Table of Contents
This Moment in Time
Copyright
Dedication
Praise for Nicole McCaffrey:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
A word about the author…
Also Available
Prologue
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
This Moment in Time
by
Nicole McCaffrey
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.
This Moment in Time
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Nicole McCaffrey
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: [email protected]
Cover Art by Nicola Martinez
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First American Rose Edition, 2012
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-725-0
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For my mom, who has been after me for years to write a time travel set during the Civil War.
And for my dad—my hero—whose love of history inspired my own.
With love to both for giving me wings, teaching me to fly and always providing the wind beneath them.
Praise for Nicole McCaffrey:
“THE MODEL MAN…funny, compassionate, heart wrenching, and down right sexy.”
~Simply Romance Reviews
“THE MODEL MAN is one of the most entertaining books I’ve read in a long time. I loved every minute of it and will definitely read this one again!”
~Long and Short Reviews
“SMALL TOWN CHRISTMAS by Nicole McCaffrey is a wonderful holiday story of love, forgiveness and the importance of family.”
~Night Owl Romance
“SMALL TOWN CHRISTMAS is syrupy sweet and classically romantic. Tucker is a good guy and his girls are darling. Holly and Tucker’s romantic movie ending is heartwarming and fun.
~Joyfully Reviewed
“WILD TEXAS WIND is an excellent story with a spitfire heroine, a great hero and a wonderful, slightly humorous climax. Readers who enjoy a more traditional western with a strong romantic element will enjoy this.”
~Romantic Times
“WILD TEXAS WIND is a wonderfully romantic western tale. For anyone who appreciates a bad boy cowboy, Raz Colt fits the bill. He’s arrogant, demanding and doesn’t like to explain himself. And Arden O’Hara is a woman with a fiery temper and a sharp tongue. WILD TEXAS WIND is the classic Taming of the Shrew set in the old west. I had a hard time putting this book down.”
~Night Owl Books
Chapter One
“TV producer and star of The House Flipper, Jamie D’Alessandro was indicted this week in Los Angeles on charges of fraud and grand larceny.
“An appraiser there claims D’Alessandro owes her more than forty-thousand dollars for work she did on some of the homes he flipped. If convicted, D’Alessandro could face up to two years in jail. This comes just weeks after controversy began swirling around D’Alessandro’s plans to demolish an historic home in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. The two-hundred year old house, used as a headquarters by Union General Stillwell during the Civil War, was the home of famous confederate spy Josette Beaumont, once known as the Virginia Rose.
“D’Alessandro, son of the late real estate mogul James D’Alessandro, maintains the home is too badly damaged from decades of neglect to safely renovate. He plans to replace it with an upscale hotel.
In other news…”
“This doesn’t look good.”
Jamie muted the television and quirked a brow at his chief financial officer. “I’ve been in worse messes.”
“Ashley—sorry, the plaintiff. She’s making your life hell.” Len Goldman kicked off her low-heeled shoes and settled into a leather wing back chair. “Why don’t you just pay her off?”
“Because it’s bullshit. We were engaged at the time. She wasn’t interested in collecting payment as long as there was a half million-dollar rock on her hand. Now that I’ve called things off she wants compensation.”
“Jame, you could go to jail.”
He pulled a face. Rising from the leather sofa in his office, he strolled across the room to gaze out at the night sky. Even at eighty stories up, there were no stars to be seen, just the New York skyline and the artificial lights of the other Manhattan high rises.
“That doesn’t concern you?”
“Nope.” He swirled the contents of his glass, then tossed it back with one gulp. “What good is my father’s money and his team of New York attorneys if they can’t keep me out of jail for something I didn’t do? Hell, they kept me out enough when I was younger for things I did.”
A shadow of a smile crossed Len’s face. “I suppose they did. Now what about this place in Virginia? The other board members and I are concerned about the image of D’Alessandro Development.”
He turned and faced his mentor, the woman who had held the company together after his parents’ unexpected deaths and been a surrogate parent to him over the years. “Lenora. You’re not serious.”
“It doesn’t look good, Jamie. When you acquired the property, you assured the Daughters of the Confederacy and the local historical society you wouldn’t tear it down.”
“It was a mistake. I should have listened to the appraiser, but I thought it would be great for the show. It would take millions to restore that thing.” He strode across the room to refill his glass. “And I never said I wouldn’t demolish the house. I said I didn’t intend to demolish it. Intentions change.” He lifted the brandy decanter toward her in silent question.
Len shook her head, indicating her half-full glass. “You know damn well people don’t see it that way. They just see some hot-shot kid from New York with more arrogance than brains—”
“I’m thirty-three, hardly a kid.”
“Have you even seen the house?”
