sixteen

Well, that’s it.” Penelope laid down the final letter and stretched the kink out of her neck. “The treasure was supposed to help the people of Savannah, and Bradford cleaned out the last of it 150 years ago. So it’s gone.”

Shirley nodded slowly. “That’s what it sounds like.” Her words were clear, but they carried a heavy cargo of doubt.

Penelope clapped a hand to her chest as her heart thundered like horses’ hooves. “What do you mean? If Bradford didn’t take the rest of the treasure, where is it?”

“Well, isn’t that the million-dollar question.” Shirley leaned back in her chair, resting both of her hands on the back of her head.

Tucker leaned forward, stacking his hands on the place mat in front of him and staring directly into his aunt’s face. “You know something you’re not telling us.”

Shirley let out a low chuckle. “I know a great many things I haven’t told you. Some of them you’ve figured out.” She waved a finger between them. “Some of them are still a mystery.”

“Please,” Penelope said. “Will you help us?”

She nodded, seeming to choose her words carefully. “You’re not the first generation to go looking for that treasure.”

“But why would they go looking for a treasure after Bradford used it to help Savannah’s people?”

A sad smile worked its way across Shirley’s features. She stood silently and walked across the kitchen and halfway down the hall. Were they supposed to go after her? Penelope looked at Tucker, who shrugged.

Before Penelope could decide if Shirley wanted them to join her, the older woman returned carrying a large black book. It was bigger than a dictionary, its fabric corners frayed. But she carried it with dignity and reverence. When she set it on the table before them, the faded gold letters on the front cover became clear. HOLY BIBLE.

Opening the front cover, she revealed a series of names and dates, and it was clear that this family Bible was the record for marriages and births and many joyous occasions. But the numbers after the dashes recorded a sadder history of loved ones lost and the broken hearts left behind.

“Caroline must have known her brother well.” Shirley tapped her finger against a line joining Bradford Westbrook and Agatha Spencer in holy matrimony in June of 1865.

A warmth filled Penelope’s chest, and she smiled at the thought of Bradford, who must have been Tucker’s ancestor, finding love. After the war and all that Savannah had suffered, there had been hope too. Caroline had found it, and so had her brother. But if this was the evidence, why did Shirley look so somber?

Penelope leaned over the page, her eyes scanning the contents as quickly as she could, trying to make sense of it. The lines were blurry after so many years, and she traced them with the tip of her fingernail.

“Bradford married Agatha. And then . . .” She found the corresponding entry, and her breath caught in her throat.

“What?” Tucker’s shoulder bumped hers, and she could see he was trying to put the pieces together too, his forehead a sea of wrinkles as the pieces didn’t connect.

“Bradford died. That summer.” She looked up at Shirley. “Before Caroline’s letter was even sent.”

“But Daniel Westbrook must have looked for the treasure,” Tucker said.

“Oh, I’m sure he did,” Shirley said. “The problem is that four hundred feet due south of Mrs. Fitterling’s is . . .”

“Washington Square.” Penelope could see Savannah’s historic squares laid out like a map in her mind. Washington and Warren and Reynolds Squares all a couple blocks south of Bay Street. All had been there long before the war. But there was no way Josiah could have hidden his treasure in such a public setting. Not without gaining the attention of the men he was hiding from. If, indeed, he had whisked Caroline away for her own safety, he would not have risked his own neck in such a way.

Tucker leaned back, pressing a hand to his forehead. His eyes moved back and forth behind closed lids, and she could almost feel the waves flowing from him as he worked out the truth. After a long silence, he said, “The treasure was never found because Bradford was the only one who knew where Josiah had moved it. The rest of the directions—knowing it’s four hundred feet south—doesn’t help if you don’t have a starting point.”

“That’s about the sum of it.”

Tucker made a fist on the table, and Penelope could do nothing but reach for his arm and press a cool hand to the tense muscle there. She knew what this meant for him and for the election. For the second time that day, she could see a man’s broken heart written across his face.

Also for the second time that day, she wondered how much of it was her fault.

Sure, she hadn’t hidden the treasure, but she couldn’t help but wonder if she might have missed a clue. Or maybe she should have tried to find a Fitterling heir among the city’s population. Savannah was old homes and old families. Shirley was evidence of the way they held on to their history. Could there be anyone else out there who remembered the midnight visitors to Mrs. Fitterling’s and what happened to the cargo?

“Here’s what I don’t get,” Tucker mused. “How was Josiah getting to the stash in the dress shop without being noticed? If he was trying to protect his identity, was he sneaking around only at night? Wouldn’t someone have noticed? Wouldn’t Mrs. Fitterling have complained?”

He made a good point, but Shirley didn’t seem to have answers. “You know as much as I do now,” she said.

Tucker gave a soft grunt. “This doesn’t make sense. If Bradford died, how did the Westbrook line continue? How are either of us even here?”

“Oh, that.” Shirley flipped to another page in the Bible, this one a continuation of births, a branch of the family tree. And there was Bradford Westbrook Jr., Agatha’s son.

