Eleven
Samantha took the sandwich she’d bought at the Swift River Country Store—also known as Hazelton’s—across the street to the town common and sat on a bench next to a statue of a Civil War soldier, in the shade of an old oak tree that seemed to be a favorite with the local gray squirrel population. The chattering squirrels paid no attention to her, and she did likewise with them.
Several miles of hiking and thinking had her no closer to figuring out how to get her journal back from Justin. She’d kept looking for it while she retraced her steps, but she wasn’t surprised when it hadn’t turned up.
The bastard had it. She knew he did.
Maybe lunch would help her figure out what to do. Her sandwich was made with local cheese, cucumbers and lettuce on store-made multigrain bread. She hadn’t eaten much for breakfast, and her walk from the cider mill had left her hungry. She’d also bought a few energy bars and refilled her water bottle at the country store. She felt better knowing she had at least minimal provisions, never mind that she had a phone and could call her uncle or a car service and go back to Boston whenever it suited her.
It didn’t suit her yet.
She would put the matter of her missing journal out of her mind for the moment and surreptitiously peruse a few pages of The Adventures of Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth while enjoying her lunch. Let the perils of Lady Elizabeth serve as inspiration as well as a cautionary tale about her own troubles.
She set the copied pages on her lap and placed her sandwich on top of them, keeping them out of the view of prying eyes—such as those of Eric Sloan, the police officer Sloan brother, who was walking toward her from the country store side of the common, where, she’d noticed, the town offices, police station and fire station were all located.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Bennett,” he said amiably as he approached her bench. “I thought I recognized you. Cool for a picnic, isn’t it?”
“It’s refreshing.” Samantha tried to keep any annoyance with his brother out of her voice. Eric had the same deep blue eyes as Justin, although his manner didn’t seem as blunt—if only because it hadn’t been his mill that burned and his padlock that she’d picked. If Justin read even one line of her journal, he would know she hadn’t told him everything about her reasons for being in Knights Bridge. Then again, he’d already suspected as much. She realized his older brother was frowning at her. “It’s a perfect day, isn’t it?” she said, maintaining her pleasant tone.
“Better than yesterday. How’re you doing after your close call?”
“Great, thanks.”
“I heard you stayed at The Farm at Carriage Hill last night.”
Of course he had. “I did. It’s a beautiful place. I can imagine what it must have been like out there before Quabbin was built. Justin drove me back to the cider mill this morning and I walked into town from there. I love walking along New England back roads, especially this time of year.” She patted her backpack, upright next to her on the bench. “I’ll probably chuck this when I get the chance. It smells like smoke.”
“We’re all just glad you’re okay. Let us know if there’s anything we can do to help.”
“I will, thanks.”
“Will you be staying in town again tonight?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“All right, then. Enjoy your sandwich. Hazelton’s makes a good one.”
Samantha didn’t ask him how he knew her sandwich was from the country store. It wasn’t as if there were many options, but at the same time, she wouldn’t put it past Justin to have his army of siblings keep an eye on her.
She thanked the eldest Sloan and watched him start back across the common the way he’d come. Based on her twenty-four hours in Knights Bridge, she suspected it was a fair guess that the Sloans were all cut-to-the-chase types.
With Officer Sloan safely on his way, she returned to her sandwich and The Adventures of Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth. Two squirrels chased each other along a low-hanging oak branch, then hopped onto the grass and scampered to another tree. She couldn’t help but feel a little alone. Maybe a little vulnerable, too.
She peered down at the feminine handwriting of the long-ago, unknown author.
Despite the rough seas, Lady Elizabeth hadn’t experienced so much as a moment of seasickness, either while held captive by her father’s enemy or now aboard Captain Farraday’s sloop. Her strong stomach was a point of pride with her, one she pressed upon the pirate over breakfast. “I’ll keep down every bite,” she told him.
“Good. You’ll need your strength.”
“For what?”
He grinned at her. “Your father’s dear friend who lately kidnapped you has a ship loaded with Spanish gold.”
“My father?”
The pirate’s black eyes held hers. “Lord Edgar Fullerton.” He shook his head at her. “Bess Fuller. You should have chosen a more obscure name for yourself.”
“Would it have mattered?”
“No. I’ve known who you were from the moment I rescued you.”
“A rescue implies going from an unsafe situation to a safe one, and that hasn’t happened, has it, Captain Farraday?”
“Admit it, Lady Elizabeth,” he said, moving closer to her. “You’re safer with me than with your father’s enemies.”
“This ship loaded with gold. You want it?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I’ll have it by nightfall.”
Samantha smiled as she returned the pages to the pouch. Lady Elizabeth’s pluck was matched only by her loneliness after weeks away from her beloved castle and not-quite-so-beloved family back home in England. Then there was her forbidden attraction to Farraday—and his to her. All good fun, Samantha thought as she retrieved her phone from her jacket, saw it had a good signal and dialed her father’s cell phone.
He picked up almost immediately. “Where are you?” he asked her.
