Free The Blood Ballad by Rett MacPherson Page A

played wasn’t bluegrass. He did play it eventually, when it became popular, but not this, not his early stuff.”
    She shook her head. “How do you know all of this?”
    I smiled. “Several reasons. One, our dad’s a musician, and I was just interested. When I was growing up, I discovered Dad’s recordings of Grandpa. Grandpa could play a breakdown better than anybody I’ve ever heard. When I started hosting the music festivals here in New Kassel, I began reading up on it more.”
    â€œWow, I had no idea,” she said. “So, where did Grandpa learn to play?”
    â€œWell.” I sighed. “I was always told that his father, Nate, played but that Grandpa and his sister both learned to play from their neighbors who lived down by the creek bed. The Morgan family.”
    â€œWho were they, exactly?”
    â€œWell, they were a fairly famous musical family. At least in this area,” I said. “They had recording deals and everything. There was even a petition going around to change the name of Progress, Missouri, to Morganville back in the thirties, but it didn’t pass.”
    Her eyes grew large. “And you’re telling me that Grandpa learned to play from them?”
    â€œWell, according to this recording, it seems as though he actually wrote some of their material, too.” I typed in the name of another song that was now playing on the CD, a sadder song about the ghost of girl who lived in the meadow and wore daisies in her hair. That song, too, was credited to Scott Morgan. By the time the CD was over, an hour had passed, and in some form or another, my grandpa had claimed to have written at least nine songs that I had Googled and found Scott Morgan taking credit for. “But nobody ever knew.”
    â€œIs that what Glen Morgan wanted to tell you?” she asked.
    â€œNo, actually,” I said. I glanced at the clock. “We need to reopen the museum.”
    She walked with me as I went to the front door and flipped the sign to OPEN . I turned to her then. “He claims that our grandpa was actually the son of his grandpa—Scott Morgan.”
    â€œWhat?” she asked. Her gaze searched my face, trying to read my feelings about the whole mess. “Is that possible?”
    I shrugged. “Well, sure, Stephanie. Anything like that can happen. I mean, you’re a good example.”
    Something flickered in her eyes, and immediately I knew I’d said the wrong thing.
    â€œI didn’t mean it like that.”
    She turned away and headed back to the office.
    â€œSteph,” I called out after her. “Stephanie.”
    When I caught with her, I grabbed her arm and swung her around in one motion. She wasn’t crying, but the look of hurt was heavy in her eyes. “You know I love you,” I said. “You know our whole family accepts you. I didn’t mean any disrespect by what I said. You know my mouth just opens and out fly ridiculous, often thoughtless things. I just meant that of course these things can happen. That’s all I meant. Please don’t be offended.”
    I often felt like I walked on eggshells around Stephanie. Not because she was supersensitive or melodramatic, or prone to tantrums, but because it had taken me thirty-something years to be given the gift of my one and only sister and I was afraid that at any moment she’d realize what a screwed-up family we were and leave. I mean, it wasn’t as if she had to associate with us.
    â€œIt’s just that…” she began.
    â€œWhat?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know, maybe I expect too much.”
    â€œWhat? Stephanie, you can’t expect too much from me. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give you. You know that,” I said.
    â€œI know,” she said. “It’s not you. It’s everybody else, like that Glen Morgan guy. I am John Robert’s granddaughter, too, but he wouldn’t speak to me at