Chapter 10

“So, then Mamie checked the public records.” I relayed the story as Luke helped me put away the groceries. “It turns out—about six title deeds ago—Mateo Ramirez owned this land.”

“The vineyard?”

“Yup, and he’s my great-great-grandfather through a woman named Valentina Isabella Perez—Tina for short.”

“Mateo, the same Mateo that married Marianna?”

“One and the same.” Groceries forgotten, I gave him a wry smile.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope—and there’s more.”

“My head’s spinning now.” He shook his head as if to clear it.

“My grandmother married Mateo’s grandson, Matthew.”

“And you didn’t know?”

“Nope—I knew nothing about Matthew Taylor or his side of the family. Grandma never mentioned him, other than to say he died just after my mother was born.”

“So…?” Tilting his head, he paused, listening.

“So, it appears Matthew hadn’t left her widowed. Instead, he just left her, remarried a woman named Luisa, and had a daughter Barbara, who married a John Perkins.”

“Barbara Perkins…that name’s familiar.” Squinting, he stared at nothing.

“Think.” I let him struggle a moment before relenting. “Who else do you know named Perkins?”

“Bea?” He caught his breath. “Barbara was Bea’s mother, the one who left her the vineyard next door.”

I nodded as part of the puzzle emerged. “Your property and hers must’ve been part of the original 640 acres.”

“That’s a whole lot of coincidences.”

“No, sir, I do not believe in coincidences.” I shook my head. “But how are these pieces tied together? What’s the common denominator?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are all these flukes located here—between us, surrounding us?” I frowned, straining for answers. “Why are we seeing these parallels between timelines, people, and places? There’s got to be a reason—a message—something. What do we share in common?”

“I think better on paper.” He grabbed a pad and pen, then sat at the breakfast bar. “Let’s make a table of the three families: Cadence and Ben’s, Marianna’s, and Mateo’s. Right now, the connections are too hazy to see any pattern. Once we diagram the bloodlines, generation by generation, maybe we’ll see the link.”

“Good idea.” I pulled up a stool beside him. “Only instead of three families, chart four.”

“Who’d be the fourth?”

“Bea’s because she’s linked through my grandfather.” I smacked my head with my palm. “Oh my gosh…”

“What?”

“If Bea and I share the same grandfather, we’re cousins.” I smacked my head. “Which is why Aunt Rosie includes Bea at family suppers.”

“And you thought you didn’t have any family.”

“What a tangled web our ancestors wove.” As the family connections became clear, I grabbed his arm. “Luke.”

“What?”

“You’re descended from Marianna, right?”

“We knew that.” He gave me a puzzled smile. “So…?”

“So, I’m descended from Mateo.” I waited for the connection to click.

“What’s your point?”

“Four generations later, Marianna and Mateo are together…again…” I gazed into his eyes, not seeing the man before me, but what he represented—the love of Marianna’s life. Wow. “Do you think…” I broke off, too embarrassed by my thoughts to continue.

“What?” The corners of his eyes creased in a suspicious smile. “After learning all we did today, you might as well drop another bombshell on me.”

“No.” Shaking my head, I glanced away. “The idea’s too far-fetched.”

“Try me.” He gently turned me toward him.

“Do you think there’s any connection between the dime, the ball, the slamming doors”—as I spoke, more incidents came to mind—“the dreams, the face in the mirror, and the feathers…?” I peeked through my lashes, watching his response.

“Obviously, you do.” His slow smile lit up his face, and a curl dangled onto his forehead.

As if a cue, an overpowering urge seized me. I stared at the ringlet, wanting to brush it back before running my fingers through his hair, slipping my arms around his neck, pulling him close, and kissing his full lips.

Then, Cody’s face flashed before me, counteracting the heat flushing through my body. I straightened my spine. “I…uhm…I can’t help but believe Marianna is somehow linked to these events.”

“Why?” He blinked.

“Why would she be linked, or why would I think she is?” How long are his eyelashes?

