SINS OF THE FATHER

by Nina Bruhns

  She hadn't gotten in more than a dozen careful strokes of her small mason's trowel when he remarked, "I'd never have guessed."

  She supposed it was too much to ask that he be quiet. It was tough to stay mad at him, or afraid of him, when he was being so agreeable, trying so hard to be repentant.

  She stifled a sigh and said, "Guessed what?"

  "You as an archaeologist."

  She scooped up a spadeful of dirt and carefully deposited it in a waiting bucket. "No?"

  "Nope. The last thing I'd figure you to be doing was troweling in the dirt for old Indian artifacts."

  "Is this a test?" she drawled. "I told you, Cleary isn't an Indian site, it's—"

  "You know what I mean."

  "Do I?" She added another scoop of dirt.

  "Sure. You hated history class. You were always too full of life and anticipation over the future to be concerned with the past."

  He was right. In the old days, there'd been plenty of living people and their artifacts around Rincon—things like books and suntan lotion and wedding dresses and strollers—that nobody'd felt the need to dig up dead ones. Least of all her. That didn't come till later.

  "When did it change?"

  She sat back on her haunches and looked up at him. His expression was casual, but his eyes peered out from behind all the mild curiosity, begging for absolution.

  "Why don't you make yourself useful and sift this dirt," she suggested, and handed up the bucket she'd filled, rather than get into a discussion she'd prefer to avoid. He was leaving in a few hours and the whole thing would be pointless. How could she explain all that had happened to set her on the path she was now traveling down? Why would she even want to?

  She was grateful when he didn't push it, the momentary flicker of bleak disappointment in his eyes disappearing at record speed beneath a chortled moue of distaste.

  "Sift dirt? Me?" He held the bucket gingerly.

  She grinned. "I thought you liked getting dirty."

  "I seem to recall a slightly different definition," he retorted, eyeing the bucket. "Oh, all right. What do I do?"

  She showed him how to work the simple but cranky wooden frame screen that sorted small artifacts and debris into three graduated sizes. After filling a few more buckets and sifting them, together they picked through the chunks of dirt, rocks and other things remaining in the screens, and she taught him what to look for—anything made of metal, bone, ceramic, glass, charcoal, flint, or other materials possibly utilized by the people living there in the past.

  "Good grief, you're not really saving all this old garbage?" he asked, holding up a Ziploc filled with charred bone.

  "Yep." She was used to people thinking all archaeologists did was hunt for valuable treasure or unearth burials. "Believe it or not, this so-called garbage is much more informative than a hoard of gold coins."

  "Get out."

  She laughed at his incredulous look. "Okay, so maybe it's not as exciting…"

  "Now there's an understatement." He poured a handful of broken crockery into another bag and zipped it.

  "But seriously. Even the tiniest thing can have a story to tell. The bones tell us what the people ate, whether they hunted or had domestic animals, even the season they occupied the site. A single button can date a whole layer or group of finds that are found with it. And that's not even counting the Indian artifacts which can be stylistically identified and dated. Lots of good stuff comes from garbage."

  "Huh. No kidding." He studied the growing pile of bags with new respect. She just loved it when she made a convert.

  "That's why we don't throw anything away. It could turn out to be important. Everything is separated by category into zipper bags, carefully labeled as to where it was found, and placed in a cardboard box for later analysis in the lab."

  "I'm beginning to see why you're so upset about those boxes."

  He looked around at the dozen or so square units scattered over the meadow and hillside which she'd already excavated, and she could see him mentally assessing the potential amount of data which would be lost if she didn't get them back. She didn't have to say a word. She just smiled, relieved that he truly understood.

  "The kid mentioned skeletons. What's the deal with them?"

  She grimaced, her instinctive reflex at the subject. "I like to avoid them, myself. Finding human remains always causes a whole lot of trouble, and I'm not really interested in them anyway. My main focus is settlement patterns and use. Most often graves are marked or recognizable, so it's not a problem. If I run into human bones by accident, though, I usually cover them right back up and pretend I never saw them." She glanced covertly over her shoulder and winked. "But don't tell the cops. That's slightly illegal."

