Legacy of Secrets

Restless, a trifle pensive, Neala had elected to stay behind to assist Miss Crabbe with school paperwork. An Academy fixture for years, Eulalie Crabbe was an excellent secretary, but the high-strung spinster could handle no more than two tasks at any given moment. “But it’s not just the paperwork,” Neala explained to Abigail Schaffer, one of her new friends at the Academy. “I, well, I need to take a long walk this afternoon. To think about…things.”

“I understand.” Abby gave a smile that belied the wistful tone.

“Why can’t you help Miss Crabbe tomorrow?” Nan Sweeney interrupted from behind Abby. “You told me last week you were hoping to finally purchase a new ready-made wrapper, to replace the dress you ruined in the harness-room fire.”

Would anyone ever forget that wretched imbroglio? It had happened over five months ago! All right, she could have perished—but if she hadn’t tried to put out a fire she was responsible for starting, she would never have been able to look in a mirror again.

Violet Gleason, a farm girl standing next to Nan, chimed in, “Please do come. It won’t be the same without you, Neala…”

“All right, my dears. Her decision’s made, and I concur.”

With the brisk kindness for which she was famous, the headmistress silenced the rest of the protests with a commanding wave of a gloved hand. Liam Brody, the school’s coachman and stableman, handed the women into the coach, then shut the door with such haste he caught the ribboned hem of someone’s gown. Muttering what no doubt were Gaelic imprecations, he rectified the mistake, jammed his top hat farther down over his forehead and swung up into the driver’s seat.

Neala and Miss Isabella shared a smile. “Don’t let Eulalie keep you past two,” the headmistress ordered. She pressed her plump heliotrope-scented cheek against Neala’s. “And don’t forget to carry your whistle when you go for your walk. Mr. Pepperell is planting tomatoes this afternoon. I’ve told him to keep an ear out.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Hmm.” The older woman idly stroked the side of her nose. “You haven’t yet learned your limitations, have you?” A faint frown appeared between her eyes. “Don’t let the new girls pester you so you miss your walk.”

“They’re never a bother,” Neala murmured. “If I can help them know they’re not alone, it’s the least I can do.”

“We all help one another here, it’s true. But you are neither their mother, nor headmistress of the Isabella Chilton Academy. My students must also learn how to embrace solitude, and endure loneliness.”

Heat crept up Neala’s cheeks. “I just want to be a friend.”

Miss Isabella’s face softened. “Ah, Neala. My dear, I do understand. You are indeed a very good friend, to all of us. Even when you’re trying to shoulder more than your share.” She smoothed the row of ruffles on her basque. “While you go for that walk, remember that you do have a home here. People who care about you—simply because you’re you. Think about that as well, hmm?”

At a little past four o’clock, Neala headed toward the thick forest that screened the Academy from fierce northwestern winds. Today, however, the wind was light, playful; spring bloomed in all its flagrant abandon. Neala loved this season of new birth, with the scents and colors of restored life bursting forth from the earth, reminding all mourners that death was never final.

Some time later she reached the sunlit glade she’d designated her forest chapel. Most of the students found hideaways like this, somewhere on the vast grounds where they could escape for a sip of solitude. Few of them…All right, only Neala and the mysterious widow Tremayne ventured this far into the woods. What was her name? Josephine? No—Jocelyn. Jocelyn Tremayne. Several times Neala had invited Jocelyn to join her. Though polite, the widow always refused, saying she needed time to adjust to her new life. If Neala pleaded, Abby occasionally joined her for a hike down to the river. But Abby preferred to spend most of her spare time in the stables, because she loved horses, so Neala tried hard not to be the infernal nag her brother considered her.

She kicked an acorn, then sighed, allowing the tranquil surroundings to purify her restless spirit. She hadn’t yet grasped the notion of embracing lifelong solitude, but these walks seemed to help.

She would have made a wonderful explorer, like Lewis and Clark. Or perhaps an Indian. Yes, definitely an Indian squaw with beautiful long black hair. Long, straight hair worn in easy-to-manage braids. Not an infuriating head full of wispy brown curls that refused to obey hairpins no matter how firmly attached.

