by J. R. Ward
“Professional rivalries aside—”
“That bulldozer is no professional. He’s a looter and a thief.”
“I can’t argue with either of those, but he did find a femur and part of an arm. We examined them here in Boston and they’re from the period.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re from—”
“They were found with a crucifix.”
Carter forgot all about the laundry. “Any markings?”
“Winship, 1773. We haven’t analyzed it fully yet but it looks legit.”
The Reverend Jonathan Winship had been the one in charge of the colonists escorting the general. He was one of the men who had been killed up in the mountains.
Carter’s heart started pounding in her chest.
“So, you want to talk about an Easter egg hunt?” Grace inquired smoothly.
A half hour later they’d ironed out a grant and, though the laundry remained dry in the washer, the spider had been carefully released back into the wild. After pacing around the house for most of the time they talked, Carter ended up in her kitchen, sitting at her breakfast table in the sunshine.
“I still don’t understand why Lyst presented you with the cross,” she said. “That’s not his style. The more people who know about a find, the harder it is for him to sell it on the black market.”
“He says he wants a grant. We won’t give him one, of course. If he did dig, he’d just pocket anything of monetary value and mistreat the rest so it couldn’t be studied.”
Carter let out a snort of derision. “Someone needs to take that man’s shovel away, and I could tell them right where to stick it. The real mystery is how the hell Lyst got permission to dig on that mountain.”
“He didn’t. He trespassed and, as you know, Farrell’s idea of a welcome wagon doesn’t exactly include zucchini bread and lemonade. Lyst claims some rabid woodsman chased him off with a gun, almost killing him in the process.”
“Too bad the guy didn’t get the job done.”
“Well, it got Lyst’s attention, which may be the reason he came to the foundation. He probably figures a Hall grant will give him credibility when he tries again.”
“He’d go back?”
“You know Lyst. What he lacks in scruples, he more than makes up for in follow-through. That’s why you need to go talk to Farrell right now. I know where his summer house is on Lake Sagamore and you can’t live more than an hour away from it. I’ve heard he’s usually there on the weekends this time of year. Just drive over this Saturday and ask for permission to dig.”
“What makes you think the response I get will be any better?”
“You’re going to ask first. And you have better legs than Lyst does. Anyway, doesn’t your father run in the same business circles as Farrell—”
“Stop right there.” Carter stiffened as anger rushed like acid up into her throat.
Grace was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, C.C. I didn’t mean to…”
The use of the old nickname reminded Carter of the long history she had with her friend. She took a deep breath, trying to let go of the rage that came up anytime William Wessex was mentioned. It took her a moment before she could respond.
“If I go, I won’t be using my father as pull.” The word was intoned like a curse.
“Of course not. I shouldn’t have brought it up at all.”
When they got off the phone, Carter went out onto her back porch. Up ahead, mountains rose steeply, brushing the bright blue sky with their evergreen shoulders. She’d bought the land and the broken-down barn that came with it for the magnificent view. It had taken her two years to convert the decaying building into livable space but, now that it was finished, she wasn’t sure whether she liked her home or the scenery better. It was a shame she didn’t spend more time enjoying them.
Arching her neck, she let the sun fall on her cheeks and forehead. All around, the leaves of poplar trees were twinkling in the breeze and she could hear the distant chika-brd-brd-brd of a red-winged blackbird. If she listened hard enough, she even caught the sound of the stream that was on the far edge of her property.
She slowed her breathing down, trying to draw the calm surroundings into her body.
How much longer would it take before she could stop flinching at the mention of her father’s name? Before she could let go of the past?
It was two years and counting, so far.
She turned away from the natural splendor and went upstairs. What had previously been the barn’s hayloft was now her office and her bedroom. The long, rectangular space was her favorite in the house—an unbroken expanse she’d paneled in pine and opened up at either end with picture windows.
Her desks, computers, slide projectors, and research library dominated the room. Against the long walls, she’d installed bookcases that were crammed with scholarly works, some of which she’d written. It was a collection of the resources she used most, and what she didn’t have at her fingertip she could easily get at the University of Vermont in nearby Burlington. She’d been an assistant professor of archaeology there for close to three years and had an office on campus.
As much as she liked her students, she preferred doing her own scholarship at home. She’d spent a lot of late nights deep in thought in her pine-scented sanctuary, time forgotten as she tried to make sense of the clues history left behind.
In the midst of her all-nighters, when she got too tired to keep her eyes open, she would go to sleep on a small bed that was pushed into a corner, an afterthought concession to her body’s need for rest. Other personal effects were also footnotes. Hidden in an alcove, she had a closet full of khakis, a dresser full of T-shirts and sweaters, and a little bathroom that had a shower stall and sink, but no tub. There were no curtains on the windows and no rugs on the pine floor.
For Carter, the loft reflected her life’s priorities. Work was first. Her personal life, a distant second.
Walking past her desk with a grim expression, she went to the dresser and pulled open a drawer. Inside, she fished around the T-shirts until she found the black leather box she was looking for.
