Under the Summer Sky

by Lori Copeland

  She counted the long rows and lost track when she reached thirty. At least the search had been narrowed. She hunted through the first row for a few minutes, looking for a box marked with a 2.

  Bang!

  She whirled as the cellar door slammed shut. Terror choked her, and her fists clenched so hard that her nails dug into her skin.

  The banker continued down the second row, absorbed with his task. “You’d think Father would have had his clerk organize these on slow days,” he said. He brushed away some cobwebs overhead.

  Trinity couldn’t breathe! Her windpipe closed and she brought both hands to her throat.

  “Four. Nineteen,” the preoccupied banker read aloud.

  It must have been a strong wind that had blown the door closed. A thundershower brought lots of heavy wind bursts. There would be wind—lots of wind. Nothing to be concerned about. Mr. Price was acting perfectly normal. But then, he always did.

  He’s a harmless banker, Trinity. Not an ax murderer. She was sleep-deprived, hallucinating. She needed to get out of this tight space.

  The lantern light was casting eerie rays along the walls. She struggled for a clean breath of air. The numbers on the boxes blurred. She was locked in this dark hole with a man she’d barely met. Her heart hammered so violently in her chest she thought it might break loose. When she took a step back she brushed against a huge web. She gave a little shriek and brushed frantically, trying to knock its occupant free.

  “Aha! Number…oh, nope. Sorry. It’s twelve, not two.” The banker moved on.

  She had to get out of here! Just as she turned, the door opened and sent a fresh rush of air down the steps. “Sorry,” the clerk called. “I just got back with coffee. It’s coming up a nice shower.”

  Weak-kneed, Trinity sank against the shelves and closed her eyes. Moments later, catching her breath, she straightened and continued the search.

  Slam!

  Whirling, she realized that the door had slammed shut again. The same paralyzing fear seized her. But it was only a moment before the clerk must have opened it again, and she was able to resume breathing.

  This time a figure was slowly making its way down the steep staircase, hesitating at every other step. It wasn’t the clerk’s petite form—the silhouette loomed large and threatening. Where was the clerk?

  Options raced through her mind. She was going to be tied up. Murdered. And now the banker’s accomplice was slowly making his way down the steps to…

  Stepping back into the shadows, she pressed herself tightly against the shelves. A pulse throbbed in her neck. Too late she realized how she had played straight into the banker’s hand.

  The figure kept descending. Each measured step was taken slowly and with care.

  “I’m here like you said,” spoke a voice. A deep, male voice. The voice of a stranger.

  The banker glanced up and spoke to the intruder. “You’re a bit early, but no matter.”

  The figure reached the bottom and stepped off. He could see her. She was in the shadows but he knew where she was.

  Worse yet, she knew where she was—at the mercy of two corrupt men. Her eyes searched the room for a weapon—anything she could use to defend herself. Could she throw the boxes at them? If she could knock one or the other off balance she could race up the steps and scream for help.

  But before her escape plan was fully formed in her mind, a hand reached out and caught her around the waist. Strong. Unyielding.

  Wilting, she mentally said goodbye to the world and mercifully lost consciousness.

  She knew his scent. Warm. Male. Trinity sleepily drank in Jones’s familiar essence.

  “Trinity?” A finger lightly tapped her cheek. “Wake up.”

  She would have liked to oblige, but a fuzzy warmth wrapped her in a soft cocoon and she didn’t want to come out.

  “Trinity? Wake up!” The sharp command opened her eyes and she focused on the man in front of her. Jones. He’d come back.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” said another voice. The voice that had been in the cellar. She turned to see a man wringing his hat between his hands, a worried look on his face. “I just came to sign some papers, and the clerk said Mr. Price was down in the basement…”

  “Oh. I…I thought…never mind.” Her mind had been outrageously out of control. Reaching out, she lovingly tracked the outline of Jones’s face. “Hello.”

  “Hi.” He gently helped her sit up, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “Are you all right?”