An hour later, pleasantly winded, mostly at peace, Neala started back for the school. She was humming a hymn whose words she had forgotten, absently stroking tree trunks as she wound her way back along the faint path her footsteps had created over the past ten months, when the resounding crack of a rifle shot rent the twilight silence.

Simultaneously the bark of the white pine inches from her face exploded outward. Neala leaped back, hands flying to cover her eyes even as realization slammed into her with the same force as the bullet struck the tree.

Some stupid hunter had almost killed her, thinking she was an animal.

She ducked behind the pine even as another bullet zinged past a mere two feet behind her. How stupid of her, to have worn dark mourning clothes for her walk, which made her far more difficult to distinguish from a deer or some other large animal. Neala scanned the direction from which the shot had been fired, but she could detect no sign of movement. She cupped her hands on either side of her mouth to create a makeshift megaphone like a ringmaster at Barnum & Bailey Circus.

“Don’t shoot again!” she yelled. “I’m a person, not your supper!” Then, after two seconds of thrumming silence, she added, “And this is private property! One more shot, and I’ll see that you’re the one being hunted!”

A massive oak with two joined trunks offered more protection than the pine. Neala gathered up her skirts, hunched her shoulders and darted behind a thicket of mountain laurel, then raced for the oak’s protection. She hunkered down, frustrated and angry because the oaf out there had spoiled the atmosphere.

Cautiously she peered around the tree. A hand’s width from her nose, leaves and dirt exploded almost simultaneously with the echoing crack of a third shot. Stupid, careless hunter, she thought, a lump forming in her throat. If Adrian were here…

Impatient with herself, Neala smacked a fist against her palm. Right now she needed to extricate herself from a potentially dangerous situation, not wallow in maudlin longings. And if she didn’t put in an appearance within two minutes of the coach’s return, someone—probably an irate Liam—would set out to search for her. If the hunter were still in the vicinity, he might accidentally shoot Liam as well. What a wretched dilemma!

“Did you hear me?” she yelled again.

There was no response. For several vexing moments Neala sat, her mind searching furiously for a solution. Only when she crossed her arms did she remember the whistle dangling around her neck. All students, regardless of the length of time, were required to carry a whistle with them if they were out of sight of the main house. Neala Shaw, you have nothing but a mess of day-old oatmeal for brains.

Shaking her head, she lifted the whistle to her lips and blew.

Gray lay sprawled under one of the trees planted years earlier by new students, a charming if somewhat mawkish custom, to his way of thinking. Hands folded to pillow his head, eyes half-closed, he could almost hear Aunt Bella’s crisp denouncement of such cynicism. From her perspective the trees were planted so newly orphaned students would have something to nurture, something they could claim, at a place she wanted them to regard as home.

Home.

Gray rolled and sat up, fighting the ever-present discontent with his life. Nothing assuaged the malaise, not women nor drink nor even a couple of shooting competitions where he’d reaped adulation and medals for pretending every shot he fired was aimed at Kevin Hackbone’s heart. Sumner—no, it was not Sumner anymore. Now his only refuge from a stifling lifestyle was a school for females. Life was full of bitter irony.

Gray shuddered.

Why did Aunt Bella have to pick this particular day to hare off to Berryville?

He’d arrived an hour earlier, eager for a much-needed visit with the only female left on earth whose presence he could tolerate longer than twenty-four hours. Growing up, Gray spent miserable hours wishing Isabella was his mother, instead of the sweet but overprotective woman who refused to let Gray become a man. Even now, on his visits home, she treated him as though he were a perpetual three-year-old toddler. At fifteen, he finally rebelled and ran. Aunt Bella was the only family member with whom he’d stayed in touch. Understanding soul that she was, she’d waited out a year; when he turned sixteen she calmly told him to take his sorry carcass back home and mend fences, or she’d write his mother herself. And send Gray’s two older brothers to fetch him.

A smile tweaked the corner of his mouth, remembering that first reunion. Aunt Bella had been spot on, of course.

He flicked open his watch, to discover only seven minutes had passed since he checked the time. Swearing beneath his breath, Gray stood up, scanned the winding drive again. It was going on five, dusk not far away. Why weren’t they back home? He needed to talk, needed to hear her advice, soak up the love offered without chains.

