Chapter Eleven

Emily pressed her fingers to her lips. She’d felt Nate’s kiss all the way to her toes. Reaching the shadowed hall, she leaned against the paneled wall. Nate meant a friendly gesture, but it burned every female nerve in her body. Her heart thudded in her chest.

Her efforts to find meaningful research material might need to be put on hold if she couldn’t control her response. She’d been under pressure before. She knew how to handle it. Rubbing her sweaty palms on her jeans, she chewed her lower lip. Maybe it was time to leave. She’d never intended to stay more than a day or two anyway. She rubbed her hands over her flushed face.

Undecided, she sat on her bed. She wasn’t ready to sleep and took out her notes to review. After a quick scan, she put them aside. The key to the attic was in her pocket. Doing more exploration wouldn’t bother anyone and it would fill the long night hours.

The second floor was silent. Spicy pumpkin potpourri scented the air. Moonlight glowed through the lounge windows so she clicked off the flashlight. The lace curtains cast a fancy pattern on the floor. The room doors were shut and she was reminded of a dream about opening closed doors. She giggled nervously.

Nate and Liz had restored numerous vintage decorations and furniture. A visitor from the past would be right at home. She trailed her hand along the hall table top. The lace doily was hand-made and seemed ancient.

Her footsteps were less than feather brushes in the dark. She enjoyed the smooth surface of the mahogany banister as she mounted the stairs to the third floor. Keeping the place clean before modern conveniences must have been a bear.

The brass key opened the attic lock with a loud click. Here she needed the flashlight. The attic was hot. Opening a few skylights helped cool night air flow inside. And she flicked on the lights. She shivered. Strange how the late hour changed the atmosphere. The small table and chair waited where she left them. The sheet-covered furniture hulked closer, as if they’d crept from the walls.

Her imagination was getting out of hand. That episode with Liz when they heard the ghost hadn’t frightened her, but the silence had her skin creeping. Shaking her hands and arms, she firmly put her thoughts aside. If she decided to leave tomorrow, she wanted to get some productive work done.

Briskly opening the next trunk, she worked her way through the contents. Old blankets and linen were folded neatly. No papers lingered in the corners. She closed it with a disappointed sigh. She kept to her routine. Open, examine, file papers, make notes, and apply a label. The remainder of the batch yielded nothing.

She pushed the trunks over to the side and found another oak desk against the wall. Since it was too heavy to move, she dragged the chair over. The drawers had keyholes but slid out when she tried them. Old papers overflowed onto the floor and she scrabbled to pick them up.

With so many pages, sitting on the floor seemed the best solution. Sorting and stacking took time. The ink was faded and difficult to read. The paper had yellowed with age. Many were written in a fancy cursive popular in the mid-1800s. Dates were practically illegible. She needed more light. More time would help, too. An owl hooted behind the inn. The mournful cry sent chills up her spine. How did the old saying go? Three calls from an owl meant a death. Where did she drag that from?

A puff of wind scattered a pile of papers. She reached for a paperweight to hold them down and stared at the beautiful hand-blown crystal. Blue flowers were trapped in the iridescent glass. Carefully placing it on the stack, she made a note to take it downstairs for Liz.

Her eyes gradually felt gritty. The back of the bottom drawer yielded a dozen ribbon-tied stacks of letters. The dates on the envelopes were from the nineteenth century. A smile lifted her lips. A collector would love the stamps.

The light wasn’t sufficient to read the cramped and faded writing. They went into another folder. The name “Deerbourne” grabbed her attention. These were from one of the family. She pressed them to her chest. Finally, something worth her efforts. She hummed while she put the remaining paper-stuffed folders into the desk and stood. Her back ached, and her knees were stiff as an arthritic old man’s.

The rocking chair creaked, and she looked for Hercules. He didn’t appear, but the chair continued to rock. Taking the letters and paperweight, she closed the skylights with shaking hands. The owl hooted twice more. Her fingers trembling, she closed and locked the door.

The open window admitted the chirping of crickets and a gentle breeze when she entered the bedroom. The faint scent of smoke drifted inside. She got into bed. Jerking the covers over her head didn’t mean she was spooked.