“Why would you think so?”

“What if she wants to recreate her love with Mateo…through us?” Inexplicably drawn to his expressive eyes, I leaned toward him. His lips so close, I felt his breath. A chill passed through me, and I shuddered as a fluttering tickled the pit of my stomach. What is wrong with me?

With a dismissive laugh, I squared my shoulders and tilted away. “I told you the idea was ridiculous.” Why this attraction? My mind moved in one direction, while my body moved in the other. Gripped by an overwhelming desire to feel those persuasive lips on mine, I drifted toward him, aching for his touch. With a rush of adrenaline, my pulse spiked, and my breathing became jagged. I discreetly dried my moist palms on my thighs as I imagined his arms embracing me.

My mind in a fog, a dim thought took shape. Is this love or lust? Or is this urge something less corporeal? “I…uhm…I’d better take the puppy out.” Swallowing hard, I jumped off the stool and gave a sharp whistle. “Come on, Teddy.”

Luke’s jaw hung loose, as if my hasty exit surprised him. “What about dinner?”

****

Alone in my cabin, I reran the recent events while I organized the journals chronologically.

Why am I so physically attracted to Luke? Recalling the butterflies and heart palpitations, I snickered. The sensations are real, but the urges are so sporadic and impulsive, it’s as if they’re external. Am I somehow being manipulated? And if so, by whom?

The more I sorted through my thoughts, the more questions surfaced. We’re moving so quickly…too quickly. We met just weeks ago, yet we spend every waking moment together. I took a deep breath. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it’s time to get a car and move to El Paso…put enough distance between us to know what’s real and what isn’t.

As I reordered the journals, a yellowed envelope fell out, and I caught my breath. Grandma’s handwriting. Addressed to Mr. Matthew Taylor, it was unopened and marked Return to Sender. I traced the 1966 postmark with my finger, then carefully opened the envelope.

Dear Matt,

Two years ago, I married you for better or worse—for love—forever. Recently, you’ve become someone I don’t know—someone I glimpse between business trips. Your job requires travel. I understand that, but you’re home less and less, and when you’re here, you’re so uncommunicative, I barely recognize the man I married.

Today, I learned why. I saw an old friend at a birthday party, who introduced me to her neighbor, Luisa Taylor. I asked if we were related. Imagine my surprise when she showed me her wedding picture with you.

Who’s your legal wife, and who’s your common-law wife?

Milly

I reread the letter, not believing my eyes. Did he leave Grandma or divorce her? I glanced at the Return to Sender handstamp. Or did he ignore her like he disregarded her letter? Which woman was his common-law wife?

****

Was it something I said? As Luke finished putting away the dry goods, he replayed their conversation. Why did she take off like a shot?

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Forget something, Maeve?”

“Is that any way to welcome an old friend?”

“Bea?” He about turned at her voice. “What’re you doing here?”

“Again, I ask, is that any way to greet an old friend?” Standing tall, chest thrust out, she gave him a shrewd smile. “Good to see you alone for a change.”

“Maeve just left.” He sniffed as he closed the cupboard door.

“So I gather.” Her voice like plush velvet, she gave him a knowing grin. “Mind if I sit?”

“Why?” He leaned against the counter.

“Might make this call less awkward.” Her smile hardened. Then instead of sitting, she rested her elbows on the breakfast bar, arching her back to show off her ample bosom, and lightly trailed her fingertips along the polished granite surface.

“We’ve got nothing to say.” He turned his back as he put the canned goods in the cupboard. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m busy.”

“Then how about a friendly glass of wine?”

“What do you want?” He about faced.

“Nothing.” She tossed her hair, permeating the apartment with its strong cinnamon smell. “Other than to catch up with an old friend.” She caught his gaze. “Now, how about that drink before I leave…?”

Would a drink get rid of her? Breathing shallowly, he debated. “One quick glass, then I have to get back to work.”

“What’re you working on?” Moving toward him, she led with her chest.