“Knights Bridge. I just had a picnic lunch on the town common with the squirrels.” She didn’t mention Officer Sloan or her missing journal. “What about you?”
“Your mother and I just got into town. I’m hiding in your grandfather’s library.” The library was just down the hall from his second-floor office. “You won’t catch your cousins in here.”
Caleb’s three youngest children—Keith, fifteen, Ann, twelve, and Eloisa, nine—had arrived with their mother last night. Samantha pictured them careening through their grandfather’s Back Bay house. Of course, he used to tell her stories of her father and uncle doing the same as boys. “It’ll be good to see everyone,” she said, leaving it at that.
“Your aunt is organizing tours for the kids. Freedom Trail, Emerson House, Walden Pond, Kennedy Library. They just want to go to the mall and a Red Sox game.”
“Autumn is a beautiful time to be in New England no matter what you like to do.”
Her father grunted, obviously unimpressed. “You pay for New England autumn foliage with a New England winter. Caleb just called, by the way. He’s worried about you in that little town by yourself.”
Her father and his younger brother got along well but often said they wouldn’t if they “lived in each other’s pockets.” Samantha had learned to navigate the sometimes treacherous waters between them. “I appreciate his concern,” she said, keeping her tone neutral.
“He thinks you’ll be lucky to get out of there without being tarred and feathered. This fire—the locals don’t blame you, do they?”
“It was clearly caused by lightning, which no one can possibly blame on me.”
“You still aren’t ready to let go of the idea of pirate treasure out there?”
“I just want to know more.” Samantha tried not to sound defensive. “The trail leads where it leads. You’re sure Grandpa didn’t mention Benjamin Farraday to either you or Mom?”
“I’m almost positive he didn’t. Your mother’s absolutely positive. We’ll see you soon, right?”
“Yes. I was hoping...” Samantha sighed and looked up at the oak tree, its leaves still a deep green against the blue sky. They would turn burgundy or rust later in the season. She would be long gone from Knights Bridge by then. She put that thought aside. “I don’t know what I was hoping. Maybe surviving a lightning strike and a fire’s enough adventure for this trip.”
“Caleb and Isaac won’t be back your way for a few more days.” There was a note of genuine concern in her father’s voice. “They’ve got Pop’s old Mercedes, but I can always rent a car and come fetch you. Anytime. Hear me?”
Just what she needed was Malcolm Bennett blowing into town. She smiled into her phone. “Do you even remember how to drive?”
“Of course. If it’s got gears, I can make it run. Caleb’s the academic in the family. I’m a mechanic at heart.”
Samantha pictured her father up to his elbows in grease, working on a boat engine. Her mother had been drawn to his practical skills. Uncle Caleb, while an academic, also could manage just fine in the field. Samantha wasn’t always sure where she fit in with her family. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’ll figure something out.”
“You always do. I believe in you, Samantha, and I’m sorry this thing with Duncan McCaffrey is still bugging you. He was a hell of a treasure hunter, but he lost out when he fired you. I wish I’d known at the time. I’d have punched him out.”
“That would have helped,” Samantha said dryly.
She could feel her father’s grin. “From what I hear, Duncan was a pretty good brawler himself. He’d have held his own. His son was a professional hockey player for a while. Didn’t happen by accident.”
“Dylan seems like a decent sort.”
“Met him, have you?”
“This morning. Briefly.” She decided not to get into details. “He and Olivia Frost, his fiancée, were decent to me.”
“You like everyone you meet,” her father said, not for the first time in her life. “It’s not a flaw, but it’s something you need to be aware of. Not everyone wishes you well. It has nothing to do with you. It has to do with them.”
“I didn’t tell Olivia or Dylan that I’d worked for Duncan.”
“Smart, if you ask me. Why make things harder than you need to? For you or for them.” He sucked in a quick breath. “I hear your cousins. I think they’re on to me. Stay in touch, okay, Samantha?”
“I will. Say hi to Mom and Aunt Martha and the kids for me.”
“Your mother’s whipping up something in the kitchen. She’s always loved the kitchen here. Beats me why. Wish us luck with your cousins. You would think jet lag would slow them down, but if anything, it’s the opposite. Hell...the little devils are pounding on the door.”
Samantha was smiling when she disconnected, part of her father’s mission, she suspected, when he’d answered her call. She could see him in his father’s library. He’d be wearing shorts, even if it was chilly. He was tanned and leathery, with fierce dark eyes, unevenly graying golden-brown hair and a boisterous laugh—a man of great intellect and passion. That he and her quiet, gifted mother had stayed together for thirty years and counting was a mystery to many, but not to Samantha. Her parents were soul mates. It wasn’t just that they were meant to be together. They had decided that was the case, and they had lived accordingly—with love, laugher and great optimism. They liked to say they looked themselves and their lives straight in the eye. They didn’t want—or need—rose-colored glasses.
Finding a true soul mate was rare, if not impossible, Samantha thought, crumpling up her sandwich wrapping. About as rare as getting struck by lightning—which pretty much had happened to her yesterday. Did that mean the odds were now against her finding a soul mate of her own?
