Unearthed

by Ann B. Morris

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Ann B. Morris

  Unearthed

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  She stepped a little closer to the desk. A little closer to him. And he came a little closer to rounding the desk, grabbing her and kissing her. Fortunately, he still had enough good sense to keep himself in check.

  “It’s some research I dug up this afternoon,” Alex told him. “Something’s been in the back of my mind, nagging me relentlessly ever since those bones were first discovered. And I know I won’t rest until I find out whether there’s something to my idea or not.”

  Her voice trailed off and she looked down at the papers, leaned forward and gave them a half-turn, stopped as if suddenly struck by a new thought, then just as suddenly looked Beck.

  “I have an idea—it’s only a theory right now—that those bones may have belonged to a young Choctaw Indian couple who broke from their tribe while they were being relocated to Oklahoma during the Trail of Tears. I think they may have been on their way to the home of their ancestor’s when they met their unlucky fate.” As an extra bit of information, she added, “Many of the earliest Choctaws settled in Mississippi and Louisiana along the Pearl River.”

  “Interesting,” he said aloud, as he moved from behind the desk, all the while thinking nothing was as interesting as the woman standing so close to him the hairs on his arms stood on end.

  Praise for Ann B. Morris

  “A great read from the very first page.”

  ~Janet L.

  “Ann B. Morris leaves her audience anxiously waiting for the next two bites.”

  ~Harriet K

  “Do they give 100 stars? Well only a few books get that from me, this is one of them.”

  ~Stephanie J.

  “It was a good read and kept me entertained. You can’t beat a happy ending.”

  ~Catherine H.

  ~Home to Stay by Ann B. Morris~

  “If you’re looking for a quick, feel good story then this is exactly the sort of tale you need. It brings a smile to your heart.”

  ~C. D.

  Unearthed

  by

  Ann B. Morris

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Unearthed

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Ann B. Morris

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Kristian Norris

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2167-7

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2168-4

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my loyal readers and as always, to Jim.

  Chapter One

  Professor Alexandra Kingsley observed the area around her. On two sides, waist-high grass grew as far as the eye could see. In front of her, rooftops of houses dotted the distant horizon. And behind her, a six-foot mound of upturned earth marked the beginning of a story about to unfold.

  Mosquitoes buzzed at her ear, and she swatted them away. The first week of May had just begun, and already she and her team had to cover themselves with insect repellent every morning before work began. Not unusual this time of year in southeast Louisiana.

  She removed her baseball cap, put it in her canvas backpack along with her tools, and set the pack on the ground at her feet. After giving her team last-minute instructions for the following morning, she told them to call it a day. And what a long, grueling day it had been, staking out the first of the dig-site sections they’d work tomorrow.

  The first day of field work always knotted lazy muscles, and every bone in her body ached. Perspiration slid from the base of her neck down her spine as she stretched out the kinks only a cool shower would totally ease. She took one last look around to assess the result of the day’s work before she headed home.

  That was when she saw the man rushing toward her, a piece of paper in one hand, the other hand shielding his eyes from the setting sun. His determined stride led her to believe he had something important on his mind.

  ****

  Becker St. Romaine stopped a few feet from the woman in the baggy khakis he’d kept in his sights while he crossed the open field. He sucked in a deep breath and huffed out a heavy sigh. “Who’s in charge here?”

  The woman lifted the backpack at her feet and slung it over her shoulder. “I am.”

  He held out the piece of paper. “I received this letter today.”

  She took the paper, studied it for a few seconds, and gestured to a roped grid behind her. “This document shows you’ve had a Mississippi land sale cancelled because of this project, Mister….” She looked at the paper again. “Becker St. Romaine.” She handed back the document.

  “I already know that.”

  “Then how can I help you?”

  “For starters, you can tell me who you are. Then”—he pointed to the roped-off squares of earth and the large mound of dirt behind her—“you can tell me why this mountain of mud is important enough to cost me a commercial enterprise in Mississippi.”

  The woman met his gaze with an icy look. “I’m Professor Alexandra Kingsley, archaeologist from the State University. And if this dig has interfered with your purchase of property in Mississippi, I suspect the property isn’t far from here. Probably very close to the border of the two states.”

  “You suspect right.” He clenched his jaw against the anger simmering beneath the surface, folded the cancellation notice, stuffed it in his shirt pocket and gazed into the distance. “As a matter of fact, the site’s so close I could probably throw a good-sized stone and hit it from here.” That fact sure in hell didn’t make him feel any better.