“The patio bar—”

“I thought you didn’t have the financing.” Her eyes narrowed.

Shrugging, he poured two taster-sized glasses of wine and handed her one. “Cheers.”

Her hand brushed his as she took the mini glass. “Oh, come on. You can do better than that…” She grinned as she held up her glass. “Okay, I’ll start. Time to uncork and unwind.”

Rolling his eyes, he sniffed at her persistence and half-heartedly clinked glasses.

“Don’t be a party-pooper, Luke. Drink with me.” She smiled coquettishly over the rim of her glass. Then, her eyes dancing as she met his gaze, she raised her glass and clinked his. “Let’s try this again. Take life one sip at a time.”

His lips barely touched the merlot, but he toasted.

She wore a satisfied, twisted smile.

“Don’t get any ideas.” Duty done, he set down his glass. “I’m busy, and it’s time for you to leave.”

“I know it’s over between us.” Her lipstick leaving a red print on the rim, she set her tiny glass on the counter. “But I want us to be friends.” With a dejected sigh, she pouted.

Head back and eyes narrowed, he appraised her. “What fiendish scheme are you plotting now?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head as she stepped toward him. “I just want us to end on a high note. We’ve had our lovers quarrels—”

“A lot more than quarrels.”

“But we’ve had our good times, too, and I’d like to remember those.”

“Are you serious?” He squinted, trying to read her face.

“Yes.” She shrugged. “Why else would I come here on a rainy afternoon?”

“I don’t know…” He made a dubious growling sound deep in his throat.

“Come on.” She held out her arms.

For an instant, he glimpsed the woman she had been.

“One hug before I go?”

****

“Knock, knock.” As I rapped on Luke’s front door, the dog nosed it open, and I followed him inside.

Bea’s red talons gripping Luke’s back, she opened heavily mascaraed eyes to meet my stare before she nuzzled his neck. “Remember, I’m just next door if you need me.”

I knew it. The journal fell from my hands, making a loud plop as it connected with the cement.

Teddy barked.

“Maeve.” Luke turned as he broke away. “Bea was just leaving.”

“So nice to see you again, Maeve…” Her voice like whipped honey-butter on a warm biscuit, Bea gathered her purse, then gave Luke a smoldering glance over her shoulder as she sauntered out the door. “ ’Til next time.”

Is history repeating itself? I retrieved the journal, fingering my grandmother’s letter as I studied Bea’s retreating form. Like grandmother, like granddaughter?

Or am I the “second wife,” horning in? Bea was here first.

Or does Luke want his cake and eat it, too?

I’m not sure what’s real and what isn’t. Drawing a deep breath, I made up my mind. It’s time to move to El Paso…put some distance between Luke and me.

“Bea just—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself.” I snapped my mouth shut before I said more.

“But it isn’t the way it looked—”

“This is your house. Do what you want.” Mad at him, Bea, myself—the entire situation—I heaved a sigh. “Besides, it’s time I moved on—”

“At the top of the news, the El Paso County Commissioners Court may implement a ban on fireworks’ sales this summer.” The television blared to life. “But vendors are asking for leeway.”

“What? How’d that turn on?” He turned off the TV.

The television blasted on at full volume. “Fernie Samaniego, who owns several fireworks bus—”

Again, he switched off the set. “What the—”

“Vendors are requesting the county to allow the sale of fireworks between June 28 and July 4—.”

He turned off the TV.

It boomed to life. “Even with a ban on missiles and rockets—”

Luke pulled the plug. “What is going on?”

I half expected the TV to turn itself on despite being disconnected. When it remained silent, I gave an uneasy laugh as I caught Luke’s gaze. “That’s…weird.”

“To put it mildly.”

“Has it ever done that before?”

“Nope.” He shook his head.

Then a faint creak drew my attention. I turned toward the nearby rocker, gently swaying back and forth, as if someone were rocking. “Do you see that?”

“Yup.”

With each rock, the squeak became louder and more insistent.