Damn him to hell, she thought, opening it.
Cosseted in a satin bed was a weighty Colombian emerald, dangling from a chain of diamonds. It was a ridiculous gift, one more of her father’s attempts to buy back her love. The box had arrived the week before, via Federal Express, on the eve of her twenty-eighth birthday.
And now Carter was stuck trying to unload her father’s present. Again.
He always sent her jewelry. For her twenty-seventh birthday, it had been a dauntingly large pair of diamond and pearl earrings. She’d auctioned those off and given the money to the local hospital. For her twenty-sixth, it had been a ring sporting a ruby the size of a marble. She’d sold that one to a jeweler, and the proceeds had helped the local elementary school set up a computer lab.
And now this emerald.
Maybe the town needed a new ambulance. Or two.
The gifts were awful on her birthdays, but Christmas was worse. Her father sent her watches. Each year. They were always expensive and gold, sometimes with diamonds on the face, sometimes with other precious gems. She’d taken to donating the money they brought to the local women’s shelter.
Fingering the emerald and watching light get trapped in its glorious facets, Carter wondered where her father thought she’d wear such a necklace. When she’d left his house that last time, she’d walked away from the lifestyle she’d grown up with and he knew it. In one day, the day her mother died, she went from being a social register sweetheart to an outcast of her own choosing. The self-inflicted exile meant that gala parties were part of her past, just like her father was, and she woke up every morning grateful for their absence.
Carter ran a finger over the diamond chain, watching it sparkle.
In her current life, she was more likely to need a pup tent than a palatial suite of rooms, a can of bug spray instead of hair spray, a compass around her neck, not an eme
rald. She relished her simple life. She was free to explore her passion for history and she had a career where her contributions were respected. She truly liked her life.
Most of the time.
On occasion, when things got quiet and her mind wandered, she did feel alone. She had few friends. As for family, she was an only child and her closest cousin, A.J., lived far away and had her own busy life in the equestrian world. Now she even had a husband.
Carter wondered whether her own future would ever include a partner.
The immediate answer was no. She worked every waking minute so there was no time to date, although, if she was honest, she didn’t think more free time would solve the problem. She knew everyone at the university and there was no one who really struck a chord inside of her. Besides, the ghost of her family’s tragedy trailed her wherever she went. With her father’s betrayal always with her, she was reminded constantly of how she couldn’t trust men.
Not exactly fertile ground to meet Mr. Right.
Carter shut the box and crammed it back into her drawer. She had better things to do with her time than focus on things she couldn’t change.
For someone who pursued the past as a profession, Carter was determined not to dwell on her own. She lived in the present and tried not to think about everything she’d walked away from. She was successful at it, too, except when the gifts arrived on her doorstep. Twice a year, she was forced to confront the shadows of her past, and she hated the disruption, resenting the hell out of her father’s dogged persistence. She wished he’d stop pretending they had anything other than a biological link between them and was tempted to tell him to stop sending her things.
Except she couldn’t bear the thought of speaking to him.
Carter paused in the middle of her room, surveying the books and the slides, her papers and her project logs. She reminded herself that she was on her own. She was free.
And whatever price she paid for not living a lie, it was worth it.
She headed to her desk, intent on calling her frequent collaborator, Buddy Swift, and telling him they had another job. Another dig gig, as he’d say. The two had partnered on many projects, and his wife, Jo-Jo, and daughter, Ellie, frequently joined them on the excursions. The Swifts, who lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts, were the closest thing to family Carter had nearby and the reason she didn’t eat TV dinners alone on holidays.
She didn’t make it to the phone. She got derailed when she caught sight of her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The woman staring back at her had long, glossy black hair, ice-blue eyes, and fair skin that was showing a faint sunburn.
Carter glared at herself. Since the horrible day of her mother’s death, every time she looked in a mirror, she saw her father staring back at her. They had the same coloring, same bone structure, identical teeth, for Chrissakes.
On a daily basis, Carter could forget about how the man’s selfishness and infidelity had destroyed their family. She could pretend she was an orphan in the world, untethered to the events that still woke her up at night in a cold sweat. Except for when the dreaded FedEx man came twice a year, she was mostly able to get past it all.
But mirrors remained a constant problem, even in her own house. She hadn’t wanted any under her roof, but the contractors had installed them in the bathrooms before she could express the preference.
As she turned away, she wondered how much it would cost to rip the things off the walls.
Nick Farrell slowly lowered the legal document he’d been reviewing. He was beyond frustrated. Full-blown irritated was more like it. “Cort, we’ve been through this before.”
But Cortland Farrell Greene, his sixteen-year-old nephew and adopted son, was determined to fight. The kid leaned forward and planted his hands on Nick’s desk, exuding angry heat. The fact that the kid’s hair had been teased so it stood straight up in spikes seemed fitting. “We haven’t been through anything. You may have decided something but there was no we involved.”
