by Brenna Todd
FRANKLIN HAD WATCHED Della's companion leave by the front door, then waited another forty-five minutes until he was sure the man wouldn't be waltzing back in. His palms had begun to sweat as he stood in the shadows, and his nerve had nearly deserted him. But he forced himself to think about Henry, to remember the obscene image of his sweet, sensitive brother lying in the coffin. It was all the incentive he needed to move out of the shadows and up to the mansion.
Stealing inside, he made a quick survey of the empty foyer, then strode toward the first parlor. He froze when he heard Della's voice, then a man answering her, and ducked inside the room until he saw them go past. Peering out at them, he watched as they walked toward the ballroom.
"It's simply too hard to believe," he heard the man say.
"But it's true, J.B. You saw the money, the driver's license. And you saw her. When Waite returns, he'll back me up on what happened in Missouri. He read the name on those papers, too." There was a pause, then, "You owe it to her to read the diary. You'll understand why she..."
Her voice faded as they rounded a corner. Franklin crept after them, keeping a careful eye out for servants. His luck held the entire way into the ballroom. Hiding behind a massive chair, he watched as the pair bent down, then entered the fireplace. Keys were rattled, then a door scraped open. It closed behind them.
Franklin glanced around the enormous ballroom one more time before heading toward the door in the fireplace. If his hunch was right, J.B. and Della Munro had just entered the tunnels through an entrance other than the one he knew about.. .the one Della had taken him through when she'd been so anxious to hear news of Henry, whom she had thought was still alive.
Della and J. B. Munro had killed him. Both of them. And Franklin no longer cared if there was one body or two left behind in the tunnels. J. B. Munro, he decided, was just as guilty as his wife. He took the gun out of his pocket and quietly opened the door.
IT WAS THERE AT THE bottom of the concrete steps, as Erin had known it would be. She leaned down and picked it up, showing it to J.B., who hovered at her shoulder. "See? Just as I told you. The chain broke when I fell and hit my head."
"I remember this locket now. Waite gave it to her." He frowned. "How could a piece of jewelry and a portrait..."
"I don't know," she whispered, and wondered why she felt no joy at finding the locket. Here it was, finally, in her hands. Her ticket home. Or at least, half of the ticket. The portrait would have to be duplicated, and even then, she couldn't be sure it would work.
But if it did, she would step back into her time, back to her family, her job—her reality. Three days ago, she would have done handstands over finding this small bit of gold. Now she'd almost trade it for a birth certificate with an earlier date on it—one that matched Waite MacKinnon's.
She felt guilty at the thought. When had her pop's health ceased to become the most important thing to her?
"You said you saw what he looked like," J.B. said, interrupting her thoughts. "I'll need a description for the police before you go."
"Yes, of course. I hadn't thought—"
"There'll be no describing," a curt voice declared from the top of the stairs.
Erin gave a startled shriek. She bumped shoulders with J.B. when they spun around.
"Who are you?" J.B. demanded.
"Ask your wife." He pointed the deadly little gun in his hand at Erin. "She and I met just days ago. A very memorable meeting."
J.B.'s gaze flicked to hers. "You know him?"
"I'm not her, remember?" Erin whispered. She squinted up at the man, not able to make out his features because of the glare cast by the naked bulb beside him. The gun in his hands gave her a good indication of who the man was, if not his name, and she shivered.
"Is it him?" J.B. murmured.
"I expect so. But he had a beard—it was the only thing I could make out clearly that night."
He stepped in front of the light, and Erin's gasp echoed off the tunnel walls. Her father's features. Only hard... angry.
"Let's move away from this door," he ordered, waving the gun as he came down the steps toward them.
Erin didn't budge. "Who are you?" she asked, though she had an inkling, now that she'd seen the striking resemblance. But if she was going to die, and it appeared that she was, she at least wanted to know the man's name and why he had killed her grandmother. She'd been through too much to have the last piece of the puzzle withheld from her now.
"Very funny. You heard me, Della, move!"