  “I was scared.” She didn’t dare admit where her wild thoughts had led. Heat flooded her cheeks.

  The grim-faced banker hovered above her. “Should I send for help?” he asked.

  “No.” Fully aware of her surroundings, she shook the fuzziness away. She was upstairs now, and she could feel the fresh breeze. “I’m—did I faint?”

  “You did. Did you hurt your arm again?” Relief and concern filled Jones’s voice.

  He did care about her!

  She made a cursory inspection of her arm. But other than a cobweb on the front of her dress, she appeared to have survived another calamity. The arm was no worse. “I think everything’s intact.”

  She stared up at Jones in happy disbelief. His tired features, his curly hair, the concern in his eyes—it was all so familiar. A slow grin broke across her features. “You came back.”

  He met her gaze with apologetic tenderness. “I came back.”

  “But you left,” she accused. The man had a most annoying way of coming and going at the most inconvenient times, but she would learn to adjust to that peculiarity.

  “Let’s just say I was having a bad day. I came to my senses half a mile out of town, but by that time I was in so much pain I had to stop for the night.” His eyes held her captive. “I’m sorry.”

  “Bad day? You call getting shot and losing Sue a bad day?” She shook her head, then grinned. “Sissy britches.”

  Grasping her hand, he pulled her to her feet. Their lips brushed before the banker cleared his throat. “Ahem—ahem! You’ll be happy to know that I located the box just moments before you…swooned.” He handed her the metal container. “Pauline and Priss Wilson. Now, if you’ll just give me the key, we’ll see what we have here.”

  Trinity glanced at Jones and silently mouthed, Key? She’d never once considered that a key wouldn’t be available at the bank. “You don’t keep the keys here?”

  “Oh, goodness no! Once the two Miss Wilsons rented the box they would have been given a key.” A frown crowded the man’s features. “You do have the key?”

  Slumping, Trinity bowed her head over the box. Of course she didn’t have a key. That would have been too simple. “No. I don’t.”

  “Oh, dear. Well…if I may? You’re the second party this week inquiring about the box. Perhaps that person has the key?”

  “Second party?” Trinity frowned. “Who was the first?”

  “Why…there was a gent in earlier this week. He too was interested in the box, but when I informed him that only the next of kin could claim the item, he left.”

  She turned to meet Jones’s puzzled gaze. “Benjamin?”

  He shook his head. “Couldn’t be. He hasn’t left Pauline’s side.”

  “Then who?” She wracked her brains for a suspect. Who, other than she, would have a keen interest in Pauline’s lockbox? She faced the banker. “What did this person look like?”

  “A bit rough around the edges, I fear. At first I thought he might be a drifter, but he rented a place over at the hotel. Seemed to have money—or at least he was able to house and feed himself. Stuck around most of the following day. I’m sure the hotel would have a record of his stay.”

  “Thank you. I’m free to take the box?”

  “Yes. I hate to mention this, but you’ll need to know—those boxes are made for keys. I’m afraid that if you can’t find the key, whatever is in there will remain so.” He handed her the box. “We don’t ordinarily give these boxes t
o customers, but as it’s so old, and you’re the next of kin, and we have no way of opening it, you’re free to have it.”

  When they were clear of the bank, Jones drew her into the relative privacy of the shadows on the side of the building. Taking her deep into his arms, his whispered, “Forgive me?”

  “I forgive you. I don’t care what brought you back—just so you’re here.” Her gaze softened. “I thought I might have to come after you.”

  “You wouldn’t have had to ride far.”

  “I prayed God would send you back to me.”

  “When Sue…” He shook his head. “I lost myself for a few hours. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

  “What about your job?”

  He shrugged. “I have a valid reason to stay put.” He looked pointedly at his wounded thigh, and for one selfish moment she was almost glad for the injury that would keep him there.

  Jones held the hotel door open and Trinity stepped timidly into the lobby, where a couple of oscillating fans were slowly stirring the air. The day clerk was busy watering some potted plants. “Need a room?”