“She was pregnant before he died,” he said.

“Bradford Junior had five boys, so he made sure the family name would carry on,” Shirley said as she closed the Bible and hugged it to her chest. “We have a lot of family history—and our ancestors were, in fact, smugglers and thieves. But perhaps they did it for the right reasons. And they helped a lot of people along the way.” She patted Tucker’s hand. “I wish I could tell you where to look to find it all.”

“Do you know if Mrs. Fitterling has any descendants in the area?”

Shirley’s face added a few dozen wrinkles as she considered the question. “I don’t know that anyone’s ever asked. But I’ll tell you who would know. Jethro Coleman.”

That name again. Carter had mentioned him from the beginning. And Jethro had cornered Tucker at the picnic. But if he was this magical font of information, he should have found the treasure on his own.

After offering their good nights to Shirley, Penelope and Tucker stepped into the still evening air. They’d talked for ages and uncovered the rest of Caroline’s story, yet she didn’t feel any closer to finding the treasure.

Even worse, she wasn’t sure what they should do with it if they ever did. She’d been so sure that the very act of finding the treasure would be enough to clear Tucker’s name and win him the election. But he needed more than that. He needed the money.

Only now that she knew the money had been intended to help the people of Savannah, she thought of who it could help today. It wasn’t for lining the pockets of the already wealthy or even winning political elections. Josiah had risked everything to use it to help the poor and downtrodden. Could they do any less?

Tucker wasn’t sure he wanted this old farm to be the right place, but the number on the door of the dilapidated home was the same one PJ had gotten from Carter Hale.

“You sure this is right?” he asked.

“Nope.” PJ leaned over the dashboard of his truck and squinted at the house before them. It looked about ready to crumble, its shutters hanging at odd angles and the door half open. “But it’ll be worth a check, don’t you think?”

He pushed his door open with his foot, and immediately the sound of a hammer against a board reached them. Maybe Jethro was trying to spruce the place up.

They made their way up the uneven front steps. Even in her sneakers, PJ’s foot slipped when a board rocked, and he grabbed for her. Somehow he ended up with his arms around her waist, holding her against his chest. Which he did not mind at all. “Hey there, pretty lady.”

She beamed up at him. “Hey yourself, handsome.”

The even rise and fall of her shoulders and her soft murmur of content were enough to make him never want to move. He’d wanted this his whole life. He just hadn’t known it. He was such an idiot. How had he never noticed PJ when she was literally right in front of him?

Or had he been worried he wasn’t good enough for her back then?

Well, he was going to lay all those questions to rest at the election. If he won. Which he would. He had to. Because going back to the way it had been between them wasn’t an option.

Unfortunately, that meant letting go of her for the time being. He had to think long term like he had during boot camp. Keep going because the reward would be worth it.

Releasing her slowly, he said, “How about we pick this up later?”

“All right.” She stepped back and rapped her knuckles on the door. “First the treasure.”

She got it. She understood why this mattered. She understood him. And he had to physically cross his arms to keep from reaching for her again.

Her knock produced no response, save another round of hammer to nail.

“Jethro,” he called. But the hammer drowned out the sound. He waited until it stopped. “Jethro, you here?”

“Who’s there?” The question was as gruff as the one who asked it. “What do you want with me?”

“It’s Tucker and Penelope.”

Jethro’s head popped around the corner of his home, a frown squarely in place beneath his crooked nose. His narrowed eyes suggested suspicion, and his cheeks were smeared with enough dirt that he matched the peeling paint on the rotting walls. “What do you want? I ain’t donating to yer campaign. And I’m not buying nothing neither.”

“We’re not selling anything,” Tucker said.

Jethro took a breath and leaned a full shoulder past the corner of the building. “If you say so.”

“We were wondering about . . . you said you might know something about the lost treasure.”

He snorted. “You want to find the money. You ain’t the first.”

“Right. You said that others had looked, but we think there might be—”

Jethro cut him off with a wave of his hand. “We ain’t gonna stand ’round here jawin’. If you want to know what I know, it’ll cost you.”

Jethro’s gaze swept over PJ, and Tucker stepped in front of her, blocking the view and making it clear she wasn’t going to be part of any bargain.

“Can she swing a hammer?”

PJ scooted out from behind him, her arm extended. “Point me to it.”

Jethro cocked his head and gave her one more assessing gaze. Then he nodded, turned, and stalked away. They ran to catch up with him.

When they reached the backyard, they both stopped, mouths open. The lot had been filled with a massive one-story home, completely blocked from view by the old homestead. The new house had been painted slate blue, its trim and shutters clean white. Square corners and inviting gables made Tucker want to run his hands along the perfect edges. A big bay window beside the front door gave a glimpse into a tidy living room.

Jethro bent over an unfinished staircase that led to a porch spanning the whole front of the home. “I’ll tell you what I know.” He nodded toward the boards ready to be nailed into the steps. “If’n you’ll help me finish up my stairs.”

Tucker wanted to agree, but he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around what he was looking at. How had a man living in that made something like this?

