Finding Steve

Marg unlocked the front door of the three-generation house and stepped inside. The air was stale, trapped for two years behind closed windows and drawn curtains. Lemon furniture polish battled against the lingering musk of old wood and forgotten rooms.

In her father’s will papers was a clause. A simple but confusing one.

Find Steve in the upper dresser drawer in your mother’s dresser.

Her foot landed on the first step. The unanswered question of who Steve was pressed her up the stairs and into the bedroom. A bedroom she had not been in since her mother’s death two years ago. The room gave her shivers as the faded scent of her father’s cologne cut through lemon furniture polish. She pulled the top drawer open. It was bare except for an old yellowed piece of paper folded in two.

A letter? From Whom?

Through the dim, shuttered window light, Marg unfolded it carefully on the top of the dresser and read.

October 3, 1876

Steve,

It pains me to be included in the dastardly deed by my husband’s lack of morals and respect toward you. If it were not for you, I could not sit within this modest home rocking my child safely in my arms. We owe you more than simple gratitude for what you have done for us. Once you are released from prison, please come find us. Our home is always open for you.

Sincerely,

Elise Bright.

The letter gave her little to go by. Marg read it three times and flipped it over. No additional writing, neither clear nor faded. She recognized the name Elise Bright; that was her great-great-grandmother.

Marg carefully refolded it and replaced it in the drawer, then set her purse down on the top of the dresser. Questions spun around her mind. Why would Granny Elise be writing Steve? What does he mean to her, or what did he do for such gratitude? And why is the man in prison? She withdrew her daily planner, opened it to today’s date, and wrote down the clues.

The date.

His name.

Donald Bright—gg grandfather.

Prison.

Elise Bright, nee Planter—gg grandmother.

“My father knew I’d like a good mystery. Why now?” she muttered to herself, placing the planner and pen back in her purse.

The screen on her cell phone showed 2:16 after she tapped it to life. Under contacts, she scrolled to Edward Canter. Edward was her co-worker and boasted constantly about doing genealogy research in his free time. After a few minutes of talking with him, her next stop was the library.

By the time she made it to the center of the city, it was three o’clock, giving her two hours to scroll through microfiche. She started with October 1876 and worked backward.

After half an hour, her eyes were beginning to burn.

Blink, Marg. Remember to blink.

Nothing in 1876.

The librarian replaced the fiche with 1875.

An hour later, she twisted the fiche, and it landed on a page with a small column announcement about a cattle rustler. Her blurry eyes squinted.

Delbert Cattle Rustler Convicted

Mr. McLaren, who had evaded capture for three days, was caught in the adjoining county. After his capture, he confessed to stealing three cows from the Anderson Ranch, his former employer. He was sentenced to eight years at the State Prison.

Marg sat back in the seat, rubbing her eyes.

The newspaper was dated November 13, 1875.

Did she stumble on the correct person? Without a first name in the conviction announcement, she needed to keep searching.

With only a half hour before the library closed, on a hunch she cranked the small wheel on the machine to the third of October, 1875. And there it was, a full year before Granny’s date. Steve McLaren confessed to stealing cattle.

She writes to him on the anniversary of his confession?

Marg stood up, and something else struck her. “Wait, what?... McLaren is my husband’s last name.”

She pulled her purse strap off the back of the chair.

“My husband, Ray, nor his family ever mentioned a Steve McLaren. Coincidence?”

As one question was answered, several more were added. The librarian locked the door behind her. A cool mid-summer breeze felt good as she leaned up against her old wrangler and dialed Ed’s number. It went to voicemail. The mystery would have to continue tomorrow.

Morning came, and Marg called in sick. The mystery was just too enticing to wait, and Ed had suggested she try to get more information for the Prison. That was a half-day drive to Lansing. She was not fond of driving by herself for long distances, but today she pushed back that fear.

Why did father give me this mystery after his death? The letter was undamaged, as if tucked away in a deep, dark hiding spot with only time yellowing it.

He must have found it in cleaning the attic before he took ill.

Marg peered through her large round sunglasses at the road ahead with her hand clenched on the steering wheel.

Yes, I did marry a McLaren, but Ray’s family cannot be the only McLaren in Kansas.

At the prison, a custodian brought out a ledger already bookmarked to the page. Marg opened it and scrolled her finger over Steve’s information. She smiled widely at all the information it provided and wrote down every bit of it. When she got to the closest living relative—Elgin McLaren—her hand paused.