The dog began barking.

“Now do you believe me?”

Nodding, Luke caught the chair’s top rail to stop its movement. Then he let go.

Again, the chair started teetering back and forth, creaking.

“Okay, rain or no rain, that’s it. Out.” He pushed open the door and shoved the rocker onto the patio.

I blinked, unsure which issues to focus on first: the chair and TV or Luke and Bea. Even if this place isn’t haunted, I won’t stay where I’m not welcome. My shoulders sagged. But what choice do I have? Where could I go?

Luke slammed inside and brushed off his hands. “That should end these strange happenings.”

“Excuse me.” I tried to squeeze past.

“Where are you going?” His jaw fell open.

“Ho…uhm…” I shook my head, angry at my slipup. “Away.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” His eyes bunched.

“What isn’t?” Is this guy for real? I scowled.

“Can’t we talk?” He gestured toward the rocker on the patio. “I got rid of the problem.”

“That isn’t the problem…okay, part of it…but you obviously have feelings for Bea, so I won’t stay—”

“Whoa, whoa!” He shook his head. “I don’t have any ‘feelings’ for Bea. She was saying goodbye.”

“She’s leaving?”

“No, she just accepted that whatever we had is over, and she wants to be friends.” He shrugged.

“And you believe her?” Snickering, I cocked an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you see what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.” He spread his arms wide, palms up. “I told you what happened. That’s all there is to it.”

“Maybe you think so, but she’s got other plans. Trust me.” Straightening my spine, I made a snap decision. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…I’ve got to pack.”

“Pack?” His head jerked back. “Why?”

“Because I’m doing what I should’ve done in the first place. Leaving.”

“Where would you go?” He scratched his head. “For that matter, how would you get there?”

“I don’t know. I’ll call a cab…stay at the hotel until I can buy or rent a car.” Why didn’t I think this through? Frustrated with myself, I heaved a sigh. “I’ll think of something, but I won’t stay where I’m not welcome.”

“Who said you’re not welcome? I want you here.” He ran a hand through his hair. “At the very least, until after the pruning season ends.” His shoulders drooping, his brown eyes appealed.

“You do?” Relenting, I took a step toward him. Then recalling him in Bea’s arms, I wagged my finger. “Oh, no, you don’t. You just want your cake and eat it, too.”

“What?” He groaned. “I don’t get you. A couple of hours ago, you lit out of here like a dog from a bath. Then you walked in on me, making accusations, and now you’re leaving. What’s going on?”

“When you phrase it that way, I do sound…erratic.” Emotionally exhausted, I dropped my arms to my sides. “Where do I start?”

“At the beginning.” His smile gentle, he raised his brow.

“You’ll think I’ve gone off the deep end.”

“Try me.”

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Nothing can top what I’ve just seen and heard.” He nodded toward the TV. “So why did you rush out of here before?”

“I was”—wincing, I squinted—“confused.”

“About what?”

“I suddenly felt so inexplicably attracted…” I swallowed my words.

“Did you just say you’re attracted to me?” Grinning like a caricature of a leading man, he spoke with an affected French accent. “But oui, of course—how could you resist moi?”

His comic relief broke the tension, and I smiled despite myself. “Seriously, something came over me quickly as if I’d been slipped a club drug or love potion.”

“What do you mean?”

“From out of nowhere, I felt an overwhelming urge to touch you…hold you…be held.” I wriggled as the heat crept up my cheeks.

“Normally, I’d be flattered, but it doesn’t take a genius to see you’re upset—and not coming on.”

At a loss for words, I nodded as I tried to unsee the image of Bea in his arms.

“I’d bet good money that hormonal rush, the rocking chair, and the electrical issues”—he gestured toward the TV with his chin—“are all somehow connected.”

“Through the brooch?” It’d be nice to think the cause was external.

“Maybe.”

“But if so, why?”

“Maybe someone or something is trying to communicate.”

