She really needed to call it a night.
That’s what Jenna told herself as she closed a box and slid it to the side to carry down later. It was almost four in the morning and she had to be at the high school Ag barn at eight A.M. sharp to look over the kids’ animals. One of the lambs had caught a bad cold and Mr. Sheffield was eager to make sure nothing spread to the others. He wouldn’t be happy if she strolled in late.
Late?
Like that would condemn her.
She’d already made the top spot on the Ag teacher’s list of Most Hated Students of All Time. Back when he’d just been starting out at Rebel High School and she’d been a student. She’d snuck into the barn to play with the pigs without his permission and, inadvertently, let them all out. They’d rushed the football field and knocked over the top wide receiver. He’d fractured his wrist and been benched for six weeks. As a result, the team had failed to make the playoffs for the first time in ten years.
Needless to say, she’d been the most hated sophomore in town.
Except by Mr. Wide Receiver himself. While a top prospect on the field, he’d been from the wrong side of the tracks. He’d ridden a motorcycle and worn a leather jacket, and she’d been helpless to resist the whole badass vibe. She’d spent more than one Friday night nursing him back to health and feeding her reputation.
Not that she’d cared one lick what anyone had said about her.
Not then, she reminded herself.
But she cared now, which was why she was going through the attic instead of heading downstairs to bed. Three Little Higgs would be ready to demolish the house down to its foundation in just over a week and she needed everything sorted and out by then.
She dusted off the last small trunk and pressed the latch. Metal clicked and the lid popped open with a desperate groan. The stench of mothballs filled her nostrils and left a stale taste in her mouth.
She spent the next few minutes digging through the folded clothes, everything from a few slips and several pairs of nylon stockings, to a flower-print dress with boxy shoulders. A pair of black patent leather lace-up shoes sat near the bottom of the trunk, next to a faded pair of short pink gloves.
She dug into the small pouches on either side and came up with a handful of lipsticks and an old-fashioned bottle of perfume. She ran her fingers over the faded Bellodgia label and took a sniff of the spritzer.
O-kay, so mothballs weren’t the only thing stinking up the inside of the case.
Setting the bottle off to the side with the rest of the items she’d trashed, she reached into the pocket that lined the lid and retrieved a stack of mail that had been rubber-banded together.
She went to drop the stack into her trash pile when something odd caught her eye. None of the letters were addressed. No recipient. No sender. Just a pile of pink envelopes that had been carefully stamped.
Pulling off the rubber band, she riffled through the stack.
She pulled open the first envelope and slid the paper from inside. Unfolding the delicate parchment, she stared at the neat script and felt a wave of nostalgia roll over her.
It had been ages since she’d seen a handwritten letter. Not since she’d unearthed the Dear Santa letters after her mother’s death. The woman had saved all of the scribbled, misspelled concoctions that her daughters had painstakingly written and addressed to the Big Man up North.
With the convenience of computers and cell phones, people rarely wrote letters to each other. Like most folks, if Jenna couldn’t text or e-mail, she didn’t bother. As far as keeping up with friends, that’s what Facebook and Instagram were for.
But this was from a far different time.
December 21, 1941 to be exact.
She had the same niggle of guilt that she’d felt when she’d stolen Callie’s diary and read it from cover to cover, but it wasn’t enough to deter her from what she was about to do.
She scooted back and settled against a nearby wall, her legs stretched out in front of her, and started to read.
My dearest P.J.,
I am truly sorry about what happened on Friday. I wanted to tell you that in person, but my father would not let me out of the house once he dragged me inside. He thinks if he locks me up that it will change things. That I will stop feeling the way I do. He does not know me or the depths of what I feel. He can keep me prisoner, but he cannot make me forget the love of my life. Never. Not even if he tries to beat it out of me. He won’t. At least, that’s what Mama says. But what does she know? I’m guilty of the ultimate betrayal as far as he’s concerned. I’ve turned him against his best friend. I’m the enemy now. Waking up to the sharp strap of his belt would not surprise me one bit. In fact, it would be welcome to disrupt the silence that fills this room. Even Mama only stays for a few minutes when she brings me my meals. And while she at least talks to me, she never speaks of what happened. Of what is happening. All she talks about is what Rebecca Peabody was wearing at the market or the horrible gloves that Maureen Shay was wearing at church. She won’t speak of the Tuckers anymore and she says I shouldn’t either. She hates them now, just like my father. I cannot begin to tell you how terrible I feel about that. I have ruined everything for you and your family. All I can do is hope now that you can find it in your heart to forgive me one day.
Begging your forgiveness once again and always,
Clara Bell Sawyer
Jenna stared at the signature scribbled across the bottom and her stomach hollowed out. Shock bolted through her.
What was Clara Sawyer’s trunk doing in James Harlin Tucker’s attic?
Had he picked it up at a rummage sale? Won it in a game of poker? Found it abandoned on the side of the road?
A dozen possibilities swam in her head. All plausible.
At the same time, she had the gut feeling there was more to it. More to the letters.
More to the riff that had divided an entire town.
Her gaze went to the signature again and a certain tall, dark sheriff pushed into her head. Clara Bell wasn’t just a Sawyer. She was Hunter’s great-grandmother.
The notion stirred her memories and her mouth tingled.
So much for a distraction.
She refolded the letter, rebanded it with the rest of the stack, and closed the trunk. Pulling the cord on the overhanging bulb, she headed for the ladder leading down to the first-floor landing. A few minutes later, she dropped the stack of letters on her nightstand and headed for the bathroom. If she had any hope of getting to sleep, she needed to wash Hunter off her skin and out of her head. That meant lots of cold water and even more prayer.
Unfortunately, it was springtime in Texas. That meant heat, heat, and more heat as the days chugged their way toward a blistering summer. The water would be tepid at best. Even worse, Jenna had never put much weight in talking to The Man upstairs. Sure, she knew how to pray. She just wasn’t convinced anyone was listening.
A doubt that was confirmed when she finally climbed between the sheets, Jez curled up at her back, and closed her eyes. Hunter’s image came to her then to tease and tantalize and remind her of just what she was missing in her newfound walk down the straight and narrow.
So much for divine intervention.