  He suddenly started coughing. "Illegal?"

  She slapped him on the back a couple of times and shrugged. "Technically, I'm supposed to report it to the authorities."

  He was still wheezing, but choked out, "Don't worry. You're secret's safe with me. So why did you excavate the skeleton this time?"

  She puffed out her cheeks in a long breath. "No choice. It's the way I got the grant to work this site. I'm supposed to finally solve…" she dropped into a dramatic Vincent Price voice with gestures to match "…the mystery of Cleary Hot Springs. God, what a stroke of genius that was. Not."

  He held her hand as she lowered herself carefully back into G to finish up the last corner.

  "The mystery of Cleary Hot Springs?" His brow hiked.

  "I'm sure you've heard the old tale. Eighteen forty-eight. Two brothers, Jake and Crawford Edisto, come to California to find their fortune, and somehow make a wrong turn and end up lost with two mules and a floozy on the wrong side of the Sierra?"

  He shook his head, so she went on, "Crawford winds up dead with a bullet in his back, in this very meadow, and Jake turns up a year later very much alive, very rich, and with a very ambitious but suspiciously flashy wife."

  "So what's the mystery?"

  "The mystery is that the mother, who comes to claim the body, insists to her dying day that the dead guy isn't her son. Of course, it took her months to get word and come west from the old homestead in South Carolina to identify him." She wrinkled her nose.

  "No refrigeration in those days."

  "Hell, there wasn't even a morgue in those days, not out here anyway. It was winter, though, thank goodness."

  "Why was she so sure he was the wrong guy?"

  Holding out her hand she demonstrated a decent facsimile of a Vulcan greeting, except using only her little finger. "Crawford had a cotton gin accident when he was a boy. Left his right pinkie sticking straight out. Course, who could tell, the state the body was in."

  "Yikes. No dental records, I suppose."

  "Uh-uh."

  "And I'm guessing these philanthropists who are financing your excavation expect you to find the real son buried here somewhere, along with evidence as to who shot him."

  She nodded, pulling at the collar of her T-shirt. "It sounded like a good idea at the time. I mean, who would have given me eight thousand dollars to dig up a few hundred pounds of bone, rock and broken pottery shards?"

  "Nobody in their right mind, I expect."

  She glared at him. Then they both burst into laughter. "No, I guess not."

  "So what happened to the floozy?"

  "I suspect it's her great-great-granddaughter who signed my grant check. But of course the family records omit that little historical tidbit."

  He groaned. "It's the descendants who are financing the dig?"

  "'Fraid so."

  "And now the Owens Valley Paiute Board of Trustees has Great-great-granduncle Crawford in a cardboard box in their office."

  She tried not to giggle. She really did. But the whole situation was just too weird for words. And if she didn't laugh, she just might cry. "An interesting twist, huh?"

  He shook his head, chuckling. "Only you, Rae. Only you."

  She grinned back. "It's a gift."

&
nbsp; He took the final bucket from her, set it down and hauled her up out of the pit and into his arms. "God, I've missed you."

  Over the past hours they had slipped back into their genial camaraderie so easily and quietly, she'd never even noticed when they'd become friends again. It was scary how right it felt to be held in his embrace, secure and protected. Cherished. Why was it never like this when Philip held her?

  "Every day of every year," Roman's deep voice whispered in her ear, "I've kicked myself over what I did. Over leaving you like that."

  She found herself leaning into him, soaking up the feelings she missed so much, wishing she could stay just like this until his soothing words made the past eighteen years fade away completely. Wishing like hell things had been different.

  But they hadn't.

  She pulled back. "I don't know what to say, Roman."

  Yes, she did. She knew exactly what he wanted to hear. He'd run her to ground and come for her forgiveness, so he could move on with his life, guilt-free, without the weight of his thoughtless actions dragging him back to the past.

