she overreacted. Mea Culpa. The holidays, the grief, the stress of the pageant. Apologize. Mean it. He’d accept. He’d love watching her grovel.
Glancing down to buckle her seatbelt, she spied the copy of the newspaper paper article on the passenger seat.
Mr. Holden Reed, a cattle drover employed by the Murray Cattle Company, undertook a perilous ride through blinding snow to reach help for the stranded settlers.
Megan backed out of the parking space and drove, unclear of where she was heading.
Ten minutes later she ended up at the iron gates of Evergreen Springs Cemetery. The road wound through frost-covered headstones, past the old section where settlers from the 1870s lay buried, toward the newer plots on the hill. Bare trees reached skeletal branches against gray skies.
She parked near the top and climbed out. Cold air stung her face. Wind cut through her coat.
The headstone stood twenty yards away. Simple. Elegant.
TINA MURRAY COLLINS June 7th 1965-December 25th, 2024 Beloved Mother, Educator, Leader
Megan stopped in front of it. Her breath clouded in the frozen air. She hugged herself, crouched to brush fallen leaves off the plot. “Hi Mom, it’s me. I’m sorry I haven’t been by in awhile. Things have been…” She blinked back tears. “Difficult.”
The wind rattled branches overhead.
“Something happened. Something I don’t understand.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I found your letter. The one in your secret drawer. You wanted me to know the truth about what our family did to Holden Reed.”
A crow cawed overhead.
“I saw the article and great-great-grandpa’s journal. The Christmas card Jeb Ortega painted.” She paused. Gulped. “And then Holden Reed literally showed up at my office.”
The words sounded insane spoken aloud.
“The actual man, Mom. From 1878. I touched the card and asked for his help and he just appeared. Wearing period clothes, speaking like he stepped out of a history book, confused about electric lights and cars and everything.” Her throat tightened.
“I know how that sounds. I know. But he’s real.
He’s been staying in my guest room since Saturday and I don’t know what to do. ”
A deliver truck rumbled past.
“And now there’s Braxton.” Anger rippled through her. “I met with him this morning. Tried to change the pageant script to tell the truth. He threatened to fire me if I go ahead with it. You chose to protect the family legacy. To keep the lie alive. But I can’t. Not when I’ve met Holden personally.”
The tears were falling now, hot on her cold cheeks. “You protected your reputation. Your position. The Murray name.”
It was all sinking in. The truth of the last few days.
“I spent a year trying to be you. Drowning in your job, second-guessing every decision, waking up at three in the morning terrified I’d made the wrong call. A year of failing to be Tina Collins.”
What would her mother say to her if she were here? But she wasn’t here, was she?
“But I’m not you.” The words came easier now.
“I don’t want to be you. I don’t want budget meetings and parent complaints and staff evaluations.
I don’t want to spend the rest of my life maintaining a legacy built on a lie.
Holden Reed saved those people. He deserves to have his story told.
” She closed the folder. “Even if it costs me everything.”