  Color flooded her cheeks, but Jones quickly stepped to the counter. “Just some information.”

  Setting the watering can aside, the man wiped his hands on a cloth and stepped behind the high counter. His eyes swept the couple. “What can I do for you?”

  “Is it possible to see your guest list for the past week?”

  Suspicious eyes regarded him. “Why would you ask?”

  “Personal business.”

  “That so?”

  Jones reached into his hip pocket and removed a leather wallet. A few bills changed hands, and the register appeared in front of them.

  “Looking for anyone in particular?”

  “No. Well—sort of—but we don’t know his name.” Trinity scanned the names. There were only three—apparently business had been slow the past week.

  Nadine Withers.

  Seth Pentsen.

  James Franklin.

  She took in her breath sharply. “Someone you know?” asked Jones.

  She read the name again. And then again.

  James Franklin.

  It had to be a coincidence. Pure happenstance. James Franklin, her father, had died more than a decade ago.

  Jones reached for the register and scanned the list. “Trinity? This James Franklin—any relation?”

  Drawing a deep breath, she pressed her lips together and shoved the registry back across the counter. Turning on her heel, she walked out of the hotel. Jones hobbled behind her. When she paused on the porch, he cornered her.

  “What’s going on? Who’s James Franklin? More kin? They’re coming out of the woodwork now.”

  “Perhaps. But it’s not possible…” The idea churning in her brain was so preposterous and farfetched that she hated to believe what she’d seen written in the book. “James Franklin.”

  “Okay. Franklin. Any kin?”

  Fixing on the buckboard moving slowly down the street, she spoke softly. “I think my father’s trying to claim Aunt Pauline’s bank box.”

  He frowned. “Your father’s dead.”

  Swallowing hard, she fought back rising tears. “Apparently he isn’t.”

  Twenty-One

  Calm down. There’s bound to be more than one James Franklin in the world.” Jones settled back onto the hotel pillow, closing his eyes. Trinity had taken the situation in hand. She had first rented a room for Jones and then ordered him to bed. Amid his objections, she checked his bandaged thigh and noted fresh bleeding. Not a good sign.

  “It doesn’t matter if the man is my father. I want nothing to do with him.” She had only a vague recollection of James Franklin, and none of it was endearing. A dark scowl, a raised voice, ruddy, angry features.

  The idea that he was the man who’d walked away and left her years ago was too implausible to accept, but why else would this stranger be prying into Pauline’s business? How would he even know that she had a bank box in Piedmont unless…

  Mother would have known. She had to accept that this man could be her father. They’d never found his body. There was no gravesite at which to mourn.

  Yet nothing but Jones’s health concerned her now. “While you rest, I’ll change my train ticket to Sunday and purchase yours. By then you should be able to make the trip back to Dwadlo.” The ticket agent would think she’d lost her mind—this would make the second time today she’d changed her reservation—but it wasn’t his place to judge.

  “I’m not an invalid.”

  “Your wound says the opposite.” She pulled the light sheet up under his chin and fluffed his pillow. His pallor worried her. He’d lost a lot of blood. “I pray you haven’t aggravated the wound further. Have you been applying the salve?”

  “Twice. Maybe once.” Even his tone sounded dog-tired.

  “You were supposed to apply it every four hours.”

  “I wasn’t keeping time.” He slowly drifted off. She gazed at him, bending to lightly stroke the dark stubble on his cheek.

  “Thank you for coming back, Jones,” she whispered. He might try to run from his feelings, but he was more man than James Franklin had ever been.

  He stirred, rolling to his side.

  She softly closed the door behind her and descended the stairway with the bank box under her arm. He’d sleep for a while. Meanwhile, the curiosity was gnawing at her. There must be a way to get the box open without a key.

  Thank goodness the blacksmith was close. The box was cumbersome to walk with.

  The blacksmith was at his forge when she walked in. “Excuse me!” she called out.

  He turned. “Ma’am?”