Nick took a deep breath. When that didn’t help, he tried taking another. “I’m not going to let you go on a six-week, cross-country driving trip with the Canton brothers. They’re in college—”
“Which means they’re responsible.”
“Doing Jaegermeister shots until someone passes out on one of their father’s lawn sculptures is not being responsible.”
Nick’s level stare was met head-on. “It only happened once! And that doesn’t mean they’re bad guys.”
“How about the time they decided to express themselves feloniously by stealing a car?”
His nephew looked away.
“Getting in touch with one’s inner burglar isn’t a virtue,” Nick said dryly. “It’s a crime.”
Cort straightened and folded his arms over his chest. He looked as if he was searching for another attack approach.
Nick waited and wasn’t surprised when his nephew’s eyes snapped back to his.
“You think you can lay down any rule just because my mother…” But the kid couldn’t finish. He stumbled into silence, leaving the past dangling between them.
“Because your mother put me in charge of your welfare?”
“Because I was willed to you like a piece of property. She stiffed us both if you ask me.”
Nick raked a hand through his dark hair. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true. You got stuck with me like I got stuck with you.”
“I’m not stuck with you. You’re family, which means come hell or high water, we’re in this together.”
“Oh, come on!” Cort threw a hostile gesture at the desk. “Those papers are your family. You’re into your companies and your deals. The only time we talk is when you’re telling me I can’t do something. We only spend time together when you’re taking me to some doctor. Why don’t we just bag this whole happy family thing? It’s not like you need my trust fund. It’s couch change to you. You could send me away—”
“I don’t shirk my responsibilities.”
“Maybe you should try it sometime.”
Nick started massaging his temples, feeling as if the skin across his forehead had been pulled tight.
When Cort had first come to live with him five years ago, after his parents were killed in a plane crash, it had been eerie being around the boy. He looked so much like the sister Nick had loved. He had Melina’s flashing eyes and keen intelligence, and seeing the boy’s face had been an exercise in torment and regret. It was a vivid reminder that Nick had never taken enough time to let his sister know how much she meant to him. He’d vowed the same thing wasn’t going to happen with her son but things were not working out as well as he’d hoped.
There had been grieving in the beginning on both sides, something Nick had no idea how to get over himself much less help the boy through. After the pain had become less acute, the daily grind of running a multitude of companies and investments worked against them. Nick’s far-flung business interests kept him on his jet and in his boardroom a lot of the time. Trying to balance the demands of his work and Cort’s needs was a drain like nothing Nick had ever experienced before.
He was also flying blind when it came to parenting. His own mother and father had been dead for years and the people he dealt with were versed in the S&P 500 and the Dow, not in what to do when you had a ten-year-old bawling his eyes out because he’d lost his mom and dad.
Nick had tried to research his way out of their estrangement. He’d read books, called psychiatrists, even gone to a therapist. He was desperate for some kind of index or graph that would show how to manage the parent and child relationship but he never found one. There was no quantitative chart to tell someone when to be strong, when to let go. When to let a child learn on his own and when he needed protection.
The kid’s illness was another complication. The limitations juvenile diabetes placed on Cort’s activities were at the root of many of their disagreements. Lately, the fighting seemed incessant but Nick was determined to not give up trying
to reach out. Aside from taking the responsibility his sister had given him seriously, he viewed Cort as his one chance to be a father. Nick doubted he’d ever marry. Women had a habit of seeing a bottomless wallet when they looked at him and he wasn’t inclined to make some socialite’s dream of the high life come true.
He focused on his nephew. He didn’t know what to do with the kid but couldn’t imagine his life without him. “I’m sorry. I just can’t let you go.”
Cort didn’t miss a beat. “Then I want to spend the summer hiking in the Appalachians.”
Swallowing a curse, Nick did his best to not let his frustration explode. “You know I can’t let you do that either.”
“Why?” Cort’s voice got louder.
“You know why.”
“I’m not an invalid!”
“It’s too much for you.”
The kid started shaking with rage. “How will I know if I don’t try? How will I know what I can do if you keep me locked up? I’m going to go batshit if I get stuck here for three months!”
Nick decided to let the curse slide. He had to pick his battles. “You’re not going to go insane and you know you shouldn’t be taking those kinds of chances.”
“You never let me do anything! You get to travel around the world—”
“This is not up for negotiation,” Nick cut him off grimly.
“But the doctor said—”
“No.”
Cort glared at him and rubbed his hair, breaking down some of the spikes. When Nick just stared back, the kid eventually gave in with a resentment that was palpable.
“Fine, have it your way,” he muttered. “I’ll just stay up here alone and rot all summer while everyone else gets to have a life.”
“You won’t be alone.”
“I won’t?” There was a wealth of suspicion in Cort’s voice.
“I’ve decided to work from up here this summer, instead of the city.”
Nick smiled wryly at the kid’s expression. It was priceless, like someone had dropped a frying pan on his foot. “But you can’t. You’ve got businesses and—”
“Ever hear of videoconferencing and fax machines? It’s amazing what technology can bring to a person’s life.”