"No. Not until I know." She was shaking, frightened of the gun and the man who wielded it, but he was going to tell her, damn it. "You'll have to shoot me here. And you don't want to do that so close to the door, where someone in the house might hear. You tell me, and I'll move."
"You look familiar," J.B. put in, placing a protective hand on Erin's arm. The man was only three feet from them now. "Who—"
He swung the gun on J.B. "I ought to look familiar to you, you bastard, since my brother and I could be twins. But then, you destroy so many lives, it's hard to remember one victim from the next, I suppose. Start walking."
"Your brother?" Erin prompted, stalling, refusing to move when J.B. tugged at her arm. She knew who his brother was now, of course. If he looked so much like the man with the gun, then he could be no one other than the father of Della's child.. .her own grandfather. And this man was her father's uncle. She'd been a bit slow on the uptake, but forgave herself under the circumstances. "What's happened to Henry? Why do you want to kill us because of him?" she asked, again stalling for time.
"Don't you dare speak his name," the man ground out, his face mottled, his mouth twisted. "You killed him, and I won't let you speak his name again... or see his child ever again."
"Henry," J.B. breathed, obviously clued in by the man's last statement. "He's dead?"
"By your hands just as surely as his own."
"Oh, God, no..." Erin closed her eyes, remembering Della's description of the man from her diary. He'd been kind and courageous, honorable and deeply religious. He'd loved Della, no matter what, and he'd been the only one to ever tell her she was beautiful. "He... committed suicide."
"And over you!" the man spat out. "He took his life because he couldn't live another day without a whore like you!"
Erin's rage was an instantaneous fire in her blood. No! Della wasn't a whore! Erin knew what living in Della's skin felt like now, and whether it was that empathy or a protective familial instinct, she couldn't stand to hear the woman maligned so viciously. Henry, her love, wouldn't stand for it, either. Her anger didn't allow room for common sense.
"Don't call her that! She loved him. And your brother loved her."
His hand shot out and delivered a brutal slap to her face. Her back was slammed against the hard tunnel wall, and she heard the clatter of the gun as he threw it to the floor. In the next moment, his hands were around her throat, and his eyes gleamed with murderous intent.
She could hear J.B.'s shouts echoing off the walls, even glimpsed him out of the corner of her eye, struggling to pull the man off her. But he was no match for Thomas's unholy wrath. Erin struggled for breath, pushed and slapped at the man's arms, but felt herself weakening. Her vision filled with dancing spots of color, and she knew she was about to lose consciousness... knew that she was going to die as Della had died.
Then suddenly his hands fell away from her throat, and the crushing weight of his body was lifted off her. She slid to the floor, coughing and gasping for air. Tears streamed from her eyes, and when she looked up, she expected to see J.B. But it was Waite who stood there, the gun in his hand, its butt facing outward. He'd obviously knocked Thomas senseless with it.
He shoved the gun into J.B.'s hand and was kneeling beside her in the space of a heartbeat. "Erin," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "God, Erin." Then he clutched her to his chest, running his hands over her back, her arms, tangling them in her hair as he rocked her back and forth.
"You weren't there when I cam
e back. I looked all through the mansion...every room. Then I saw the padlock on the floor and thought you'd come down here alone. God, do you know what it did to me, seeing his hands on you? I thought I'd lost you...I couldn't bear that."
Her throat was raw and her head ached. As she clung to him, she wept harsh, bitter tears for all the heartbreak, all the sorrow that had been suffered by Della and Henry, even for Henry's brother's pain and J.B.'s loss. And she cried for Waite and herself. They were connected to all the others in this bizarre and tragic soap opera, yet they were separate, as well. It seemed as if their relationship would mirror Henry and Della's—two people who loved each other, but weren't allowed to be together.
Erin saw the oval locket on the floor next to her where it must have dropped during the struggle, and with trembling fingers and a shattered heart, she reached to pick it up. She closed her eyes then, pressing her face against his shirt and grasping fistfuls of the fabric in her hands.
"I found it, Waite," she said, and began to sob again. "I found the damned locket."
