eight
Penelope hugged the extra fabric of her dress to her chest as Tucker gave her one more glance before closing the passenger-side door of his truck. She grimaced as she watched him stop and talk with Jethro Coleman. Her discomfort had nothing to do with the sun beating into the car and everything to do with opening her big mouth.
Why did I say that? What was I thinking?
She hadn’t been. It was that simple. She’d let Mrs. Haywood goad her into saying the absolute worst thing. At the worst possible time.
She and Tucker had had a plan, and she should have stuck to it. They were dating. Just without the feelings. And definitely without the future possibilities. They were spending a little extra time together, letting people see whatever they expected to see.
What they were not doing was implying a forever kind of commitment. To anyone. Least of all loose-tongued Anabelle Haywood.
She covered her face with her hands and managed a strangled breath. God, my plan is falling apart. Maybe it was bound to—a plan based on an untruth. And that ugly truth twisted in her stomach. Lord, you’re going to have to work a miracle to get me out of this. But her prayer felt like it didn’t even make it out of the cab of the truck, let alone to heaven.
The driver-side door opened, and Tucker slid behind the wheel. He glanced over his shoulder as though checking to make sure that her hoop was still tucked in the back of the cab, but he never looked at her. As soon as he turned the ignition, the air-conditioning blasted them.
He didn’t reach for the gearshift, his hands resting on the steering wheel.
Her swallow was loud enough to echo in the cab, and she steeled herself against whatever he was going to say—probably that this had been the worst plan ever conceived. If she was honest with herself, it had all started because of her bad decision.
She was definitely in the market for a miracle. Sudden time travel would work. Or a sinkhole to devour her. She’d take mysterious amnesia on Tucker’s part or just a rocket ship to the moon, where she could live out the rest of her life in relative peace, devoid of crippling embarrassment. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?
She looked toward the sky, but the happy clouds gave no indication of a pending miracle. Not that miracles came with a visible warning of their arrival.
“So, that was different,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” she spoke over him.
She tried for a chuckle, but it didn’t make it very far out of her throat.
He stared at her, his gaze digging into the deepest parts of her, and she was tempted to jump out of his truck and walk home. But she’d never before run from telling him the truth. She wouldn’t start today.
“Okay, so what happened was Mrs. Haywood started in on how much time we spend together and suggested you weren’t worthy of my time. Even though we’re not really dating . . . well, that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize what an amazing man you are.”
The corners of his mouth crinkled into a smile that his beard couldn’t hide. “You think I’m amazing?”
“Shut up.” She shoved his arm. “If you were anything less, I wouldn’t have put up with you for so many years.”
He chuckled. “I get that, but it feels like quite a stretch to get to marriage. Tomorrow?”
“Well, what was I supposed to do? She kept pushing—she was so haughty. She thinks they’re all so much better than . . .”
“Me.”
“And me too.” That felt like a weak addition. Penelope hated that she’d led him there in the first place. He didn’t sound surprised, but she didn’t want to rub it in. Because as she looked at him, at the strength in his posture and the determination in his eyes, she was reminded he was trustworthy and principled. A man of integrity and compassion.
She was the one who had dragged him down with this fabricated story that they were dating.
Pressing a fist to her stomach, she tried to dislodge the stone sitting there. It wasn’t a result of her corset being too tight but a nagging reminder of her own sin.
“Tucker, when I asked you to pretend to date me, I opened you up to wagging tongues and disparaging remarks.” She shook her head. “I never should have done that. I’m sorry.”
He narrowed his gaze at her, his eyes more intense than lasers. She could physically feel their touch, and she shivered in the cool air of the vent.
“You asked me?” His eyebrow hooked up. “That’s not how I remember it.”
“Well, you know how it was—I was the one who implied a relationship.”
His lips twitched as he reached for her hand, swallowing it with his own. “PJ, as I recall, I was the one who suggested we give this thing a try. I thought it was worth it. I still do.”
She memorized the feel of his hand on hers, his fingers rough and callused. The tips of his fingers were blunt but clean, his knuckles a little bit dry. Hardworking hands. But so gentle. He held her like she was worth more than any treasure Caroline’s diary might reveal. It didn’t remove the stone in her middle but sent butterflies to join it until she thought her corset might burst.