  Well, she wasn't ready to forgive him. Not yet. How could she forgive him when she hadn't even forgiven herself? He didn't know the whole truth, but she wasn't about to blurt out something like that only to have him leave her again.

  Perhaps if he were willing to stay, to really talk about it, help her through the misery, maybe then they'd both be able to heal… But he wasn't willing to take the time. He'd made that clear.

  His somber face spoke volumes. "I understand. I do, cara. I just wish—"

  She touched her fingertip to his lips, preventing the words from being spoken. Words that would only break both their hearts. "We both do. But that won't help. You can't just roar back into my life on your Harley, apologize and roar back out expecting everything to go back to the way it was before."

  "I wasn't planning to roar back out," he refuted hotly.

  "No?"

  His guilty expression spoiled the denial. "Well, not permanently. I have things to do at the moment but—"

  "You'll keep in touch, right?"

  "This time I will."

  "Uh-huh."

  "I swear."

  "I'm sure you do."

  "You don't believe me." Hands on hips, he regarded her for a long moment. "All right. Do you want me to stay?"

  She felt the hairs raise on her scalp and a stinging heat settle in her cheeks. Be careful what you wish for…

  Oh, Lord, what should she say? That yes, ever since the day she'd woken up and found him gone, she'd dreamed he would seek her out and ask that very thing? Or no, no, no! She'd finally gotten her life together—she'd landed a new job in a new city, and had a new man who seemed fond of her even if she didn't see stars when he walked into the room. There was no place in her life now for Roman Santangelo. No matter how confused he made her. There was simply no place for him.

  "No, you can't stay," she said. "Even if you meant it, it's impossible."

  "Why?"

  She couldn't read him. His older, more street-wary face had learned to keep secrets, something he'd never done with her before. "Does it really matter why?"

  "It matters. I screwed up once with you, RaeAnne, and I'm not about to do it again because I didn't stop to listen."

  The thought of someone listening to what she had to say—really listening—was so novel, she gazed up at him, wondering if she was about to make the biggest mistake in her life by sidestepping the question.

  "I'm involved," she said.

  And that was that. Philip O'Donnaugh might not make her heart sing quite as loudly as Roman once had, but the local sheriff was kind and handsome—and a fourth generation Inyo County resident. His dad had been sheriff here for twenty years before him. Philip would never, ever pull up stakes and leave town in the middle of the night.

  In all her years working as a gypsy dig-bum she'd come to realize that she missed the stability, security and roots having a real home gave a person. That's what she wanted now, and she aimed to get it. She didn't know yet if Philip was the right man, but she was determined to find out. To finally give herself a chance at happiness. And one thing was certain, the right man was not some motorcycle-riding outlaw who breezed in and out of her life on a whim.

  "I see," Roman said, still standing there with his hands on his hips. "I see." Then his face shuttered down like venetian blinds snapping shut. "You should have said something."

  "You were only staying for a few hours. It didn't come up and I didn't see the need to mention it."

  "I wouldn't have kissed you."

  Pain zinged through her heart. "Well, I'm glad you did," she quietly said, and began gathering up her tools and artifact bags.

  "Rae, I only meant—"

  "I know. You were being honorable." She tossed the buckets and trowels into the big plastic bin and thumped the lid closed with deliberate composure.

  "There's something wrong with that?"

  "Of course not."

  What was wrong with her? Did she think she was so irresistible he'd risk censure and dishonor just to taste her lips again? Sweep her off her feet, try to change her mind, even knowing she was involved with someone else? Get real, lady. Roman might look like a pirate these days, but his kiss had hardly been wild passion demanding release. More of a peace offering.

  Which was fine. Really.

  "If we're going to make it to Bishop before the Board closes we'd better wash up," she said. "The hot springs are just up the hillside. I'll go first, then show you where they are."