  “As to why it’s affecting you,” the professor continued, “I can only assume cancellation of the sale has to do with reciprocity between Louisiana and Mississippi.”

  He lifted his brows. “Which means?”

  “Which means the cancellation reverts the property back to Louisiana and allows an extension of the dig’s perimeter into an adjacent state to assure we don’t miss something important. We have reason to believe two Choctaw burial grounds could be near this project. One here”—she waved her hand in a wide arc around her—“and another out there.” She pointed in the direction he indicated just moments before.

&
nbsp; “Great.” He let out another sigh and gestured to the roped-off area behind her. “Can you give me an idea how long this project will take?”

  The professor didn’t answer.

  “Well,” he pressed, irritated by her silence. “How long? Weeks? Months?”

  “To be truthful, this project could take years.”

  His hand tightened around the paper. “Years?”

  She nodded. “It’s possible.”

  “The hell you say.” From the corner of his eye, he caught movement to his right. When he’d first arrived a group of what he now assumed was students had been standing around a white van on the nearby road. While he and the professor talked, a male from the group, with a nasty scar on the right side of his face, had come up and stood behind her, his arms crossed.

  Beck analyzed his actions of the past few minutes. Admittedly he hadn’t hidden his anger very well, and although it wasn’t his intention, he could have come off as threatening to the group of students. He had one more question and then he’d hit the road. “If it’s not a military secret, professor, would you tell me what the fuck it is you’re digging for out here?”

  Her eyes widened. “For one-hundred-year-old bones, Mister St. Romaine.”

  “Bones?” He shook his head in disbelief. He’d been told this was an archaeology project, but digging for bones? “Fucking bones in a burial ground in Louisiana are halting a much-need shopping center in Mississippi?” His voice had risen to an angry pitch.

  The young man stepped closer to the professor, fists clenched.

  Beck ignored the silent threat, turned toward his car, and spoke his final words over his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, professor, I intend to use every fucking option I can find to keep you from putting me out of business.”

  As he headed back across the field, the heat of the late spring day was nothing compared to the way his blood boiled. He’d be damned if he’d let his multi-million-dollar venture die before it got started.

  ****

  Alex watched the distraught Mr. St. Romaine stomp toward the white truck parked near the highway. When he reached the vehicle, she made a last-minute decision and called out. “Wait. Hold up a minute.” She hurried across the overgrown field to where her visitor waited, his knuckles propped on his hips. She shielded her eyes with her hand from the late day sun. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience this has caused you, Mister St. Romaine.”

  With an explosive sigh, the visitor threw up his hands. “You really think this is merely an inconvenience?” He started to get in the truck but stopped at the last moment, closed his eyes, and shook his head.

  She understood his reaction. She probably seemed unsympathetic to his predicament. Inconvenience had been a poor word choice for the bad hand he’d just been dealt.

  He held up his hand. “I’d like to stay and chat awhile, professor, but I really need to go.” He looked over her shoulder and pointed to the mountain of dirt and the deep hole next to it. “I have to figure out how to dig myself out of the hole I just fell in.” He arched his brows and smiled. “And the pun is intended.” Before she could say another word, he swung inside the cab of the truck, closed the door, started the engine, and drove off.

  When she thought of everything that had just transpired she imagined how the situation must have affected Mr. St. Romaine. He looked to be about her age, perhaps a few years older, probably early forties. And judging by his lean physique and deep tan, he worked outdoors. A handsome man like him no doubt had a wife and a couple of kids to support. She pitied him, but she quickly reminded herself a business setback was not the worst that could happen to a person. Life went on despite great disappointments or even monumental tragedies. No one knew that better than she.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she watched the truck speed toward the open road, the inevitability of crossing paths with Becker St. Romaine again settling like an undigested meal in the pit of her stomach.

  ****

  Beck drove as fast as he dared on the two-lane highway, his heart racing as fast as the engine. Ahead a car pulled out from a side road, and he leaned on his horn too long, which only added to his already bothersome conscience. What the hell had gotten into him?

  He shouldn’t have taken out his anger and frustration on the professor. What had happened to him wasn’t her fault. She was only doing her job. But dammit, he wasn’t a heartless mercenary, if that’s the way he’d come across. He was a businessman on the brink of financial ruin.

  She probably thought he didn’t understand the importance of protecting a possible burial ground, but he did. Hell, hadn’t his old man boasted often enough that Choctaw blood ran in the family’s veins? He just hadn’t given his ancestry too much thought. Never had any reason to, until today. Now, he could imagine Great-Grandma St. Romaine doing flips in her grave at the thought of him pouring concrete on top of Indians. Even dead ones.