Jamie settled back onto the leather sofa, resting an ankle on one knee. “I’ve seen pictures.”
“It’s just…I know you hate to hear this hon, but your father—”
“I’m not—”
“I know. You’re not your father and no one expects you to be. But Jimmy was a self-made man. He didn’t earn his millions overnight like you did; he had to work for it. And he believed to his dying day that a personal touch made all the difference. He was never too big, too busy or too important to do things for himself.”
Jamie absorbed her words and the sting of her underlying message. Unspoken words like spoiled brat and too big for your britches hung in the air between them. Few people were bold enough to talk to him that way. He studied the contents of his glass, swirling the amber liquid, listening to the ice clink against the sides. “I have nothing to gain by going to Virginia.”
“First hand knowledge. You know this business as well as any appraiser. Hell you’re probably the only heir in New York who has actually done manual la
bor. I know what you can do with an old house, Jame. If you haven’t seen it for yourself, how do you know it’s not worth renovating?”
“Because I don’t care. I don’t know what it is, Len, but lately…nothing interests me. I know you think I’m a spoiled brat, but I feel like there’s nothing left. Like it’s all done. My father spent his life building his fortune—building all of this,” he gestured to the ceiling. “When he died, I became a billionaire. At twenty-three.”
“No one could blame you for feeling that way. You never had the chance to find out what you wanted to be when you grew up. It was thrust on you as Jimmy and Regina’s only child. You’ve spent the last ten years learning the business from the ground up, you’ve proven to the world that you are your father’s son, you are a chip off the old block. Maybe it’s time to take a breather.”
“I don’t need another vacation; there’s no place I haven’t already been.”
“Then don’t take one. When the pressures of it all got to your father, he used to say the best medicine was to get your hands dirty.”
He reached to set the glass on a side table. “Are you suggesting I take up gardening?”
She chuckled. “No. Do what you’re really good at. Go fix up a house somewhere. Disconnect completely. Forget about New York, forget about real estate. Forget about Ashley and the lawsuit.”
Jamie considered her words for a few moments. Disconnect? No cell phone, no computers. Nothing? As unreasonable as the idea sounded, it held a certain appeal. He released a sigh of defeat “Fine. Call off the bulldozers. I’ll go to Virginia.”
****
Spring, 1862
Shenandoah Valley, Virginia
“I want to know how Stonewall Jackson knew where my men were going to be.”
Josette Beaumont resisted the urge to flinch. She’d not show a hint of weakness, even as General Stillwater’s foul breath bathed her face.
He grabbed her chin between his thumb and finger, squeezing. “You’ve been locked in this house for a month, yet somehow you still managed to get information to the rebs. I want to know how.”
She jerked away from his touch, but he didn’t release her. “Has it not occurred to you, General, that perhaps the Union army isn’t as clever as you think? You were the ones who intended to win this war in a matter of days, as I recall. Yet the North hasn’t won a single battle.”
He shoved her against the wall with a thud that rattled her teeth. “Time spent in a Federal prison would do you good.”
She held her tongue. Until he could prove she was a spy, he couldn’t truly send her to prison. At least she hoped not. Right now he had no proof of anything.
“Fortunately for you, my dear, I’m a man who appreciates beauty.”
A cold knot of fear coiled in her midsection. She stepped away from the wall, all too aware of the bed in the center of the room and the lusty gleam in his eyes.
He closed the distance between them in one long stride. “We could work out an arrangement that benefits us both.”
“I’d die before becoming mistress to the likes of you.”
“The time may come when you change your mind. Until then, if I were you, I’d be very cautious about what you choose to share with your sources. You never know when the information you have access to is false. You could unintentionally send those filthy rebels you care so much about directly into harm’s path.”
A lump rose in her throat. “If I were a spy, as you claim, then that might concern me. But since I am nothing but a poor widow—”
“A poor widow?”
“You know perfectly well my husband’s passing left me with nothing. What little I had was taken by you and your men.”
“There is one thing I haven’t taken from you, Mrs. Beaumont.” His cold gaze raked her from head to toe, leaving her as chilled as if he’d stripped her naked. “I prefer to wait until you offer it freely—”
“Then you’ve a long wait ahead.”
“My patience is wearing thin,” he said, storming toward the door. “One of these nights I may decide I’ve been patient enough.”
The door slammed. She waited a half breath until she heard the key turn in the lock and the General’s boots retreating down the hallway.
She quickly pulled the pins from her hair, allowing the waist length strands to fall free, combing her fingers through the tangles until the silk-wrapped sachet fell to the floor. She scooped it up and hurriedly pulled the contents from inside to review the notes she would slip to her contact later tonight.