When he heard the faint but piercing sound of a whistle, he whipped around, hand automatically going to the butt of his gun. Across the lawn, Mr. Pepperell had also straightened. He dropped his tools, his head swiveling back and forth as he, too, scanned the estate’s southern woods. Gray loped over.

“What is it? Who’s ruining the peace and quiet by blowing a blasted whistle?”

“I—oh, my, it most likely is Miss Shaw. She told me she was going for a walk.” He paused to wipe a shaking hand across his brow. “I don’t know precisely what—that is to say, I hadn’t expected…”

“Why is she blowing a whistle?”

The gardener swallowed several times, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Instead of a dapper gentleman politely sharing botanical tidbits, now he resembled an old man on the verge of collapse. “Distress.” He peered dazedly up at Gray. “It’s to be used only as a call for help. A—a safety measure, if you will. All students wear one when out of sight of the main house. They’re most of them young women from towns and farms, not used to the country.”

Clumsily he began untying his gardener’s apron. “I must go. I’m the only one—”

“No, you’re not,” Gray interrupted. “I’ll go see what the problem is. You stay here, alert the household to be prepared with bandages or whatever might be required.”

Ignoring the gardener’s halfhearted protests, he took off at a run in the general location of the last whistle call. When he reached the woods he paused, rapidly searched and discovered a path of sorts. Good. Jaw set, Gray plunged into the shadowed forest.

Chapter Three

Within two minutes, Gray was forced to slow his pace. Wet shrubs newly leafed slapped his sides; low-hanging branches tried to gouge his face, and he slipped twice on the narrow path that seemed to delight in its number of twists and turns.

After ten minutes he stopped completely. He swiped at his face, then tugged off his jacket and hung it on a dead branch. Irritation boiled through him. This whole day had been nothing but one infernal nuisance after another. And some timid female who couldn’t find her way out of a potato sack…Well, this was just what he needed, tearing through unfamiliar woods like some stupid Galahad, only to wind up more lost than the equally stupid female. And she wasn’t helping much at all.

“Where are you?” he roared. “Blow the whistle again!”

He waited, yelled again. Nothing. Very well. Stay lost, then. A chilly night in dark woods would teach a valuable lesson.

The whistle blew.

Gray ignored the quick tug of relief, turned on his heel, plunged off the narrow path and fought his way through yet another thicket of wet leafy shrubs, only marginally pacified when the whistle continued to blow at regular intervals. The young miss deserved a blistering lecture for getting herself lost—and he deserved to deliver it.

Of course, a remote possibility existed that she actually had hurt herself, along with getting lost. Aunt Bella needed to apply a firmer hand with her students, since these woods doubtless were home to bears, maybe even a wildcat or two. Trespassing hunters…

The skin at the back of his neck tightened. No matter how helpless or irrational a woman behaved, she never deserved to be mistreated. If this one had been harmed in any manner, or even frightened by some wandering weasel, Gray would track the vermin down and teach him a few manners.

He burst into a small clearing, and a feminine voice called loudly, “Halt this instance! You’ve been shooting at me, not a deer or a…bear!”

What—? Gray swiveled toward the voice, which emanated from behind a large two-trunk oak. “Shooting at you?” he shouted back, marching across the glade. “Stop spouting nonsense and show yourself.” With an effort he moderated his tone. “You’re safe now. I’m here to guide you back. You’ve nothing to fear.”

He reached the tree, peered around, and barely avoided getting brained with a dead tree limb.

“I don’t need a guide. And I don’t believe you.” A bedraggled moppet with curly brown hair and snapping brown eyes brandished the limb in his face. “Who are you? You’re trespassing, and furthermore hunting is forbidden on this land.” Her irate gaze fastened on Gray’s revolver. The flushed cheeks paled.

Gray propped his shoulder against the tree trunk and crossed his arms over his chest. Her head scarcely reached his chin; she’d gotten herself lost, and she was alone in the middle of the woods with a man she’d never met. Yet she stood there, taking him to task without a shred of awareness of her helplessness. “Your stick wouldn’t deter a tabby cat, much less a man with a gun. Even a man without one,” he drawled, palm itching to slip the weapon from its holster to scare a modicum of common sense into her.

For a second the girl stared at him wide-eyed. Then she popped the whistle back in her mouth and blew. The sound at close range shrilled into Gray’s unprotected ears, and he covered them in a reflexive action worthy of the greenest tenderfoot.

