Читать книгу A Gift from the Past - Carla Cassidy - Страница 8

Claire McCane looked like a bag lady. But, as far as she was concerned, most amateur treasure hunters looked like street people. Of course, the small town of Mayfield, Missouri, didn’t draw many true treasure hunters.

It had only been since Clark Windsloe, owner of Windsloe Automotive and the mayor of Mayfield, had begun the Pot of Gold contest that the citizens of Mayfield had transformed themselves from ordinary people into half-crazed puzzle-solvers and earth-diggers.

The final three clues leading to where the ten-thousand-dollar treasure was buried would appear in the Saturday morning paper over the next three weeks, but Claire thought she knew where to find the windfall. And heaven knew she could use a windfall.

She briskly walked across the large expanse of manicured lawn that surrounded the two-story brick building that housed City Hall and the police station. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, didn’t want anyone else to know where she was going to hunt for the buried money.

Behind the city building were thick woods and it was there she was headed, to the base of a certain tree. Unfortunately she hadn’t been able to afford one of those treasure-finding machines with all their bells and whistles. She was armed only with a trusty spade and a healthy dose of excitement.

The late June air felt hot on her shoulders and was sweetly fragrant with the scent of the blooming flowers surrounding the building. As she left the well-trimmed grass for the taller, more tangled underbrush of the woods, she glanced at her wristwatch.

Time was of the essence. She always felt guilty leaving her grandfather in anyone else’s care for any length of time. Thank goodness for Wilma Iverson, her neighbor who was available to sit with Sarge.

It was cooler here, with the canopy of leaves overhead to shade the ground. The tree she sought was on the far side of the wooded area, a tree scarred by lightning that had been referred to as the Dragon Tree when she was a child.

The clue in the paper that morning had been something about the roots of fire and ash yielding sweet fruit. She had instantly thought of the Dragon Tree. She desperately hoped she was right. She had a hundred plans for the money if she managed to find it.

She quickened her pace, ducking beneath tree limbs, picking her way through vines and brush, hoping she was the only one who had thought of the lightning-scarred tree.

She heard him before she saw him, somewhere ahead of her, like a bear lumbering through the brush, only there were no bears in Mayfield. At the same time, she became aware of the faint scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air.

Somebody was after her treasure. She quickened her pace, dismay sweeping through her. If she could get to the tree first and get her spade in the ground before whoever was in the woods with her, the treasure would rightfully be hers.

The tree was just ahead when she heard the sound of a shovel hitting the ground. She halted, disappointment crashing through her, then continued forward, intrigued to see who had beaten her to the punch.

As she stepped closer to the tree, she spied him. His back was to her and he was far too well-dressed for a treasure seeker. Dark-blue dress slacks encased long muscular legs and slim hips. A white dress shirt stretched across an impossibly broad back, the center of the shirt damp with sweat.

“Looks like you beat me to the punch,” she said dispiritedly.

He whirled around to face her, and she gasped and stumbled back a step as shock riveted through her.

“Joshua.” She whispered his name as she stared at the man she hadn’t seen for five years, the man who had been her husband…the man who was still her husband.

“Hello, Claire.”

His voice, that deep, whisky voice, raked millions of unwanted memories through her at the same time as his eyes, as green as the woods that surrounded them, swept over her from top to toe.

Defensive walls shot up inside her. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, irritated by the fact that just for a moment she’d wished she was wearing something other than her oldest pair of jean shorts and a T-shirt streaked with the remnants of white paint.

He gestured to the shovel stuck in the ground. “I’m treasure-hunting.”

He certainly didn’t look as though he needed to find a treasure. The loafers on his feet looked Italian and had probably cost enough to keep her and Sarge in groceries for a year.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she realized she was in shock. The last person she’d expected ever to see again in her life was Joshua McCane. “I meant, what are you doing here…in Mayfield. Nobody told me you were in town.”

He pulled the shovel out of the ground and leaned it against the base of the tree. “I got in late last night. I had coffee this morning in the diner and read the clues to the Pot of Gold contest and thought I’d try my luck in figuring it out.”

“Why don’t you go try your luck someplace else? This is where I was going to dig.” She sounded like a petulant child and she wasn’t sure what she resented most, the fact that he looked like a million dollars or that he was thwarting her chance to gain ten thousand dollars.

“It appears I beat you to it, Cookie.” To accentuate his point, he grabbed the shovel and dug into the earth at the base of the tree.

She bristled at his use of her old nickname, the one he used to call her when his eyes were lit with love or fired with passion—the name he’d used when he’d loved her…when she’d loved him.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded once again. She didn’t want him in Mayfield, and she certainly didn’t want him here at the Dragon Tree.