  Still, where Great-Grandma was she didn’t have to worry about paying bills and keeping her head above water. He was the one down here, juggling mortgage notes and truck payments along with keeping on the lights in more than one household.

  Mighty damn quick he had to figure out how to report this bad news to the consortium. They put their faith in him to get this project off the ground. Now, look where the project was.

  Who to tell first? And when?

  A couple of the investors were out of town. The others he could probably contact tomorrow at their homes. But, what about Ned? How could he break this news to his partner?

  His best friend already was a time bomb waiting to explode with a money-grubbing wife on his ass all the time. Not that Ned would listen to such talk from anyone. Not even from his best bud, Beck.

  A quick glance at the dashboard clock told him the time was six o’clock. Sneaking a quick look in the rearview mirror, he rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin. He needed a shave and a shower.

  Taking the turn on the gravel road that led to his cabin with one hand, he unsnapped the cell phone from his belt with the other. He slowed the truck and dialed Cheryl’s number. He didn’t have to wait long for the female voice on the other end to answer. “What’s my chance for a little action, tonight?” he asked, mimicking the mountain cat growl that always turned on Cheryl. As if he even had to ask.

  Cheryl immediately painted him a few verbally erotic pictures of what pleasures awaited him and ended her graphic commentary with the question he always anticipated, “Your place or mine?”

  He gave her his usual answer. Not his place. Screwing her was one thing, but waking up next to her was another thing altogether. At her place, he could put on his pants and leave when he damn well pleased. As he turned onto the road leading to his front porch, he ended the conversation and was out of the truck before the engine shut down.

  While he showered, he filled his thoughts with cheerier things than old bones and a good business deal gone badly. Like the date he had tomorrow with his number one girl, his sister, JoAnn. He’d called her the previous night and promised to join her for lunch. He questioned now though whether he should put off his visit until Sunday.

  He was quite sure the professor and her group of college kids would be working tomorrow. As he had turned to leave, one of the kids called out and asked the professor what time they were due to start in the morning.

  Perhaps if he sucked up his anger, went back to the site, and treated the professor nice, he might learn something more. Otherwise, he’d have to wait through the entire weekend to speak with someone of higher authority. Yep. A visit tomorrow could pay off. He would have an opportunity to show the professor he wasn’t a total jerk.

  He stepped out of the shower in a much better frame of mind than when he’d stepped in, and he was dressed and back in his truck in less than thirty minutes. He’d gone several miles before he realized he drove in the wrong direction. Spitting out a string of oaths, he stomped on the brakes, turned around on the empty two-lane road, and headed back the other way. Now, how the hell had th
at mistake happened?

  The question was purely rhetorical. He knew damn well why he’d taken a wrong turn. Because he hadn’t given Cheryl and the wild night she promised another thought since he’d hung up the phone from her earlier. The only woman on his mind after the end of that call was a certain blonde-haired, blue-eyed college professor wearing unbecoming khakis. And no wedding ring on her finger. Or a sign one had been there recently.

  Something about her had gotten to him. He wanted to see her again. And not just to pick her brain, not even just to apologize for his rude behavior.

  The plain truth was a woman who wasn’t afraid to get a little dirt under her fingernails turned him on. He whistled out a long stream of air.

  Damn it all to hell and back. If he thought he had a problem before, he didn’t know then how well off he really was.

  ****

  Later, in the motel room a few miles from the dig site, Alex stacked the remainder of the ungraded research papers in a neat pile on the corner table and switched on the overhead lamp.

  Grades were due on Monday. She wouldn’t be returning home to Baton Rouge until late Sunday evening, so getting her grading done now was a good idea. She riffled through the papers until she came to those belonging to the two borderline students she was concerned about. More than one of her colleagues chided her for worrying too much about her students. They were probably right, but she just couldn’t be any other way. A softie, Charles had called her.

  Charles. He was the reason she didn’t mind being here as much as she might have if things had been settled cleanly between them. At home this past week, every time the phone rang she tensed and didn’t relax until the caller ID flashed a number other than his.

  Their months of dating had proved what she suspected almost from the beginning—they were not destined to be a couple. She’d tried to explain their incompatibilities as gently as she could when she told him she didn’t want to see him anymore. He’d resisted a total breakup, so she’d backed off for a while, mainly because some guilt remained for having dated him in the first place.