She took a deep breath and let it out in a slow puff. “I think this was a bad idea. Maybe we should just go back to being friends and remind people we’re nothing more.”
His eyes were so blue, like the sky. “Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do. You’re breaking up with me before my fundraiser next week.” He gave an exaggerated eye roll. “You just wanted to use me to fill out the uniform, and then you drop me like a football.”
With a chuckle, she shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a saying.”
“Oh, I’ve seen you play football, and you’ve never caught the ball once.”
“Okay, fair. But that’s not what I was doing. I just mean this could easily become complicated, and we don’t have an exit strategy. And the next time I tell someone I’m going to get married, I’d like to actually be engaged.”
His shoulders shook as he licked his lips. “You know, there’s a really easy way to do that. You don’t tell anyone you’re going to marry me.”
She slugged his arm again, and he gave an exaggerated slump against the driver-side door. “Stop it. I’m being serious. That was an accident, but I can’t stand it when they talk about your family like that. I need a better plan if we’re going to do this.”
“Count on you to need a plan.”
“Well, I had one.” She smoothed her hands over her skirt. “By this point I was supposed to be married, expecting my first baby, and settling into our first home. And then . . .”
She didn’t expound. Didn’t need to.
He squeezed her hand again. “I know that plan didn’t pan out, but it doesn’t mean God doesn’t have another one for you.”
“I know. It’s just that . . .” She rolled her eyes against a sudden burning there as Mrs. Haywood’s words jumped back to her mind. She was barely nice enough looking.
Adjusting himself in his seat so he could look at her directly, he asked, “What?”
Letting out a shaking breath, she whispered, “Mrs. Haywood may have implied that I’ll have to rely on my brains to attract a husband. Because . . .” She used her free hand to gesture to the rest of her.
His face turned red, and his lips disappeared in a thin line. “She said what?” His words came out on a growl, his eyes turning feral.
“I’ll . . .” He let her hand go and shook his fist between them. “Where is she? I’m going to—”
Penelope lunged for his arm and hugged him to her with a chuckle. “She’s an old woman, Tucker. But I love that you’re willing to defend my honor.”
His scowl remained as he cleared his throat. “You know it’s not true, right?”
“Why, Mr. Westbrook.” She fanned her face and used her best Scarlett O’Hara impression. “Are you saying I’m pretty?”
He didn’t say anything for a very long moment, and she could have bitten off her tongue. Too far. Why was she taking everything too far today?
Then his words came out on a breath. “Miss Hunter, you’re lovely.” They wrapped around her, warmer than an embrace, sweeter than a peanut butter cup.
If only his words didn’t have so much power.
Tucker turned back to look out the rear window and shifted into gear. “Let’s go home. I could use a change of clothes and a nap.”
She nodded. “Okay, but I thought you might like to go to the Carrey farm today.”
He dipped his chin as he pulled out of the almost empty parking lot. “The Carrey farm? I don’t know where that is.”
“I read about it in Caroline’s diary last night.”
“And you waited to tell me?”
“Honestly? I was afraid you’d decide the picnic wasn’t worth it and steal away to the farm instead.”
His laugh came from deep in his chest, and he nudged her with his elbow. “You know me well. But I’m glad we came to the picnic.”
“You are? Even in that uniform?”
“Hey, Catherine Saunders is coming to my campaign dinner. And she’s bringing friends.”
“And you waited to tell me that? That’s big news! Congratulations.”
He laughed again. “All right. Tell me about the diary.”
So she told him about the smuggled goods—whatever they were—and that Caroline’s family had been caught up in something. She told him about the wagon carrying it out to the Carrey farm. She told him about all of it.
All except Caroline and Josiah. Because even through the page and 150 years, she knew true love. She’d overseen enough weddings, talked to enough brides-to-be, seen enough grooms. She knew what love sounded like. And Caroline was in love.
She didn’t know yet if Caroline would find her happy ending, but for now it was her own private treasure hunt, a special story tucked beside her heart. She’d keep reading it until she knew the truth.
When she had laid out all the important pieces, Tucker tossed her his phone. “Let’s figure out where the old Carrey farm is and if there’s still a barn.”
