Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(97)

Anna constantly hovered, her face white with grief ever since Dr. Sopin told them Dimitri was unlikely to survive the week. Anna tried to fend off visitors, but Dimitri insisted on seeing Sergei Antonovich, the only lawyer in the valley, to draft a new will. It needed to be completed today. He’d already done everything to ensure his mother would have Mirosa and its land, but he wanted Pavel to have the cider mill. His mother didn’t need the mill’s income, but it would mean the world to Pavel. Maybe Pavel wasn’t the smartest man in the valley, but he’d always loved the mill and the orchard and would take care of them.

“Allot ten acres of the apple orchard to Pavel,” he rasped to the lawyer. “Give him the mill in perpetuity.” The scratching of Sergei’s pencil sounded unnaturally loud as he scribbled the instruction. Dimitri was propped up in bed because it was easier on his lungs and his wheezing didn’t sound so bubbly.

He was too tired to think clearly, but he still needed to do something for Temujin. The newspapers had just announced the affirmation of the Treaty of Aigun, and Temujin deserved to know that they’d succeeded in their quest. The treaty reaffirmation had been Dimitri’s cause, but Temujin still cared and would want to know.

“Mama,” he whispered. “The newspaper about the treaty . . . send it to Temujin. Along with a gold coin.”

“That man is a thief and a heathen,” she sputtered. “Why should you waste good money on such a man?”

His eyes drifted closed in exhaustion. “You’re right. For a man of Temujin’s worth . . . fifty gold coins. Put a bible in the package.” His lips quivered a little in humor, because on long winter nights, Temujin’s curious mind would probably crack it open.

Sergei and his mother both grumbled in disapproval. No one here in the valley understood him anymore. He missed Temujin. He missed Natalia. As difficult as Ilya Komarov had been, at least they understood each other. They were fighters. People who laid everything on the line day after day, year after year. This was a struggle Dimitri understood and appreciated. He rarely saw it among the wealthy aristocrats of the valley. He loved them all, but he respected the fighters more.

Sergei fussed over how to get the bequest to Temujin. “We don’t even know where this man lives,” he said. “We can’t send a fortune in gold through the post and expect it to arrive at its destination. We don’t even have an address.”

It was a problem. Temujin planned to stay in Chita, but Dimitri had no idea if he’d bought a farm.

“Hire someone to take it to Chita,” he said. “Ask for directions to a man named Temujin who is missing his right foot and has only two toes on the other. There will only be one such man.”

Thinking of his unlikely friend coaxed a smile despite the searing pain on his cheek. He probably just split the scab open, but he’d suffered worse.

What to do for Natalia? She had no need of gold coins or apple orchards. He scanned the interior of his bedroom, looking for something special to send to her. An icon of a sad Madonna frowned on the wall, but Natalia already had plenty of icons. A piece of his jewelry? A book? A pile of books was stacked on the bureau, and she always liked books.

“Bring me the second book in that stack,” he instructed Sergei. His lawyer put the pad of paper down and retrieved a leather-bound book embossed with gold.

“This one?”

“No . . . the little brown one beneath it. Bring a pencil too.”

Sergei did as requested. Dimitri suppressed a weak laugh because the gurgling in his lungs upset his mother, but he managed to flip open the cover of Little Women and find a blank page. It was a Russian copy. The original one Natalia had sent was long gone, but he’d bought another copy once he arrived at Mirosa because it reminded him of her. Now she would have it.

Anna propped the book on a pillow so he could scribble a message.

Dearest Natalia. You were right.

The pencil stilled as a surge of memories came to the fore. He hadn’t cared for this book when he first read it, but in hindsight, it was about the sort of family he wished he could have had. A case of the mumps at nineteen had robbed him of that, but he hoped Natalia would have such a family someday. He loved her enough to wish that for her. He blinked a sheen of tears away. Ridiculous self-pity would not be tolerated when he had work to do. He adjusted the page and continued to write.

Dearest Natalia. You were right. This book contains a wonderful family. Thank you for sharing it with me, but I still contend the best scene is when Beth dies . . . as all good heroes do.

He choked back a laugh, but it turned into a strangled cough, and his mother began to panic. Liquid in his lungs gurgled and bubbled up, strangling him. He couldn’t breathe.

“Go get Dr. Sopin,” his mother cried out to Sergei.

Pain banded across his chest and back. He was dizzy. Suffocating. The edges of his vision turned dark, but he forced himself to calm down. He waited until he had the strength to take a sip of air . . . only a sip. Any more could lay him low again, and he needed to finish the will and get it formally witnessed and signed.

He lay against the pillow, taking shallow breaths until his vision cleared, but then the chills set in again. The sad Madonna frowned down at him from the wall, but he smiled up at her. God had been good. This life had been good. Too short and filled with pain and calamities, but joy and purpose too. Yes, God had been very good to him.