“After that boy she dated disappeared. Well, it’s a shame he left town so suddenly. My boy and she were friends. He was in the same class at school and knew about the arguments her boyfriend had with his father. As I told Ms. Paterson, I heard he went into the army. Never came back. I imagine he’s dead.” She lifted a hand to her mouth, flustered. “Oh, I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean…”
Caitlin filled the embarrassed silence as Holt dropped his gaze to his plate. “Since we talked, have ye remembered his name?”
Mrs. Smith shook her head. “James, I think. Or John. My boy would have known it, of course, but he was killed in the desert years ago.” She glanced at the photo on the windowsill.
“I’m so sorry,” Holt choked out. He was surprised he could speak around the lump in his throat and the thrumming in his chest. Dr. Coates was Jim Coates. James. Mrs. Smith had probably just confirmed Caitlin’s story. His disappointment in her evaporated like the echoes of distant thunder. But she also added another wrinkle, one he needed to think about. What should he do with this information?
“I am, too,” Mrs. Smith answered, “and sorry I can’t be certain of his name. Perhaps someone who lived in town then might know. One of your mother’s old classmates, perhaps. Were you able to contact any of them?”
Holt shook his head. “I met one of mine, but he didn’t know anything useful. He’d seen some of my mother’s friends— or coworkers— but not for years. I haven’t tried to find anyone else. I’m not sure where I would start.” He didn’t count Doc Coates. They had the doc’s story— or thought they did.
Suddenly, Caitlin reared back in her chair. “I know! Most schools do a book— a yearbook, aye? And keep previous classes’ editions? If we can find one of those…”
“The school Mr. Ridley’s mother attended was torn down years ago,” Farrell informed them.
“Maybe the local library has copies.”
Caitlin’s sudden enthusiasm was infectious. Holt nodded. “Worth a try.” He smiled at Caitlin, feeling lighter than he had since blowing up at her yesterday. She smiled back. Then thunder rumbled, closer again and he glanced up toward the ceiling. “Tomorrow, not today.”
* * *
The next morning, Holt tried to focus on work, staring at his laptop screen until the words displayed on it should have been burned into his brain. His ability to concentrate was one of his greatest strengths and one of the reasons his business was so successful. But he had a problem. A pretty, auburn-haired, feisty, Scottish lass of a problem. The one who insisted on working in the office at the big table, where, she said, she could spread out her notes and see everything at a glance. And the one who drew his gaze and his thoughts like a magnet. A powerful magnet. Yet she seemed to have no problem at all ignoring his presence, judging by the rustling of paper and tapping of keys on her laptop. The considerately muted sounds coming from that side of the room sounded like a symphony that…damn it…even thunder couldn’t compete with her presence.
Meals, breaks. They couldn’t get away from each other, thanks to the stormy weather. He suspected she knew exactly what she was doing, messing with him and paying him back for accusing her of fraud. Not that he didn’t deserve serious payback. He couldn’t deny he’d flown off the proverbial handle. If he’d gone along with her DNA testing idea from the beginning, the question of his paternity might be solved by now.
He glanced at Caitlin, relieved that she seemed focused on her work. He studied her, imagining what life with her could be like, what their children might look like. And wondering how many she wanted to have.
And whether being involved with him really would put her in danger from some 18th-century Scottish curse. He’d laugh it off, but for those old pictures and the sad faces, despite the holiday trappings that surrounded them. Unlike the usual stoic expressions common to early photography, when the subject had to hold a pose for an inordinate amount of time, many of these eyes reflected grief and tragedy— or so he imagined.
He’d been with her when they’d opened that chest, and from its condition, it hadn’t been opened in decades. No, she hadn’t faked those pictures. Or the carving in the apothecary cabinet that was the source of all their disquiet.
Caitlin had arrived only a day or two before he had. And Mrs. Smith and Farrell separately confirmed she had been unaware of the attic space, and when they’d told her about it, her reaction had been genuine surprise and excitement. There hadn’t been time for her to do anything so elaborate as a hoax involving that apothecary cabinet. He’d run his fingers over the carving. Even taken a few of his own photos. It was real. And perhaps all the misery that had followed his family down through the generations really had started there.
He was used to people trying to swindle him. He’d developed his suspicious nature the hard way— by being taken advantage of by people who only had their eyes on his money or his power.
And while he didn’t know either Farrell or Mrs. Smith before he arrived here, his mother had spoken fondly of Mrs. Smith, even after the gazebo incident when her aunt had banished them from ever setting foot on the property. Mrs. Smith would not be involved in any plot. He’d bet his fortune on it.
In fact, he was.
He sighed and turned his thoughts to the man Caitlin supposed might be his father. She insisted there was a resemblance, though Holt agreed with Caitlin’s supposition. He had always been told he took after his mother. He was starting to look forward to proof about his father.
Did he even want a father? He’d been without one his whole life. He didn’t know how to be a son to a man who’d been absent since before he was born. The thought made him angry at himself for buying into the soft-headed idea, at the man for leaving his mother, and at Caitlin for opening this whole can of worms. But damn if he didn’t admire her tenacity. And creativity. He’d never thought to research his mother’s past. He’d just wanted to get as far from anything to do with it and with this place as he could. That had been a mistake.
He looked at Caitlin, working away at her desk by the window, pausing to flip pages in her notes, then tap-tap-tapping some more, oblivious to the disquiet she’d created in him. He didn’t know what to do about Ms. Caitlin Paterson, but despite all of it, the one thing he didn’t want to do was to go back to living without her. She irritated him. Challenged him. Questioned everything about him, his very parentage included. He should want her gone. Now. Today. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
It made no sense. She’d added to the confusion in his life. Confusion he didn’t need amplified. His great-aunt had turned his life on its head years ago, before it was barely started, and again with her damned bequest. And then Caitlin with her curiosity and her Scottish myths and legends. His curse. Seriously? In this day and age, what was he supposed to do with that? But the carving. The stereographs. His mother’s beliefs. His family history, what little he knew of it.
Caitlin thought the solution was simple. Send one old cabinet back to Scotland andvoilà, centuries of misery would end, just like that. And he’d live happily ever after. With someone.
Sure.
But what if she was right? What if the curse was real? Could he end it? And by doing so, could he have her and keep her safe? And keep her in his life? Talk about a Christmas miracle.
He cleared his throat, and Caitlin looked up. She smiled at him. Then her gaze returned to her work.
Holt’s chest squeezed at that smile. So like her to forget she should be furious with him. For a moment, at least.
CHAPTER11