“I told you, digging for treasure.” He scooped up a shovelful of dirt and threw it to the side, the muscles of his tanned forearms taut with the exertion.

“I mean, what are you doing back in Mayfield?” He was being thick on purpose, not answering the question she was asking.

His gaze met hers, a stranger’s eyes holding her captive. “I decided it was time I came home.”

She leaned against the tree trunk. Her legs felt shaky and she wasn’t sure if it was from shock or anger. Time he came home. He had no home here, at least not with her. She watched him dig for a moment. “I can’t imagine Mayfield would hold much appeal for a jet-setter like you.”

“Ah, you’ve been keeping tabs on me.” He flashed her a quick grin.

The passing of years hadn’t diminished the force of his beautiful smile, and she felt it stab her deep in the pit of her stomach. “Not really,” she returned unevenly, although it was a lie. “You know Mayfield. People like to gossip and you’ve become something of a folk hero…the bad boy who made good.”

Sun drifting through the leaves played on his dark hair, and she saw that he needed a haircut. For most of their life together, Joshua had needed a haircut. Her fingers tingled for a moment with the memory of his thick, rich strands of hair beneath her fingertips.

Resentment ripped through her and she pushed herself off the tree trunk. “You don’t need this money, Joshua. Why don’t you go away and let me dig?”

He glanced at her once again, but continued shoveling. “You wouldn’t need this money if you’d cashed the checks I’ve sent you over the years.”

“I didn’t want your money.” She hadn’t wanted anything from him after he’d left her, and all she wanted from him at the moment was for him to go away.

“How’s Sarge?”

“He’s fine. We’re all fine, and now you can go back to California or London or wherever you came from.” Again she heard the petulance in her voice and she hated herself for it, hated him for creating it.

“Is he still keeping the streets of Mayfield safe from crime?” he asked, obviously ignoring her outburst.

It took her a moment to realize he was talking about Sarge. Apparently he hadn’t kept tabs on her over the years. Otherwise he would have known about Sarge. “No, he retired three years ago.”

“Really?” One of his dark eyebrows quirked up in surprise. “I can’t imagine Sarge retired.” At that moment his shovel hit something hard and metallic-sounding.

“Oh, my gosh. The treasure…it’s really here.” She sprang forward and peered into the hole he’d dug. Any anger or resentment she felt toward him was squashed beneath a rush of excitement.

“Hang on…move back…I’m not sure what I’ve hit. It could just be a rock.”

But it wasn’t a rock. She watched as he used the point of the shovel to dig around the object, which appeared to be an old tin box.

“I can’t believe it’s here,” she said, watching as he scooted dirt from the surface and freed the edges. “I thought this was where the clues led, but I couldn’t be sure.”

He laid the shovel aside and reached into the hole to pull out the box. With a grunt, he freed it and stood. It was a plain gray tin box tied in the center with what looked as though it had once been a piece of lace.

“This doesn’t look like it was buried a couple of weeks ago,” he said, a frown marring his handsome, broad forehead.

“Open it!” she exclaimed eagerly. “We won’t know if the money is inside unless you open it.”

Suddenly her mind worked to process the fact that Joshua was back in town, that he looked as if he’d not only survived the years away, but had thrived. And he had her treasure…the money that had been going to change her life.

It wasn’t fair. But if there was one thing Claire had learned in her twenty-six years on earth, it was that life wasn’t fair and seemed to take particular pleasure in kicking her.

She watched as he attempted to untie the piece of lace. It disintegrated beneath his fingers and fell to the ground. Once again she took a step toward him and smelled the pleasant, spicy scent of his cologne. It was different from that he’d once worn.

When he’d left her five years before, for months she’d smelled the scent of him lingering on her skin, whispering in the air, taunting her with all that had been lost.

She shoved all thoughts of the past aside as his long, strong fingers worked to open the box. The box opened toward him, so she couldn’t immediately see what was inside.

She watched his face as he peered inside, saw a look of bewilderment, then shock. “What…what is it?”

He looked at her, his green eyes filled with confusion. “I hate to burst your bubble, Cookie, but there’s no money in here. There’s just an old photograph.”

“An old photograph?” Disappointment swept through her. “An old photograph of what?”

“I think you have to see it to believe it.” He plucked the picture out of the box and held it out to her.

She took the photo and looked at it, for a moment not comprehending what she saw. It was obvious the picture was old; it was on faded paper in sepia tones.

It was a young couple, a formal sitting with the woman in a straight-backed chair and a man standing at her side. They wore clothing that dated the picture to the 1800s, but it was their faces that sent an electric shock through Claire.

The man was the spitting image of Joshua and the woman was a mirror image of herself. She looked back up at Joshua, the photo shaking in her trembling hands. “They look just like us. I mean, they look exactly like us. How…how is that possible?”