“Mr. Pepperell will be here any moment,” she confidently stated after trying to deafen him. “Also a very husky Irishman. They won’t take kindly to a trespassing hunter. You could have killed someone through your carelessness.”

Disbelieving, for the first time Gray studied the woman objectively, without the haze of resentment fogging his mind. At first he’d pegged her for one of Isabella’s youngest students, too naive to grasp her circumstances. Upon closer examination he realized she had to be in her early twenties, possibly a few years older. The wild tangle of curls and guileless eyes were nothing but a smoke screen.

She might be orphaned now, but he’d wager she’d had siblings at one time, all of them younger, poor saps she ordered about with the same officious superiority his sisters had inflicted upon his own miserable childhood.

“For your information,” he finally said, mildly enough considering his mood, “I happen to know that your husky Irishman is only an inch taller than you, say, five feet six inches? And he’s about as husky as a plucked rooster. As for Mr. Pepperell, he’s nearing seventy. Had he come hunting you down, by now he would have expired from heart palpitations.”

He lowered his head until their faces were mere inches apart. “Did you bother to consider the shock to his heart, the risk he’d face trying to race over a mile of rough terrain, to rescue you? I volunteered instead.” He paused. “But turns out you’re not lost. Or hurt. You’re only supposed to blow that whistle if you’re in danger, or dire straits. Ever read the fable about the boy who cried wolf?”

The chit searched his face with nothing but relief showing on hers. “If you know Liam and Mr. Pepperell, you couldn’t be the irresponsible hunter, even though you are wearing a gun.” She heaved a long, unladylike breath. “Are you one of the sheriff’s new deputies?” With a quick flick of her wrist, she tossed aside the stick, then absently tucked wayward curls behind her ears. Her expression remained as bright and friendly as a puppy’s.

“No!” Gray ground out, his back teeth snapping together in an effort to keep his temper from exploding full force. “I happen to be Isabella Chilton’s nephew. I just arrived for a visit—a much-needed, peaceful visit. But my aunt wasn’t there. So I didn’t have anything better to do than chase through the woods to rescue an idiot girl who doesn’t have enough sense to steer clear of an angry male.”

“Well, what on earth are you angry for? You’re not the one who could have been killed by a trigger-happy hunter.”

A late-afternoon breeze dislodged more of her hair. Sighing again, she plucked out some hairpins and haphazardly stuffed the loose curls back into a slipping topknot. Despite his extensive travels, Gray had never encountered a woman so indifferent to her appearance. “Since you’re not the hunter,” she finished, “would you mind scouting the area before we leave? I doubt he’s around, since I finally remembered to blow the whistle, but it wouldn’t hurt to check.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that someone was, ah, shooting at you?” He swept her disheveled form with another raking glance while the memory of Mr. Pepperell’s worried eyes and trembling fingers filled his mind. “How about telling me what you’re really up to, and save us both from a scene I’ll probably regret. I despise liars, especially female ones who never consider the consequences to anyone but themselves.”

She blinked, the self-assurance squaring her shoulders and tilting her chin fading. As rapidly as the sun disappeared behind the mountains, she transformed into an uncertain young girl whose aura of wounded dignity pricked Gray’s conscience. “It’s probably safe enough now,” she murmured. “I’m going back this way.” She gestured with her hand. “It’s longer, but less strenuous.” Without another word she headed off, her every step away from Gray a silent reproach.

He fought a losing battle with the nettles pricking his conscience. “Wait,” he called, reaching her in half a dozen strides. It was a half-dozen more before he gathered the courage to speak again. “Listen. I apologize. I had no right to speak to you the way I did.”

He yanked at his shirt collar, feeling stupid, petty—and a complete churl. Impossible to explain how her innocent query about his being a sheriff’s deputy had ripped wide open a wound so painful to his soul he wasn’t sure he’d ever heal. But he owed her something. “Will you stop a second, so I can at least offer a proper apology?” he growled.

She hesitated, then glanced up, her expression solemn. “All right.”

“I’m sorry.” He bit the inside of his cheek, then shrugged. “It’s been a long day. I lost my temper. I’m usually not this boorish.”