Tucker could kiss the county recorder. Even if Evelyn Butcher was twice his age and loosely related on his mom’s side. He didn’t care. She’d called him back on a Saturday to tell him she didn’t even need to go into the office to find the answer to his question. The old Carrey farm had long been abandoned, its lands bought up by neighboring spreads.
The property’s barn was still standing—barely—and the small plot was currently owned by the county. Apparently none of the neighbors or developers wanted to buy the land—not when it would cost them a few nickels to raze the old barn.
“Which means it’s okay for us to take a look around?” he asked.
“Suppose so. Just don’t go trespassing on no one else’s property. You do and we never spoke.”
He snorted into his phone. “Fair ’nuf. Thank you, ma’am.”
He hung up the hands-free call just as he pulled back up to the curb at PJ’s apartment. He’d dropped her off more than an hour before and promised to come back for her after they’d both had a chance to change out of their picnic clothes.
But now that he was here—without the facade of his Confederate uniform—his stomach twisted tighter than a knot. In brown cargo shorts and a T-shirt, he was just Tucker. Tucker who everyone said wasn’t good enough for PJ Hunter. Tucker whom PJ had said she’d marry.
When he’d overheard her, those words had felt like a left hook out of nowhere—but not because they were so awful. They were unexpected. Not entirely unpleasant.
More than 150 years before, they couldn’t have been friends like they were now. If he’d wanted a few minutes alone with her, he would have had to marry her.
And he would have wanted to.
That hit his gut, and he squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He was not going to think about how much he liked talking with her or how she made him laugh. And he sure wasn’t going to think about how pretty she was.
Thinking about those things could only distract him. Especially when he had an election to win—and a point to prove to his dad. He was good enough for any educated woman, even—maybe especially—PJ.
She bounded up the steps of her garden apartment as though on cue, brushing her fingers along a honeysuckle hedge. Maybe that’s why she always smelled like the stuff.
Sure enough, the scent of the flowers followed her in as she launched herself up into his truck, her skirts replaced by green shorts and a multicolored tank top. She’d exchanged her boots for a pair of purple low-top Chuck Taylors.
“What did you find out?”
That my thoughts are wandering into dangerous territory.
She probably meant besides that.
“The barn is still standing, and it’s on county property.”
With a clap of her hands, she said, “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s go.”
Putting his truck into gear, he checked his blind spot and pulled away from the curb. They drove in silence for five minutes before the truth hit him. This should be awkward. It wasn’t.
This was the reason they were best friends. No amount of ridiculousness stuck. Forgiveness came fast and certain. Or at least forgetfulness. Even if he had to actively choose to forget what she’d said.
He smiled as he caught her eye. “So, what do you think was in this lost treasure?”
The tip of her nose wrinkled, her lips working from side to side as she stared at the row of trees guarding the road before them. “I don’t know. Caroline didn’t sound sure either. Probably the same things everyone else was trying to smuggle in.”
She scowled at him. “Like smuggled stuff. Like stuff that would come over on a boat. Like . . . I can’t even remember what Caroline said she thought would be in the crates.”
He snorted.
“Why are you asking me anyway? You probably know.”
True. He had some guesses. There were only a few things worth running the Union blockade—and they all equated to dollars and cents. Or weapons and ammunition.
“Do you think we’re going to find it? These dazzling diamonds or whatever?”
His shoulders twitched. “I sure hope so.” The money could make a world of difference for his campaign, and that truth came through his tone.
“You saw the new commercial.” She didn’t bother adding a question mark to the end of her words.
“Yes. I saw it.” Or rather, he’d heard it, since he’d covered his eyes. It had been almost enough to make him sick.
She made a fist and slammed it into her other palm. “That Buddy Jepson—he can’t be allowed to do this.”
“What? Run a campaign?”
“Run a dirty campaign.” She squeezed her fist, and her knuckles turned white until her whole arm shook.
He rested his hand on her knee. “It’s okay, PJ.”
“But he knows you don’t have the money to run TV spots. So he ran that . . . that . . .” She waved her hand toward the window as though she could conjure the deplorable ad. And it had been awful.
