Night's Landing (35 page)

He heard laughter drifting from the front porch. Stuart, Betsy, Rob. For a heartbeat, he thought he could hear Granny and Leola and Violet.

Sarah’s eyes misted. “Dad’s not as energetic as he used to be. You can see him starting to fail.”

“Your mother wasn’t tempted, Sarah,” Wes said softly, knowing what was on Sarah’s mind. “Not even for a second. I was here when she and your father met. I’ve been here all the years since. Nicholas Janssen was never a threat to what they have.”

She nodded. “I know. Oh, Wes. Leola and Violet would be so proud of you. They never wanted you to leave Night’s Landing, but the White House….” She smiled. “They’d have liked that. They’d have taken the train to Washington and gone to all the inaugural balls.”

He laughed. “Ah, yes, they would have.” And he could see them, the two strong, loving, impossible women who’d raised him. “I never believed their story about a Huck-Finn-type boy living on the river, did you?”

“I could never corroborate it. I wasn’t sure I never believed it.”

“He was in the cave that day?”

“I think so. The snake might have left the cave because of him.”

“Sarah…” He started back toward the house, the laughter of friends he’d taken for granted for far too long. “I’m flying back to Washington tonight.”

“After supper. I’m thawing a prune cake.”

Granny’s prune cake. He adored these people. “I love you, Sarah. You are truly the daughter Ev and I never had. I’m convening a press conference tomorrow morning. Wherever you want to be is fine with me. I just wanted to warn you that the proverbial shit is about to hit the fan. The media’s going to want to talk to you even more than they do now about our friendship.”

“I think—” She walked next to him and hooked her arm into his. “If I get a move on it, I’ll bet I could be in Cold Ridge tomorrow morning.”

“Cold Ridge, eh?” He grinned at her, loving her as much, he thought, as he could love any daughter he’d had. “Take your woolens. It’s still winter up there. Although from what I hear about you and Deputy Winter,” he added devilishly, “you won’t need any woolens to keep you warm.”

Nate warmed his hands in front of the stone fireplace in the brick house Abraham Winter, an ancestor, had built and where his brother-in-law, Tyler North, had grown up. North had broken open a six-pack. He was on leave for a few days. Carine was off taking pictures.

North, a skilled combat paramedic, had wanted to know all about the snakebites. He was the sort of guy who understood catching poisonous snakes for fun. He’d already said—more than once—that he thought he’d like Sarah Dunnemore.

“Gus tell you?” North got two frosted glasses out of the freezer, which were his new wife’s doing, since he was a drink-from-the-bottle type, and poured the beer. “Antonia’s having a girl.”

Nate hadn’t heard, but it seemed so natural, his oldest sister as the mother of a baby girl. Yet, less than a year ago, she’d convinced herself that she and Hank Callahan would never make it. She’d immersed herself in her work for years. All three Winter siblings had.

“I don’t trust myself,” Nate said abruptly, staring into the fire North had started to take the chill out of the air.

Ty handed him an icy glass of beer. “With women or with babies?”

“Both.”

“Who does? Just don’t think too hard.” North took a sip of his own beer and tossed another log onto the fire. “You wait as long to find the right woman as we have, it’s easy to think too much.”

“Where do you get the ‘we’?”

North grinned at him. “Come on. You’ve all but carved little hearts onto the ridge over your Ph.D. in Tennessee.”

“Jesus, North. Hearts.” Nate drank some of his beer, not really tasting it. “You and Carine. Any regrets?”

“Yeah. Loads. She’d never have gotten that goddamn puppy if I hadn’t gone and done it. Puppy’s related to Stump. She digs. Carine insisted it was a Gus thing, but it’s a Stump thing.”

Getting a serious answer out of Ty North could be a chore. But he finally sat in front of the fire and got quiet as he stared into the flames. He’d grown up in the sprawling house with an eccentric, artistic mother who’d ended up leaving it, fifty acres and an unexpected trust fund to him. Nate had sat with him here, in front of the fire, countless times over the years, before North had decided to take up with the youngest of the Winter orphans.

Nate finished his beer. “North?”

“I keep telling myself if Hank can stand it, I can. He lost a child.”

“What?”

North sighed. “Carine’s expecting.”

“A baby? Carine?”

“Yeah. A baby.”

Nate thought of both of his younger sisters as mothers, thought of his own mother. Even now, more than thirty years after her death, he could hear her singing, feel her breath against his cheek as she’d kissed him good-night. And his father. The firefighter. The rock.

A wife, babies, puppies, a regular life—Nate had rejected them all for himself. He told himself it was because of the work he did, but that was an excuse. Half the reason he’d chosen his work—half the reason he’d started volunteering his first day on the job for the most dangerous assignments—was because it gave him a reason to skirt any kind of commitment to having a family of his own. He was the eldest of three orphans. That was enough.

“Congratulations,” he told his brother-in-law.

“Thanks. Carine hasn’t told Gus yet.” North grinned suddenly. “He might kill me yet.”

Sarah stood shivering in a freezing store with soft wooden floors and a very fit white-haired man who was piling a bench with everything she needed to hike Cold Ridge in the middle of May. It was a frightening amount. A moisture-wicking lightweight top, a fleece pullover, moisture-wicking hiking pants, a waterproof jacket, waterproof pants, wool socks. Day pack, water bottles. Boots. He dragged out six pairs of boots for her to try on while he added a flashlight, a compass, maps, waterproof matches, gloves and a hat to her pile.

“Why do I need a flashlight?” she asked. “I’m only doing a day hike.”

“You never know.”

“And the hat and gloves? It’s spring.”

He looked at her as if he just knew she was a mountain rescue in the making. “It’s forty-one degrees on the ridge.”