"How am I expected to duplicate the portrait when she constantly fidgets, Mr. Munro?" The artist glared at Erin. She rolled her eyes, eliciting a grin from J.B. "Your wife, she could sit still. Why can't the sister?"
"Falvo," he said, gazing at the portrait over the artist's shoulder, "You of all people should know a thing or two about temperament. They might look uncannily similar but Erin here is nothing like her... sister."
"It's true," Erin said, protective feelings for Della surfacing at J.B.'s remark. "I fidget, she didn't. I can't sit a horse, she was an expert rider. She had a wonderful sense of style and fashion, I can't tell a Chanel from a Lanvin. She was free-spirited—"
"You've made your point," J.B. said with a grudging smile, then came from behind the artist around to Erin's side.
Falvo groaned and threw his hands in the air. "The light, Mr. Munro, you're blocking my light! You give me instructions. 'It must be exactly like the first portrait, Falvo. The tone, the mood, the light, Falvo. Falvo, duplicate, duplicate, duplicate! And by the way, Falvo, we need it within the week.' I ask you, is my job not difficult enough without someone always fidgeting or moving into my light?"
"All right, Falvo." J.B. moved to Erin's other side. "He needs a Valium," he whispered, borrowing the phrase Erin had used on him just yesterday as he'd paced back and forth behind the artist.
"Stop that. You'll make me laugh."
"You have made your point, you know," he said, his tone serious now. "You and Waite... the diary. I have much to answer for."
"Yes, J.B., you do."
"I look around me, see all these things I thought were so important and I feel small, ashamed. It was family I should have cherished, people who should have come first. Della especially. God, how she must have hated me."
"I'm sure she did at times. I did after reading what she wrote. But, J.B., if I didn't think there was hope for you, I wouldn't have shown you the diary. I wouldn't have thought it would make a difference."
She risked Falvo's temper and turned to J.B. with a soft smile. "You do know how to be generous. I saw a glimpse of it the night that woman crashed the dinner party and you told me she and her children would be taken care of, no matter what, and in-"
Falvo broke in with another of his groans.
"Oh, take a pill, Falvo. I'll turn around in a minute!"
J.B. chuckled.
"I've seen it," she continued, "in your relationship with Waite and in your efforts to make this town's economy thrive. J.B., it's not just your empire that concerns you, you can't convince me of that. You care about the people of this town."
"But where was that concern when it came to Della? I treated her— God, I never realized what my actions were doing to her. I thought good old-fashioned discipline was the way to raise a child. My father was a stern man, and I turned out all right."
"Didyou,J.B.?"
He lowered his eyes. "I thought so, but now..."
"J.B., look at me." She waited until his troubled eyes met hers. "The biggest mistake you could make now is to come away from all this not having learned anything. You were wrong to treat Della as you did—your priorities were sadly misplaced. But at least you realize it now, and feel remorseful. But now you have to go on, stop wallowing in guilt and get on with your life."
"And what will that life be like now?" he asked. "I've lost everyone, Erin. Della... Waite... even you will leave tomorrow."
The mention of Waite's name and her pending departure tore at her heart. She hadn't seen him for two days—not since he'd come to tell her goodbye. Unlike J.B., he hadn't been intimidated into moving from her side by the temperamental artist's ravings. He had stood his ground, not caring who heard what he'd had to say to her.
"I love you, Erin Sawyer," he'd said. "And I wanted to tell you that for years to come." He'd glanced away for a moment, his strong throat working, then had looked back with dark, anguished eyes. "What I'd give to be able to go with you... But I can't. I thought seeing you again would hurt too much, but I knew I had to come-to say the words again—for all the times I won't be able to tell you...."
"I'm sorry," J.B. said, and his tone was sincere. He brushed away a tear from the corner of Erin's eye. "I'm not the only one who'll be alone, am I?"
"No, you aren't." She blinked back more tears. "But, J.B., you have a lot of years ahead of you. That much I know. You can either bemoan your fate and become a miserable old man, or you can take what you've learned and change your ways."
She grinned up at him. "Somehow, I just don't see you as a bemoaning-his-fate kind of guy."