He’d cringed through every single one of the fifteen seconds. Barely graduated high school . . . the heir of traitors . . . Tucker Westbrook is the wrong choice for Chatham County.
He’d memorized that last line real quick. And then he’d steeled himself for the call from his dad.
He didn’t know which was worse—the tense waiting or the fact that the call never came. Was it better to be reprimanded or ignored? It was a question he couldn’t answer, so he welcomed one from PJ that he could.
“How are you going to retaliate?”
He patted her leg before pulling his hand away as they left the city limits and most of the traffic behind them. “I’m not.”
PJ let out a burst of air. “You’re kidding. I’ve never known you to take a hit lying down.”
“I’m not lying down. I’m just not going to hit back.” He shrugged one shoulder, leaning into the steering wheel as he followed the route Evelyn had mapped out for him. “Besides, I don’t have any money to fight dirt with dirt. My campaign fund is hemorrhaging at the moment.” A fact that Beau Bailey, his campaign manager, had been quick to remind him of the day before.
“Then you need more donors. Like Mrs. Saunders. You said she’s coming.” Her words spilled out in fits and starts like overflowing popcorn.
“I’m still not going to dig up dirt on Jepson.”
“You can do that?”
He gave another shrug. “My team monitors more than half the private security cameras in the city. I could do that.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me that when Winston broke up with me? I could have used some ammo right about then.”
His laugh filled the cab, bouncing off the ceiling and lifting an unnamed weight from his chest. He hadn’t known he needed the release until that very moment, until he could breathe easily again.
Bumping her forearm against his, she didn’t even crack a grin. “I’m serious. I could have used that info.”
“To do what?”
Now her smile slid into place, shy and thoughtful at first. “Oh, you know . . .”
“You didn’t need it. You got over him on your own.” He reached out to tug on her ponytail and immediately regretted letting his fingers wind into her silky hair. He did not need another reminder of how soft, how feminine she was. Of how he’d failed to notice for twenty-five years. Of how the knowledge seemed to be slapping him upside the head every other minute lately.
Clearing his throat, he pulled his hand free a little too quickly, catching a strand on his watch. She cringed, and he offered a quick apology, his mind racing for another topic. Anything. He came up blank just as his phone alerted them that they had almost reached the farm.
Allowing himself a quick sigh, he turned onto a dirt drive. The truck bumped over several holes and rounded a bend before the shabby wooden barn appeared before them. PJ gasped and leaned against the dashboard.
“Does it look like Caroline described it?” he asked as he pulled to a stop beside the lone structure.
“Well, she didn’t really describe it. She was more . . . um . . . she was distracted by everything going on, I guess.”
Well, this had to be the place—the only barn for miles. It had belonged to a Carrey family for a few generations. But the barn didn’t look like it had been around for more than 150 years.
He cocked his head and shaded his eyes against the setting sun as he got out of the truck. The structure was rough, to say the least. The angled roof sported large holes, and the red paint that had once adorned the exterior had long since been peeled off by wind and sand. The salt air—and probably a hurricane or two—had warped the boards, and the pair of doors on the front of the building hung on rusted hinges.
But the corners were stable, sharp ninety degrees each. A wooden building as old as the Civil War wouldn’t have been standing so erect.
That weight fell back on his chest.
“Come on. What are you waiting for?” PJ was nearly halfway to the doors, but she paused to look over her shoulder at him.
He jogged to catch up, not sure if he should tell her the truth about the building or let her go in and explore. By the time he reached her, he remembered that he didn’t let her do much of anything. She decided.
PJ had wrestled a big door open about six inches by the time Tucker reached her. He opened his mouth to tell her to stop, but suddenly the door buckled, splinters flying as the boards crumbled. If it made a noise, PJ’s scream drowned it out. He scooped her out of the way, shielding her head with one arm and holding her against him with the other. The rotted wood slammed into his shoulder and nearly dissolved upon impact, coating him with a fine layer of dust. He smacked his tongue against the bitter taste covering his lips but didn’t let go of PJ.
“You okay?” he asked, his heart hammering so hard it filled his ears with the steady rhythm.
“Fine. Feeling stupid.” She spoke directly into his T-shirt, leaving a warm patch in the center of his chest.