“The odds were always against you,” she said under her breath as she returned her documents pouch to her backpack, really noticing the hint of smoke now. She wasn’t sure a casual passerby would notice, but the smell—unpleasant and unmistakable—was a tangible reminder of her ordeal yesterday.
A bolt of lightning, a fire and Justin Sloan in less than thirty minutes.
A lot for one person to handle.
Mentally adding a new backpack to her shopping list, Samantha walked back across the common and Main Street. She wondered if any Sloans were watching her, or if other townspeople had heard about the fire yesterday and were speculating whether she was the woman Justin had rescued.
Worrying about small-town gossip would get her nowhere. She put it out of her mind as she reentered the country store. She’d been focused only on lunch earlier. It was a traditional general store that offered everything from rubber boots to a decent selection of wine. There was nothing deliberately quaint or touristy about it—it was a store for local people who didn’t want to drive to one of the larger nearby towns.
Samantha made her way to a jam-packed section in the back that offered a range of sturdy basic gear for hiking, camping, hunting, fishing, canoeing and biking. She zeroed in on the camping gear and picked out a new tent and sleeping bag. Considering the amount they cost, she decided to wait to buy a new backpack. Maybe she would try dunking hers in Cider Brook to see if that got rid of the smell.
A large, detailed map of the area was tacked to a bulletin board. She noticed several campgrounds where she could pitch her new tent, assuming she wanted to avoid Sloan land—assuming she wanted to stay in Knights Bridge at all. She could find Justin, get him to return her journal and clear out of town. Give up on figuring out how and why her grandfather had introduced her to Benjamin Farraday and how the painting of the cider mill and the story featuring Farraday had ended up in his closet.
Give up on redeeming herself with Duncan McCaffrey.
Leaving would feel like a defeat, but she could regroup and come back another day—without drawing attention to herself. Two and a half years ago she’d thought she’d managed to slip into and out of Knights Bridge on her one-day trip without drawing attention to herself, but a carpenter had spotted her and reported her to Duncan.
Justin? Had it been him?
As she turned from the map, Samantha noticed three framed five-by-seven-inch black-and-white photographs hung in a vertical row next to the bulletin board. She took a closer look and saw they were copies of originals, old photographs depicting an earlier incarnation of Justin Sloan’s cider mill. All three photographs looked as if they had been taken on the same day, probably about a hundred years ago. The land was cleared and the mill was tidy, painted in a dark color with white trim. The top photograph showed the water-wheel and part of the dam and millpond. In the bottom photograph, a wagon full of apples stood in front of the carriage-door entrance, ready to be unloaded.
The middle photograph in particular caught Samantha’s eye. In it, a young man and woman stood by the wagon. The woman had light hair pinned up and wore a simple, high-collared ankle-length dress. The man was dark-haired, wearing a dapper suit. At the bottom of the frame, in nearly illegible handwriting, the couple was identified as Zeke and Henrietta, 1915.
Who were Zeke and Henrietta?
Although curious, Samantha couldn’t imagine what the Zeke and Henrietta of 1915 could possibly have to do with her eighteenth-century pirate. If Benjamin Farraday had, in fact, ventured into the Swift River Valley, it would have been two hundred years before the three grainy photographs of the cider mill were taken.
The painting and the manuscript weren’t proof that Farraday had walked this ground. He could have ended up in one of the now-drowned Swift River Valley towns, or he might never have come this way at all.
Samantha still wanted to know who Zeke and Henrietta were.
When she headed to the front with her tent and sleeping bag, Olivia Frost entered the store with a redheaded woman. “Samantha!” Olivia said cheerfully. “I didn’t expect to see you here. This is my friend Maggie. I mentioned her this morning. She’s catering my sister’s wedding on Saturday and works with me at Carriage Hill.” She turned to Maggie. “This is Samantha Bennett, Maggie.”
“The woman my brother-in-law pulled out of the fire yesterday,” Maggie said with a smile. “Good to meet you.”
“You, too,” Samantha said. “You’re married to—”
“Brandon Sloan. Third of six, as he likes to say. He’s a carpenter.”
Another carpenter, Samantha thought. Olivia was frowning at the sleeping bag and tent on the counter by the register. “You’re not planning to camp out tonight, are you, Samantha? Please. Come back with us to Carriage Hill. You can stay in the same room as last night.”
“We insist,” Maggie said. “Save your tent for another time.”
Samantha didn’t know what to say. “But the wedding—”
Maggie waved a hand in dismissal. “Not a problem. The wedding isn’t until Saturday. No one’s staying over tonight.”
“Dylan and I would love to have you stay with us,” Olivia added.
There was no turning them down. Samantha paid for her tent and sleeping bag while they grabbed milk, bread, cheese, local apples and cider. Ten minutes later, she found herself in the backseat of Maggie’s van, among grocery bags and kids’ books and toys, on the way back to The Farm at Carriage Hill.