Maybe Jethro’s skills went beyond carpentry to clairvoyance, because he answered the question without being asked. “The old one keeps most of the riffraff away. Don’t get many of them solicitors trying to sell me magazine subscriptions and whatnot. I started building my new place last year. Moved in last month.” His hands on his hips, he gave his home a proud smile. “Did most of the work on her myself.”

“Your home is lovely,” PJ breathed.

“Thank you.” He spoke like a proud father. “Now, you gonna help me or what?”

Tucker grabbed a hammer and handed one to PJ before they shifted a board into its slot and began driving in the nails that would hold the step in place.

Between thwacks of the hammer against the nail heads, Tucker looked toward Jethro, who was fitting together the two-by-fours for the handrails. “So what do you know about the lost treasure?”

“Less than some. More than others, I guess.”

Tucker took a deep breath and gave his nail a solid hit. Better the stairs than Jethro. The man couldn’t give a straight answer to save his life.

“You said others were looking for it?”

“Oh, sure. There’ve been lots of them. Ever since my aunt—”

PJ’s head whipped up, her hammer raised to her shoulder. “Who’s your aunt?”

“Ah, she’s a few generations removed, I s’pose. But my great-granddad was her nephew. And he told me all the stories.”

Tucker caught PJ’s gaze. He was pretty sure they were thinking the same thing. Were Tucker and Jethro related?

“What kind of stories?” PJ asked, her voice soft and curious, her eyes filled with humor.

“’Bout the midnight callers. ’Bout how half a dozen men stomped through her home and hid some smuggled cargo.”

PJ’s eyebrows raised. “Mrs. Fitterling? The dressmaker? She was your aunt?”

Jethro gave a hard glare at their stilled hands. “Less talking, more working.”

PJ jerked her hammer down, clearly not paying attention to where it landed. Which happened to be right on Tucker’s thumb. He nearly screamed as pain shot up his wrist and past his elbow, but he bit back everything he wanted to say and turned away, holding his thumb to his chest.

“I’m so sorry.” PJ dropped her hammer on the ground, ran around the base of the steps to his side, and cradled his red thumb in her hands. When she looked up at him, her eyes were wide and filled with sadness. “I didn’t mean to. Are you all right?” She pressed a kiss to his thumb, gentle and soothing.

“I’ll live.” But as his thumb throbbed, he wondered if he’d rather live without it.

“Maybe I can make it up to you.” Batting her big blue eyes at him, she pressed onto her tiptoes. Her T-shirt was softer than a kitten against his arm as she snuggled against him, her breath warm on his neck.

And he was lost. She could have hit every single one of his fingers and toes with that hammer, and he’d still have pulled her right back into his arms.

Jethro cleared his throat, but Tucker didn’t move. He was just fine where they were.

“Seems like y’all might be more trouble than help,” Jethro said.

“I’m fine,” Tucker replied, showing off his thumb by wiggling it over PJ’s head. But he stopped as soon as fire shot up his arm again. It was going to turn purple soon, and he could only pray he didn’t lose the nail.

“Yeah, well, you ain’t gettin’ much done.” Jethro put his hands on his hips. “Guess I shouldn’t have figured you to be the home-building type. Now tell me what you want so I can go back to work.”

“What do you know about Mrs. Fitterling and the treasure?”

“I know she owned a dress shop over on Bay Street. And I know a group of men came knocking on her door at midnight. My great-grandpa told me stories when I was a kid about how brave she’d been. About how when she heard what it was being used for, she gave her own diamond necklace to help the cause.”

PJ leaned toward Jethro. “What was it being used for?”

Jethro looked shocked that she would even ask. “To help them folks after the war. Sherman didn’t burn Savannah, but its people sure was hurtin’. They was hungry and many of them homeless. About the time the war ended, that’s when someone started caring for those most in need. Your family, they still had a roof over their head. But there were lots of families not so lucky. That’s when flour and salt and fruit started showing up at the camps.”

“A man named Josiah, he was behind that. But did your aunt just let him through her shop every night?”

“Through her shop? Why would she do such a thing?”

Tucker caught PJ’s gaze, and she shook her head. “When did they move the treasure?”

Jethro put down his hammer. “What kind of nonsense are you talking? They never moved the treasure. Not as far as I know.”

“But Caroline wrote a letter to her brother,” PJ said. “She said it had been moved four hundred feet away. But that would place it in Washington Square.”

Jethro picked his hammer up and turned his attention back to the railing, piecing it together one sure blow at a time. Finally, he looked up at them with a confused expression. “In Washington Square? Or below it?”

Tucker’s jaw worked back and forth as he tried to make sense of Jethro’s words.

PJ, on the other hand, didn’t wait to ask for clarity. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Scratching his gray whiskers, Jethro chuckled. “Oh, you kids. So skeptical. Don’t you know how many old stories of Savannah are true?”

“Old stories . . . like—”

“The treasure was put in my aunt’s cellar. But the house wasn’t the only way to reach it. There was another way. Underground.”