Loosening his arms, he let her step back, and she swiped at his shoulders and arms.
“You’re covered in this stuff.”
He shrugged. “I’ve been covered in worse.”
Her eyes filled with something too tender, and he steeled himself against sinking into her compassion. His memories from his tours were vivid, but she didn’t need to be reminded that he was used to being covered in a permanent layer of Iraqi dust. She certainly didn’t need to know that once he’d been covered like this in blood as he’d put pressure on a bullet hole in his friend’s leg until the medics carried him off.
PJ’s life had been—for the most part—sweet. Safe. He wasn’t about to fill her head with images she didn’t need.
A lot of his buddies had returned home living and dreaming those nightmares. Those experiences had lodged deep inside them and refused to let them find peace. Tucker knew that but for the grace of God—and PJ Hunter—he could have suffered the same. But PJ, in all her innocence, joy, and vigor, had pushed those nightmares away. He remembered the hard experiences, but they never consumed him. So PJ never had to know them.
Forcing a smile, he said, “Better this kind of dirty than Jepson’s.” With a tug on her hand, he led her into the relative darkness of the barn, using the light from his phone to guide them. “Come on.”
She followed, letting out a little squeal when the beam of light captured the tail of a creature scurrying into a darker corner. “Gross.” He didn’t need to see her face to know the tip of her nose had wrinkled. “Do you think there are more?”
“Probably bats too.”
“Ew.” She didn’t touch him, but he could feel her presence close in on his six. “Do you see anything?”
“I see a family of rats.”
“Not that. Something good. Something useful.”
He shook his head, his light sweeping across broken beams and buckled stalls. Then his beam disappeared into the floor. It swept across the cement to the right of the door but didn’t reach the far wall. His stomach dropped into the floor too.
“What’s that?” She’d stepped around him, her feet following his gaze.
Ignoring the layer of debris covering the ground, they both scrambled toward the hole, falling to all fours before the opening. His light filled the dark space, revealing what appeared to be a lower rung of a ladder, the rest of the steps crumbled around it. Approximately a six-foot cube, the dirt-walled storage space would have been perfect for hiding a treasure.
PJ looked up at him, a silly grin in place. “I guess Caroline was right.”
“There’s no treasure here.”
“But there was. So all we have to do is follow her clues,” she said.
The weight on his chest doubled down. “Before Jepson buries me in this election.”
I fear that my mind is failing me. I have heard stories of those sent to the asylum. I may be among them soon if something does not change.
I know it to be true in my soul. I am certain that the man I saw only two nights ago was Josiah Hillman. But Bradford swears that it cannot be true. I cornered him this morning to beg him to tell me where I might find Josiah, and he said he did not know what I meant. I made certain that not even the servants were nearby, then whispered that he must have seen our old friend that night. Surely they had spoken before coming upon me. For heaven’s sake, Bradford helped Josiah carry me away.
Yet Bradford says it was not so. He shrugged so casually when he suggested that the man perhaps had a passing resemblance to Josiah. But ’twas not him. It could not be him, for Josiah has been dead these many years.
I felt as though someone had pulled on the laces of my stays. I could no longer breathe. I wished to lash out at him, to strike him with my fists as his words had assaulted me. But how could I do that without drawing undue attention upon us? Mother would insist on knowing the cause, and Father would never let me join them again. Though ’tis unlikely he shall relent after the last excursion.
It no longer seems to matter. Not when Bradford was so cavalier about Josiah’s death. Not when I am so fully convinced that it was not a ghost I have seen.
Mary once told me after Sunday services that she had seen a ghost in the graveyard across from her bedroom window. I do not believe in such things, and I think she was only attempting to scare the children among us. Nonetheless, she described him as a willowy figure, white as light, strolling among the headstones. He was neither fully flesh nor air. He was a strange combination of both.
Josiah was not that at all. His form had enough weight to press me into the grass. He did not shine. In fact, his face was rather darker than I remembered. And his eyes. I would know those eyes by any light, the touch of his hand upon my person in any way.
I know Mother would not approve, but I let him hold my hand before he left. With no gloves between us, skin to skin, his warmth surrounded me. I can never forget the way he stirred something deep in my chest. It is why I have waited these many years. I need no other suit. I need only Josiah to return to me.