“Ray mentioned him a few times,” she mumbled.

It was long after sunset when Marg reached Delbert. She stopped off at a drive-thru for dinner.Ray worked for the oil company and should be home by now. Marg burst through the front door, calling Ray's name. He came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair.

“Good Lord, Maggy, I have never seen you this worked up since the first time I took you on a rollercoaster.”

“This has been driving me nuts for four hours. Who is Elgin McLaren?” she asked loudly, setting the bag of food on the small kitchen counter.

“My…” he began lifting fingers, “Third great-grandfather, why?”

Marg exhaled heavily.

“Are you kidding me?”

Ray shook his head as his hand dove into the paper sack.

“Do you know who Steve McLaren is?”

“Uncle Steve, yeah.”He took a bit of the chicken burger. “He was a cattle rustler who got run over by a team of horses, the same day he was released from prison.” He swallowed hard. “Why, do you ask?”

“For real? Why didn’t you tell me that story before?”

“Grandpa Elgin always told that story at Thanksgiving.” He picked out a French fry. “Every year I think the story got bigger. No one really believed him.”

Marg stood there staring at him with wide eyes. Her face flushed until she could no longer hold it in.

“The story is true. Steve McLaren was arrested for cattle theft and served eight years in prison.”

Ray shoved the fry in his mouth and shrugged. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”

She shook her head but then took out a fry to nibble on as she calculated the dates in her head.

The mystery deepened with every new answer, giving Marg another restless night. Though Ray made good money, ditching work again would not sit well.

On the bright side, Ed would be there today. She intended to pick his brain.

Working as an accountant for the Bright-Parker Cattle Company was hardly exciting. Still, it paid well and kept her connected to the family cattle business without having to get her hands dirty. Ed worked in procurement and was rarely in the office before noon.

Marg waited for Ed at his office door, just after 2 p.m. The time he texted her earlier in the day.

“Geesh, Marg. It’s not like you to be jonesing this much.”

“I am going to figure this out, even if it kills me.”

After a short exchange, Marg left work early. She went to the courthouse to look for Steve’s death record.

To Marg’s surprise, there were no death records for Delbert until after 1910. The clerk directed her to look through newspaper archives for a death notice or obituary. She thanked the man twice before leaving.

Under a heavy sigh, she put in a few more coins into the parking meter. She briskly walked the block to the library. The librarian was quite busy this time, with it being reading time for grade school kids. Her finger strolled across the fiche cabinet drawers.

She pulled out that drawer and tapped her fingertips on top of the boxes of rolls.

If he was released in November, I would want the Delbert Daily Tribune, July 1, 1883 to Dec 31, 1883.For good measure, she also took out Jan 1, 1884 to June 30, 1884.

As Marg strolled, her shoulders tensed the closer she got to the ending year of 1883. Nothing for 1883. She got up, stretched, and checked the clock. Still plenty of time.

Another roll placed, light behind a film of black letters and numbers.

January 12, 1884

Steven Bright McLaren died Monday last from complications of gangrene after being run over by a team of horses that broke both his legs and an arm. He was interred at the Delbert Cemetery after a small service of his immediate family.

Just below the man’s death notice was an asterisk line.

Marg leaned in closer.

A confession.

Steve McLaren was my best friend and cousin, and God has taken a good man. A man of great integrity. Let it be known that Steve never stole any cattle. He sacrificed his future for me. Had I known his outcome would be this tragic, I would have never allowed myself to keep the promise he made me swear. Submitted by Donald Bright.

Tears fell from Marg’s eyes. She tried to get up, but sank back down in the seat.

How could neither family know this?

The librarian came up to her. “Mrs., are you alright?”

Marg looked up at her and asked about getting a copy of the page.

“Certainly.”

After a copy was in her hand, she dug her cellphone out and stared at the screen.

Did Father know this, somehow? How can I make this right?

Eight years of his life. A prison sentence for a crime he never committed. And on the day he was finally free, fate took him anyway.

Marg wiped her cheek.

“Steven McLaren,” she whispered. “Your sacrifice will no longer be forgotten.”

Her finger tapped on Eric Bright's name.

“Eric, we need to discuss changing the company name.”

She took a deep breath and nodded at her decision.

“To McLaren-Bright-Parker. I have my reasons.”