"Thank you," he murmured. "For everything."
"You'll do okay," she assured him, then rose from the chair she'd been sitting in for too many hours. "Falvo," she said, rotating her head in circles to relax as she came around to where he stood behind the portrait. "That's all I can take for now. I'm- Oh!"
"Oh! That's all you have to say is, 'Oh!'" he exclaimed, glaring at her over his shoulder.
"It's...amazing. Exactly like the other one, isn't it?"
She reached to touch it, and Falvo batted at her hand. "Uh-uh-uh! You want to smudge it?"
She jerked her hand back, but not because the artist had taken her to task. The humming sound. She'd heard it again just now as her fingers had neared the canvas. It was going to work, she thought miserably. It was really going to work.
"Are you ill, Erin?" J.B. asked.
She glanced up at him, saw his concern. "No... I... I'll be fine."
She strode out of the room, wondering if she really would be fine. Could she find the strength of will to follow the advice she had given J.B. and just get on with her life?
"ALL FINISHED THEN, Falvo?" J.B. asked, strolling over to take another look.
"Yes, she's finished. Again."
"Well, it's remarkable. Just like the first one. You're a genius, as I've said before."
"Yes. So you have. And so I am." He gazed at his work for a quiet moment, then sighed. "I didn't thank you for requesting the piece be replaced. It is an honor to know one's work is held in such high esteem. Though I suspect your lovely wife's memory also motivated the request."
"Yes, I wanted it for that reason, too." For Erin's trip back, but also in Della's memory.
J.B. cocked his head. "Falvo...this shadow," he murmured, pointing to the grayish area that struck Erin's shoulder.
"Yes?"
J.B. shook his head. "Never mind. I'm sure it was there in the first one, as well."
"Of course," Falvo stated firmly. Then he turned back to putting his materials away.
"Good. Thank you again."
Falvo watched the tycoon leave the room, then rolled his eyes. Falvo, it must be exact, Falvo, the same lighting! He was an artist, not a machine. How could the words that had come from Waite MacKinnon's heart not be included some way in the portrait? If only in the shadow he had cast.
ERIN GAZED UP AT the mural one last time. She would see it agai
n, of course, and in its finished form. Still, she'd had to have one last look at it now—in the twenties. She had spent the entire morning taking last looks. The parlors, the kitchens, the gardens. She had even trekked out to look at the Packard one last time.
"I see you're dressed for travel."
Erin's gaze flew to J.B., who stood in the doorway of the ballroom. "Yes. I'm going back now."
"He's leaving today, too."
She had accepted her loss. There were no tears left. "You've talked to him," she said, oddly calm.
"I have. He wants to travel but doesn't know where. Sounds more like aimless wandering to me." He sighed. "But he concedes that his travels might lead him back here one day. He might come home to play the gentleman rancher, of all things."
"That wouldn't be so bad, would it?" she asked, as he came toward her. "Remember what you've learned. Your business relationship isn't as important as your personal ties. He's your friend first, J.B. And at least you'd have him close by."
He smiled, and took her hand. "I'll miss you, Erin. But you say I'll see you again?"
"Yes. You'll see me again." The humming noise sounded, and Erin frowned, looking back over her shoulder at the portrait. "Do you hear that, J.B.?"
"Hear what, dear?"
"That noise, the humming... It's what I heard just before I blacked out in the runnel."
"No, I don't hear anything."
"Well, I suppose my ride's here."
She looked up at him again. One last time, she thought, just one last time. She reached up with her fingertips and gently touched the faint silver scar. "I recognized you when I first got here by this scar, you know."
J.B. lifted his fingers to the scar, a smile curving his lips. "Della did that. She threw a plate at me when I canceled her trip to Europe."
Erin grinned, then grew solemn. "Be happy, J.B. And tell Waite... tell him I— "
"Erin!"
Her words froze in her throat and she looked toward the doorway where he stood. He was dressed in the pants and wool shirt he'd worn the day of their first kiss, his face ruddy, his hair windblown. Her pulse began to race in time with the sound of the humming in her ears.