I exhaled my frustration, then held up the diary. “I finished organizing the journals in chronological order, and this is the next one. Want to read it—maybe find a clue?”

“Why not?” With a shrug, he pulled out a barstool. “Might as well sit down and be comfortable.”

I opened the diary to a vintage baby portrait mounted on cardstock. “Wonder whose picture?” I handed Luke the stained photo.

The scrawled date on the back read November 19, 1900. “Ramona? She was born in October that year.”

“Maybe the journal mentions it.” As I scanned the handwriting, I caught my breath. “Wow.”

“What?”

“December twenty-second, nineteen-twenty, the ranch. Today we buried our daughter Ramona. She just turned twenty.

“Marianna outlived both her children.” I grabbed my stomach, counteracting the sinking sensation.

“December twenty-fifth, Christmas. I had no appetite to cook or bake. Instead, I sat in the rocker, thinking. After a premature birth, miscarriage, and the death of my only child, I’m not a mother. And if I’m not a mother, what am I?

“January first, nineteen-twenty-one, New Year’s Day. As I sat rocking with my locket in my hands, I fondled Kenneth’s hair. If my babies are ghosts, does that make me a ghost mother?”

“Kenneth?” Glancing from the journal, I caught Luke’s gaze. “Do you suppose…?”

“Marianna mentioned the rocker, locket, and hair in the same sentence.” Lips pressed together, he nodded. “I’d bet Kenneth was the premature baby, and—”

“It’s his hair in the locket!” Jumping to my feet, I closed the journal. “Are you thinking what I am?”

“Let’s go see.” He opened the door.

“Come on, Teddy.” I whistled, and the puppy bounded ahead.

Outside, the sun was slipping behind the violet-blue mountains. The sky was a rich twilight blue—deepening yet crystal clear, as if clarifying the situation.

Bluing. I recalled my grandmother adding bluing to laundry to whiten the wash. What made me think of that? I shook off the memory with a laugh. “Didn’t realize the time.”

The vineyard reflected the rusty-red tones of the late winter sunset.

Dusk. I held back a sigh as I glimpsed the winery and cozy cabin. Heartrending in its homey beauty, the scene tugged at my earliest recollections.

The child of vagabond parents, I was often on the road at dusk, just as the lights began coming on in the houses we passed. Growing up without a permanent address, I fantasized about living in one of those comfortable homes instead of viewing them through the car window.

“Gets dark early in the mountains.” He caught my gaze, did a double take, then stared.

“Is something wrong?”

“Your hair…”

“Is something on it?” I swiped at my head.

“No.” He chuckled. “The sunset captures your hair’s highlights—gives it a reddish glow.”

“Oh.” Pleasantly surprised, I gave a nervous laugh as the heat crept to my cheeks. “Thanks.”

He reached out his hand and hesitated. “May I?”

“Sure.” Wondering what he was doing, I quivered as his hand swept my hair behind my ear. As arousing as a caress, the gesture sent a shockwave through my body.

Then his hand molded itself just above my neck, gently supporting my head as he leaned toward me.

Without warning, I ached to feel his mouth on mine.

He leaned closer.

His warm breath tickling, I met him in a rush of hormones and adrenalin. Then lifting my lips, I closed my eyes, reveling in the give and take of his kiss.

Only Teddy’s insistent bark woke me from the daze.

Then, like a fly buzzing at the window, a high-pitched sound droned—squeak…squeak…squeak—as the chair rocked back and forth on the patio.

In the fading twilight, a nearly transparent silhouette emerged.

I pulled away with a scream, and the image vanished.

“What?” He followed my stare.

“I saw a woman…cradling a baby…” I spoke without turning toward him, watching as the chair gradually slowed its rocking, then came to a standstill. “What’s going on?”

****

“I don’t know, but I’ll bet somehow the rocker, the TV, and our attraction are all tied to the locket.” After punching in the code, he opened the cabin door. “Let’s take a look.”