I cannot believe the man I saw was anything other than flesh and blood. But perhaps I have imagined the face of the one I care for so deeply on another.
I have yearned for him for too long. Perhaps my hope has been foolish and my brother is right. Perhaps it has addled my brain. I dare not ask Father if he knew it was Josiah, for it would require me to remind him of my transgressions. Nay, I will not do that. I will spend my afternoon with Marigold, who returned home this morning, eager for her oats and a good brushing.
She cares not if my brain has turned.
Friday, December 2, 1864
They are moving the goods once again. I did not mean to eavesdrop again, but they should know better than to whisper such things in the carriage house. I was merely brushing Marigold down when I heard Bradford whispering. I am not sure who he spoke to, only that he confirmed that our wagon would be ready at the agreed-upon time.
When I heard him speaking, I pressed myself against the wall of the stall, wishing not for the first time that I was tall enough to see over the barricade. I pressed my ear to the cracks in the wood, praying to hear Josiah’s voice. I heard nothing.
And now I must decide my course. Shall I follow Father and Bradford once again, hoping to prove the man I saw was Josiah? Or shall I do as Mother has bade and remain tucked in bed? Truly, there is no question in my mind.
Saturday, December 3, 1864
I did not get but a few feet from home before my plan to follow Father was thwarted. I cannot find it inside myself to be upset.
I had decided it would be quieter to lead Marigold from her stall than to ride her. I could mount when we reached the square. But I did not reach it. As soon as I stepped into the alley, a hand grabbed me, spinning me against the oak in the corner of our yard. I meant to scream but could find no breath from the shock of the moment.
Marigold had no such misgivings, letting out a bray like a donkey as she reared back on her hind legs, her reins dragging upon the ground. Then a soft voice cooed at her, telling her all was well, soothing her fear.
He may as well have been speaking to me, for the sound of his voice erased every ounce of fear within me. I sagged against the tree as Marigold nibbled on the grass around us, always on the lookout for a meal.
I was merely looking for the man I had loved and feared lost. I told myself that my addled brain was at work again, fooling me into believing such nonsense.
Then he turned to me, his hand finding mine in the darkness, and every doubt disappeared. He said he had not intended to frighten me, but he knew what I was about, and he could not allow me to stumble upon the night’s activities.
I failed to ask what those activities were, instead clinging to his hand and staring hard into his face. The light of the moon dancing through the branches above drifted over his features, his dear features. I saw what I knew to be true. This was Josiah Hillman. But could I trust my own eyes when Bradford had questioned them so soundly?
I begged him to confirm that it was him and not a figment of my imagination.
Aye. ’Tis me.
He lifted my hand to his lips and pressed them so gently there, only enough that I could sense the smile upon them. Then he said that he nearly did not recognize me in my attire, my brother’s trousers. He had not known me in our previous encounter until he was upon me.
I assured him that I am the same Caroline Westbrook he knew all those many years ago.
He shook his head, his curly hair bouncing as it had when he was young. He swore that I am not the same girl he knew. I have grown into a woman.
I have never been so grateful for the covering of night, lest he should see the pink in my cheeks. I am inordinately grateful he has recognized me as a woman, but I fear it may not be enough. For he made no promises.
After I asked him to tell me why he has not written, he could only bow his head and beg my forgiveness. He said he cannot tell me the truth, and even now he fears for my safety. We must never be seen together, and he made me promise I will not tell a soul that I have seen him.
I had so many more questions to ask him, but he answered none of them. He only leaned in, and I thought for a moment that he might kiss me. But he pressed his lips to my forehead and squeezed my fingers one more time. Then he disappeared, leaving my hands empty and my soul downturned.
My questions are endless. Whatever has he been caught up in? What danger lurks that he was so concerned we might be seen together? I long to ask Father, but he is forever consumed with the imminent arrival of Sherman’s army. It shall be soon, I am sure.
I nearly asked Bradford yesterday, for he must know something. But I have promised my secrecy. I must tell someone or I shall burst. So I have told you, dear diary. May you keep my secrets and Josiah’s too. Whatever they may be.