A shy smile flirted at the corner of her mouth. “It’s all right. I shouldn’t have accused you of being a careless hunter.”

Gray still didn’t believe her story, but finally had enough presence of mind to keep the thought to himself. “Well, we’d best make haste. By the time we return, Aunt Bella should be back.”

“With my ‘husky Irishman’ driving the coach,” the young woman added dryly. “Not to mention all the others, who aren’t going to be happy at all with my latest snarlie.”

Latest…snarlie? Where had Aunt Bella unearthed this creature?

“Well, it’s over now,” Gray said, and managed what he hoped was a comforting smile. “All is well, hmm?” Ha. His need for peace was unlikely to be satisfied now, and the talk he’d yearned to enjoy with his aunt unfortunately would revolve around someone other than himself.

He started down the path, but the woman didn’t budge. “What is it?” Regrettably, he was unable to erase the edge in the words.

For a few seconds more she stood there, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Then she shrugged. “Yes. You’re right. All is well. Thank you for…coming to rescue me.” There was a pause, then she added in a wistful tone, “You’re nothing at all like your aunt, are you?”

They didn’t speak again. Thirty long minutes later, grateful for the excuse, Gray left her at the edge of the woods to return and fetch his jacket. Slanting sunbeams poured across the lawn, bathing Miss Shaw with a golden aura that contrarily enhanced her aloneness. Gray stomped back into the woods, and considered seriously the temptation to find a very large oak tree so he could bang his head against its trunk.

Chapter Four

Rutter, Virginia

Shoulders slumped, Will Crocker trudged down the dirt lane that led to his home. It was dusk, when light and shadow blurred surroundings into indefinable shapes. A man could be invisible at dusk, if he were careful. Will shrugged, vaguely uncomfortable with the thought, and hurried toward the four-room unpainted frame house where he and his mother had lived for the last fifteen years.

The hardscrabble community of Rutter, population 973, boasted few amenities, though one or two families made persistent efforts to achieve a level of civilized comfort—whitewashing the clapboard, planting a flower garden; one family had ordered an entire parlor set of golden oak out of the Sears catalog.

Momma always had a good word to say about their neighbors; she tried as much as she could to thank Will for his efforts to improve their own home, despite the disconsolation that plagued most of her waking moments. Life’s unfairness had crushed her spirit; by the time Will reached his twelfth year her hair was completely gray, her eyes sunken in the once pretty face.

When Grandmother died, they had lost everything. Many a night when Will came home, the sound of his mother’s bitter weeping seeped like cold fog through the thin bedroom wall. She seldom wept in front of him, and he allowed her to cling to the illusion that he didn’t know how often she cried herself to sleep.

Mood bleak, he drew aimless patterns in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. No matter how bitter he might feel during these isolated moments, his mother loved him as much as she was able. Will was her only remaining relative. If he abandoned her, he knew she would die. Twice, in his late twenties, he’d gone so far as to move out. The first time his mother quit eating and almost starved herself to death; the second time she’d almost burned the house down. Will never tried living on his own again.

A vague shiver danced along his spine, one of fear and the longing he never quite knew what to do with because he couldn’t remember a time when both emotions hadn’t been part of his life, all forty-one years of it. When the Zuckermans’ snug little house appeared at the bend in the lane, light glowing through the windows, he gave in to the longing instead of the fear. Silently, imagining himself invisible as a gray field mouse, he slipped up to a side window and peeked through the narrow gap in the curtains. Mrs. Zuckerman had died the previous year, but their oldest daughter, a horse-faced but congenial spinster everyone called Miss Leila, moved in to take care of her father. At the moment they were sitting at a small table, playing some kind of board game. A fire danced merrily in the parlor stove. Pretty crocheted doilies were scattered about on tables and the backs of chairs. Their old hound dog slept beneath the table, and as Will watched, Mr. Zuckerman reached down to give the fellow an absentminded scratch behind his ears.

The ache in his belly grew and spread. As silently as he’d slipped up to the window, Will backed away, then turned a resolute face toward his own home. Whatever he found when he stepped over the threshold, he would deal with it. He was no longer the mewling whelp of a boy prone to nightmares, or the scarecrow young man forced to work repugnant jobs for degrading wages so they wouldn’t be thrown out into the streets.