Maeve removed the cameo from the velveteen pouch and handed it over. “At the library, I read mourning jewelry was popular before photography became affordable. People kept the hair of deceased loved ones as touchstones to remember them.”

“Makes sense.” He opened the tiny hinge. “In some ways, this remembrance is better than a picture. It’s part of the person.”

“A bridge between the quick and the dead…” She nodded. “In fact, the word locket comes from the practice of keeping a lock of hair in a pendant.”

“Didn’t know that.” As he fingered the woven, baby-fine hair, he recalled the silky texture of her hair. He glimpsed her lips, still red and swollen from his kiss. Get a grip. He tore his gaze from her and glanced at the double bed that filled the small cabin’s main room.

As his loins responded, he struggled to take his mind off her receptive lips and sinuous body. She moves like wine swirled in a glass. And the legs…Initially thinking of the streaks on a glass after swirling wine, he glanced at her legs and stiffened.

He abruptly sat on the cedar chest, crossed his legs, and began calculating mathematical equations to distract his thoughts. Two squared is four, squared is sixteen, squared is two hundred-fifty-six, squared is sixty-five thousand and…can’t think straight. He shook his head and concentrated. Two doubled is four, doubled is eight, doubled is sixteen, doubled is thirty-two, doubled is sixty-four, doubled is a hundred-twenty-eight…no, a hundred-thirty-six—

“Are you all right?” Wearing a bewildered expression, she stared.

“I…uhm…just remembered something…” Turning at an oblique angle, he set the locket on the chest and edged sideways toward the door. “Why don’t you stop by in an hour? Pizza okay?”

****

As I got into bed that night, I fondled the locket’s downy strands. Threads weaving the past into the present. Did this hair belong to Marianna and Mateo’s baby?

I turned off the light and began dozing when a baby’s faint cry woke me.

Teddy? I flipped on the light, but the puppy was asleep.

Barely audible, the muffled cry seemed to originate outside.

Is a cat in heat? I cracked the door.

Leaves rustled and the wind howled as wisps of mist began swirling before me.

With a yelp, I slammed the door and peeked through the window. Full moon.

The eddying fog gathered slender tendrils of moonlight, as if twisting optical fibers until the vapor became a luminous, rotating spiral over a long, flat rock.

I blinked, and when I opened my eyes, the whirling light was gone. All was dark outside except for the stars and moon. Was I sleepwalking? I fixed a cup of chamomile tea, then read in bed until I fell into a troubled sleep.

The next morning, I dismissed the memory as a weird dream.

But after breakfast, as Luke and I crossed the courtyard, a sweet, heady fragrance stopped me. Following the scent, I drew closer to a blooming tree to inhale the perfume of its delicate, white blossoms. “What’s this?”

“A loquat tree. Won’t be long until these buds develop into fruit.”

Something about the tree sparked a memory, and I stooped to examine the smooth rock beneath it.

“Anything wrong?”

“I dreamt about this stone last night.” Brushing away dead leaves, I leaned closer. “The shape looks almost like a fallen tombstone.”

“Now that you mention it, it does. It’s flaggy limestone from McKittrick Canyon.”

“Which means…?”

“Flagstone’s flat surface would be perfect for etching an epitaph.” He stared at the rock, seeming to peer inward. “And if I recall, the realtor told my grandfather this was an old gravesite.”

“Whose?”

“He didn’t know.” He shook his head as he studied the thin slab. “No one remembers.”

A chill ran up my spine. “If this is a grave, would it have any connection to the odd occurrences lately?”

“Anything’s possible.” He shrugged as he stood and entered the shed. “See you at lunch.”

Still thinking about the stone as I sauntered into the vineyard, I froze. Something’s off-kilter. What’s wrong? Then it registered.

Instead of the neat lines of staked vines, one row lay partially toppled.

My blood ran cold. Did I prune the vines wrong? Accidentally slice them? No…I haven’t started that row yet, so what happened? My heart thumping, I ran to the collapsed vines and saw the slashed roots. Who chopped the vines?