Joshua looked at the woman he had once loved to distraction, unsure what caused him more confusion, the fact that there was a picture of the two of them that had been buried in a tin box or that after all these years something about her still managed to touch him. She looked much the same as she had on the day he’d left, except perhaps more fragile. Like a thin wisp of smoke, she was slender enough that it appeared as if the slightest of breezes might blow her away.

Her hair was still the color of corn silk, long and surprisingly thick. He wondered if she still used the same strawberry-scented shampoo?

Her eyes were as he remembered them…dark-lashed and gray as turbulent skies. They hadn’t always been that way…there had been a time when they’d been the color of passion, of dreams…of love.

“Joshua?”

Her irritated voice pulled him back from the past and he took the photo from her and looked at it once again. There was no mistake. The people in the photo were virtual clones of him and her.

“I don’t know…I don’t know how it’s possible,” he replied.

“But they look exactly like us,” she repeated, a sense of wonder in her voice.

He turned the picture over. There was writing on the back, so faint it was almost illegible. He read aloud, “Daniel and Sarah Walker, 1856.” He looked back at Claire. “It appears we have something of a mystery here.”

For a moment, their gazes remained locked, and in the depths of her smoky eyes he saw bewilderment, wonder and something soft and yielding. It was there only a moment, then gone, as dark shutters snapped into place.

“We don’t have anything,” she replied. “You have an old photo and I have nothing.” She turned to leave, stiffening as he fell into step beside her.

“Aren’t you curious?” he asked, as they made their way back through the woods.

“Curious about what?”

He held the tin box out in front of her. “About them? About Daniel and Sarah, about why they look like us? Maybe they’re long-lost relatives or, you know, what do you call them, doppelgängers.”

He wanted to ask her if she’d felt it, the strange tingle and warmth that had raced up his arm when he’d first picked up the photo.

“The only thing I’m curious about is why you’re walking with me instead of going back to wherever you came from,” she replied coolly.

As the path narrowed, he fell behind her. He dodged a sapling branch that nearly slapped him in the face as she passed by it. She still had the sexiest rear end he’d ever seen.

“I thought I’d stop in and say hello to Sarge,” he replied and forced his gaze upward from her shapely derriere.

He could tell she didn’t like the idea of him coming home with her by the way her shoulders stiffened and her strides grew faster.

He didn’t try to speak to her again. There would come a time later when they would have to talk, when the past and the future would have to be laid to rest. But now was not the time. He knew he’d shocked her by his unexpected presence and she needed time to adjust. He needed time to adjust, as well.

He’d thought he would breeze into Mayfield, take care of his unfinished business, then walk away without a backward glance. He hadn’t expected to feel a tug of crazy, mixed-up emotions when he saw her again.

When they hit the sidewalk outside City Hall, she continued to walk several paces in front of him, as if she didn’t want anyone who might see them to know they were together.

He looked around as they headed down Main Street, again noting the changes that had taken place in the small town since he’d left. Stores he remembered were gone, replaced either by empty storefronts or new shops.

“It’s funny, somehow everything looks smaller than I thought it was,” he observed. He pointed down the road to where in the distance were the remains of an old, two-story home. “I see Hazel Benton’s house burned.”

“Yeah, a couple of years ago. Faulty wiring.” She frowned, as if irritated that he’d forced her into talking.

“Remember when we were kids we all thought old Hazel was a witch and the rumor was that at night she wandered the streets of Mayfield looking for little children she could snatch and have for breakfast the next morning?”

“I remember,” she said. A ghost of a smile curved her lips. It wasn’t a real smile, but it was the closest thing he’d seen.

He suddenly wished for one of her smiles, the sound of her laughter. God, he’d always loved the sound of her laughter.

There had been a lot of laughter in the first two years of their marriage when they’d been too young, and perhaps too stupid to realize how life could take away all laughter if you allowed it.

Six years ago, he’d been a small-town boy in a small-town world married to the love of his life. In an instant of tragedy it had all been ripped apart. But he wasn’t here to pick over the carrion of what had once been.

As Sarge’s house came into view, surprise swept through him at the unkempt condition. The lawn that had always been well-manicured now desperately needed a mowing, and the house itself begged for a new coat of paint. A piece of guttering dangled precariously from one corner of the roof.

“Looks like Sarge has let things go a little bit,” he observed, quickening his footsteps once again to fall in beside her.

“You’ve been away a long time. Things have changed. Sarge has changed.” Her voice held an edge sharp enough to slice steel.

Apparently some things hadn’t changed…like the fact that she was still filled with a bitterness and rancor where he was concerned. When he told her he’d come back here for a divorce, he wondered if that would simply deepen her bitterness or finally set her free?