  Soaking in the volcanic springs for which Cleary had been named usually soothed RaeAnne, body and soul. But not today. She didn't worry about Roman walking in on her—a man who wouldn't kiss an involved woman would surely not risk seeing her naked. She was more worried about why she sat there wishing he would.

  Scolding herself for being disloyal to Philip, she quickly washed and got dressed.

  "You have to use this special biodegradable soap," she explained as she led him up the narrow path to the hidden granite basin. "So we don't wreck the ecology of the stream below." She handed him the bar in its case.

  He accepted it, juggling the clean clothes he'd gotten out of his pack. When they arrived at the steaming pool, surrounded by ferns and wildflowers, canopied by sweet-smelling Jeffrey Pine, he whistled appreciatively. "Wow."

  "Pretty amazing, isn't it?"

  "Can't wait." He set his belongings on a rock and began to strip off his T-shirt. "I feel like a dust magnet."

  She chuckled. "One of the joys of archaeology. After a day at the sifter, you look more like a coal miner than a scientist."

  Roman agreed, inspecting the distinct demarcations on his arms and neck where the T-shirt had shielded them from the dirt.

  "It'll wash off," she assured him with a smile, her gaze lingering on his muscled biceps and broad, bare chest. His man's body was even more beautiful than the boy's had been. He'd filled out in all the right places, and had still managed to stay lean and trim. A tingle of attraction tightened her throat.

  "No fair," he murmured.

  "What?" she said, unable to tear her eyes from the rippling bronze geography of his chest. A curl of desire spun lazily through her breasts.

  "I didn't get to watch you."

  "Huh?" Her eyes shot to his and she gave a little gasp. "Oh! I'm sorry, I'll—"

  "No, stay."

  She shook her head vigorously and turned. "No, I should—"

  "What's his name?" he asked, and she froze. She didn't have to ask who he meant.

  "Philip. Philip O'Donnaugh."

  She heard a splash and then a sigh. "And you're engaged?"

  "No."

  "Going steady?"

  "Not exactly," she hedged. "It's complicated." Though no more complicated than that she and Philip had dated casually since meeting a few months back, and he was pressing for more. She'd resisted up until now, but Roman didn't need to know that. She liked Philip and didn't want to blow her
chances with him.

  "You sleeping with him?"

  Outraged, she whirled. Big mistake.

  He was naked. Immersed in bubbling water up to his neck, but still fully visible.

  "Th-that's none of your business!" she stammered, and spun back around.

  Unfortunately the damage was done. Ribbons of longing shimmered through her body, the familiar excitement his nakedness had always triggered within her.

  "None of your damn business," she repeated and fled down the path to the cabin.

  She had to get hold of herself. She paced the uneven cabin floor grasping for control. She couldn't, wouldn't, let him do this to her. She'd known letting him stay would lead to disaster. But it was far worse than she'd imagined. She'd never thought her own body would be her worst betrayer.

  He had to go. Now.

  * * *

  "As soon as we speak to the Chairman, you'll be leaving," RaeAnne stated as they piled into the Jeep.

  It had taken the entire half hour he'd spent bathing to get her wits back. But she'd marshaled every ounce of willpower and succeeded in banishing her momentary foolishness.

  "Absolutely."

  "It's best that way."

  "No doubt."

  And since she'd succeeded in banishing her foolishness she risked a glance at him. "You've changed your hair." Instead of a river of black flowing over his shoulders, it was now slicked back in a severe ponytail. Even the peculiar braid over his ear had disappeared.

  "More businesslike."

  She smiled inwardly at his definition. He'd always looked the part of a rebel, though he'd been the farthest thing from defiant … gentle, almost philosophical in his manner, even as a young boy. After washing up he'd changed into well-worn jeans and a plain white T-shirt, but the innocuous clothing only emphasized the image of a hungry wolf trying to pass as a sheep.

  "Yes, much more businesslike," she agreed, and tried to relax. Just a few more minutes and he'd be gone. She could manage a few more minutes.