****
By the dim glow of propane lanterns, Jamie unrolled the sleeping bag and spread it on the floor. His flight had arrived late, and he’d gotten lost on the way to the house. It was dusk by the time he arrived. He’d have to wait until morning to fully explore Beaumont House and the grounds around it.
He rubbed his arms against the chill of the spring night. Fortunately, he’d never minded roughing it. In fact, sitting here in this abandoned house, with only the sound of his own breathing for company, he was more content than he’d ever been in his multi-level New York penthouse. No servants tiptoeing about, no cell phone buzzing, no financial advisors dropping by for hours-long discussions.
Maybe he’d have a look around before night fully took over the house. He hadn’t actually stepped foot inside before, had merely relied on the findings of his reconstruction team. But now, flashlight in hand, the narrow beam of light lit upon yellowed paint, peeling wallpaper and architectural detail the likes of which were rarely seen these days. He stepped closer, studying the intricate molding on the fireplace and ran his fingers along the smooth, cold surface. It would need more than stripping and refinishing to restore it, but the wood felt solid beneath his fingertips.
Stepping back, he drew the light up to reveal the crown molding along the ceiling. He’d need a ladder and full daylight to get a good look at it, but the idea of working with his hands again—getting them dirty, as Len said—filled him with an excitement that renewed his spirit in a way it hadn’t been in a long time.
The light glinted off the top of a framed painting. He lowered the beam, illuminating the portrait. A woman with dark hair and smoldering dark eyes. A modest hint—downright puritan by today’s standards—of pale bosom peeked over the ruffled bodice of a white dress. Somehow that hint of creamy flesh seemed more forbidden—sexier—than any modern woman he’d ever seen. There was something prim and ladylike about her that made it feel wrong to stare at her like that. Was this the famous spy? Her name escaped him, but he made a mental note to learn more about her.
A loud thump from the second floor caught his attention. His heart leaped to his throat, and for a moment, he felt like a scared kid in a haunted house. He shook his head, chuckling at himself. The house had been locked up tight since the renovation team had come through to inspect it, there was no one around. Probably a rodent or critter had gotten inside. Still, he had no intention of spending the night listening to the scratching and thumping of a wild animal.
He shone the flashlight ahead of him until he found the winding, elegant staircase that led to the second floor. Common sense warned him not to trust the stairs; the old house was full of wood rot. But curiosity got the better of him and he tested the first step before putting his full weight on it, and the next, and the next. Fully expecting to go through the boards and land on his ass, he continued the same tenuous journey until he reached the second floor.
Amazed he’d actually made it, he gave a quick glance behind him, then began to move around the second story. Shining the light upward, he saw the staircase continued to a third floor, but wasn’t about to push his luck any further.
He paused, waiting until he heard the scratching again. With the beam of light at his feet to illuminate the floor, he took slow, cautious steps, following the sound. As he drew closer to the sound he paused, wondering if he should have brought something for protection. What if the creature was rabid?
Stepping fully into the room where
he’d heard the noises, he paused to appreciate the huge windows that overlooked the valley. They didn’t make houses like this anymore, and while he had nothing but the utmost appreciation for the trappings of modern society, he had to admit, there was something about the way they built things a couple of centuries ago. They didn’t need high tech gadgets and expensive fabrics to scream wealth and elegance. It was right here in the architecture.
Forgetting himself for a moment, he stepped across the room. The loud groan of a floorboard caused him to freeze, wondering if the floor could support him. The banging now came from behind him. Heart suddenly pounding, he whirled. A door—to a closet, perhaps?—rattled insistently. He swallowed. He’d never believed in ghosts, had laughed off any notion that they existed. So what the hell was this?
As he stood there, a cold draft of air swirled about his feet. Wasn’t it supposed to get really cold when a ghost appeared? No, no, he wouldn’t allow his imagination to take him there. Dammit, he was James D’Alessandro III; he’d never allowed anyone or anything to intimidate him. It would take more than an abandoned old house to spook him.
On silent feet, he crossed the room to the door, mentally counting—one, two…three. He yanked it open. His breath left him in a relieved exhale. Nothing stood behind it. The cold breeze continued, whistling through a broken window. The branch of a tree had long since grown inside and as the wind blew, it scratched against the wall. A gust must have blown the door shut; that was probably the bang he’d heard from downstairs.
He took another deep breath to help slow his heart rate. While he was out gathering tools tomorrow, he’d have to get something to put over the window. He’d never get any rest with that door thumping all night long, and the air blowing inside would only make the house colder.
Chuckling at his own ridiculous fear, he started to turn. A voice—not the howling of the wind this time—and the sudden sensation of warmth at his back stilled him.
“Honestly, Sebastian, he can’t keep me locked up here much longer. I’ll go mad.”
A woman? She sounded calm, perhaps a little angry.
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