  “Can I borrow a tool—perhaps a crowbar?”

  His features furrowed, and then he bent and spat on the ground. “Can I do something for you?”

  “No. I need to open a bank box.”

  “Use a key.”

  “Don’t have one.”

  He studied her for a moment and then turned and walked into the shed. She followed, trying not to let herself get overly excited. What treasures had Pauline and Priss hidden in the box? Nothing about her eccentric aunts would surprise her, but the anticipation of hidden treasure in addition to the deed heightened her enthusiasm.

  The smithy returned carrying a heavy pry bar. “I’ll be glad to open it for you.”

  “Thank you, no.” She was rather looking forward to the challenge. “Care if I work in front of your business?”

  “No, ma’am.” He spat a straight stream, wiping tobacco juice onto his sweaty sleeve. His eyes fixed on the box, curiosity etched on his roughhewn features. He spat another stream. “I can shore help iff ’n you need me to.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll manage.” She set the box down on the ground. Standing back, she perused the situation and admitted that the iron box looked pretty well impenetrable. She took a step back, lifted the bar, and brought it down across the box with a swift and powerful whack! The box jumped off the ground. Stepping closer, she saw a big, ugly dent in the middle of the lid. But it remained locked.

  Getting a tighter grip on the rod, she dug her heels into the ground and swung with all of her might.

  The box shot straight up. Then fell to the ground. A sizable dent creased the lid sideways.

  But the closure was still locked tight as a vault.

  Three more whacks and she’d made no progress. The smithy stood in the doorway, mopping away sweat and chuckling as he watched her failed efforts.

  “Do you have anything bigger?” she called.

  “Yeah, got a pickax but I’d have to swing it. Want me to give ’er a whack?”

  “Would you?” By now her arms were shaking like a three-dollar horse.

  He approached with the ax. His hairy, beefy arms reminded her of a gorilla. There was enough power in those limbs to break Gibraltar in half. He eyed the box, took in a breath, and let fly.

  The ax caught the side of the box and sent it spiraling into
the air. Chickens squawked and raced for cover under business porches. A crowd started to gather, gazes focused on the work in progress.

  Another powerful swing of the ax and the box nearly bent double, but still the latch stayed closed.

  Shaking her head, Trinity had to admit that the banker had been right. That box was made of something too strong to break into.

  “Ma’am? If I might offer a suggestion—why not try prying it open?”

  Trinity sighed. Prying. Of course. And here she was trying to beat the thing to death. “Yes. Try that.”

  Nodding, the blacksmith braced the crowbar under the lid and pulled upwards. His biceps bulged and sweat pooled on his forehead. Shaking his head, he muttered something and then yanked so hard that a blue vein stood out in his neck. Pausing, he caught his breath, inserted the tip of the bar under the locked lid, and jerked. Laboring, he pulled. And pulled. After a bit he let go, his face red as a cherry. “I ain’t never seen anythin’ like it. I got a stick of dynamite…”

  Trinity bit her lip. “No. That would defeat the purpose.” A stick of dynamite might open the box, but in the process it would blow the deed to smithereens—if it was in there at all.

  “Try shooting it open,” a man called from the sidelines.

  She glanced at the smithy. “What do you think?”

  He disappeared into the building and returned with a shotgun. “You best let me do this.”

  “I can shoot.”

  “No, this here’s got a hair trigger. I’ll do it.” His gaze swept the crowd. “You all stand back, now!”

  The crowd retreated to safety. Two women plugged their ears with their forefingers.

  Boom!

  The first shot rocked the ground. The box was knocked back and kicked up a puff of dust. A finger-sized bullet hole appeared in the largest dent.

  The blacksmith lifted the rifle, took aim, and fired again.

  Boom!

  Windows rattled, and dogs set to howling and scattered. Another hole appeared in the box, but the lock still held firm. Across the street a woman appeared on a balcony. Trinity glanced toward the hotel. Had Jones heard the racket?