“Oh. Well. Make sure those are warm gloves.” She chose the cheapest pair of boots that passed his suitability test. “But, honestly, if there are no poisonous snakes on the ridge, then I’m good.”

He didn’t crack a smile.

Only when she signed her credit card bill did she notice the name of the place. Gus & Smitty’s. “Are you Gus Winter?”

Now he smiled. “Yes, Dr. Dunnemore, I am.”

“Just Sarah is fine. How—”

“You’ve been all over the news.” His expression softened. “Everyone in America now knows what historical archaeology is.”

She’d skipped much of the media coverage of her family and their relationship to Violet and Leola Poe and the child they’d raised who was now president, and Wes and her mother’s relationship to Nicholas Janssen—and what the media and authorities had pieced together on his criminal activities.

She’d learned all she wanted to know about John Wesley Poe, aka Conroy Fontaine. He’d disappeared from his home near Memphis after his mother died when he was sixteen. No one had any idea what had happened to him until he turned up dead of a cottonmouth bite in Night’s Landing fifteen years later.

Sarah had lain awake one night, remembering a conversation she’d had with Leola and Violet about the Huck Finn boy they maintained was living on the river.
He won’t let us help him. He won’t let anyone help him
.

Every reporter in America was back to trying to find the one clue that would tell them who President John Wesley Poe’s biological parents really were. There was nothing.

Sarah’s relationship with him and the women who’d raised him was analyzed and dissected, her academic career and her various projects on the Poe house and the people who’d lived there were explored—but she’d refused all interviews. Her work on the Poes was now in the hands of the Poe Trust. When the house opened to the public as an historic site, she would visit it only as a tourist.

It was time for her to move on.

Gus Winter cleared his throat, pulling her out of her thoughts. “You don’t want to climb the ridge alone, especially not this time of year. Nate’s over at the house. He’s been hiking every day since he got here. He’s in good shape.”

“They say he’s good at tracking people. One of the best.” Sarah handed over her signed receipt and gathered up the two big bags of gear. They barely cleared her chin. She smiled at Nate’s uncle, the man who’d raised three orphans on his own. He was younger than her own mother. “Let him track me if he wants to.”

She borrowed a pair of scissors and ducked into the changing room. She cut off all the tags of her new gear, then peeled off her travel clothes and put on the primary layer of her hiking clothes. She glanced in the full-length mirror. Not very attractive, but they’d do.

“Where is the ridge?” she asked Gus Winter on her way out.

He blinked at her. “It’s above you.”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “I mean the trail.”

He gave her directions to a brick house out of town—Carine and North’s place, he said—and told her to turn left past it and follow the signs.

She did, and within an hour of tramping up the trail, she’d decided spring took way too long to get to New Hampshire.

It was just plain
cold
.

But the rock formations, the tiny new leaves fluttering in the midday sun, the crystal-clear streams—and the views—were incredible. As she climbed higher, Sarah stopped every few feet to look out at the valley and the surrounding mountains. It was a clear, bright, cool, magnificent day.

When she got closer to the tree line, the wind picked up, whipping her face, blowing across the gnarled, squat evergreens and struggling new grasses. There were pockets of snow in the rocks above her. She put on her hat and her gloves and bundled up in her fleece, thinking that in Tennessee, she’d be on the front porch, having barbecue and strawberry pie with her family. Gus Winter had tossed a half-dozen power bars into her pack. They did not rival prune cake, fried apricot pies, squash casserole—

She stopped her train of thought and rested a moment on a rounded boulder in the middle of the trail.

When she’d left last night for New Hampshire, her mother had hugged her for longer than usual. It was enough. Nothing more needed to be said between them. If the Dutch police hadn’t found them, she believed Conroy’s man would have killed them. But he’d given up without a struggle. Authorities were still interviewing him.

Nicholas Janssen had intercepted her, courted her, stalked her. He had his own agenda, his own plan for obtaining a pardon—for wooing the girl he’d known in college.

Her mother had been horrified, shaken, when she learned that the army captain who’d told her Nicholas was facing prosecution in the United States for tax evasion had turned up murdered. That the man fishing on the dock that day in early April was Charlene Brooker’s husband.

She simply hadn’t known, she said.

Wes Poe had arranged transportation to the Nashville airport. Sarah’s father had walked her to the car. “The worst part about being held captive was thinking not just that we’d never see you and Rob again, but that you’d have to live with the knowledge of what happened to us.” He’d paused, his eyes shining. “I didn’t want you to have that burden.”

Sarah thought she understood what it was to want to spare someone else a burden, to want to ease a burden from someone else’s shoulders—and that it couldn’t always be done, not just because it was impossible, but because that experience was a part of who that person had become.

Which she didn’t have to explain to her father. He knew.

She’d spent the night at an airport hotel, rented a car early that morning and arrived at Gus & Smitty’s in time to spend a fortune.

She experienced a wobble of vertigo as she looked off one side of her boulder, down into the valley, much greener than it was up high. The wind whistled in the cracks and crevices of her granite surroundings.

She hoped Nate would get on with tracking her down.

But his uncle had outfitted her for the conditions, and she could scoot down the trail, back amongst tall trees, if the wind picked up and she really started to feel the cold.

She took another bite of her power bar and washed it down with water, but she’d noticed a pleasant-looking diner when she was in the village of Cold Ridge. She’d rather get off the ridge and eat there.

When she climbed down off her boulder and turned to resume her ascent, Nate was there above her, sitting on a ledge as if she’d conjured him out of the thin mountain air.

He leaned back against another boulder and didn’t say a word as she made her way up to him. He had on scuffed boots, hiking pants, a black fleece—no hat, no gloves. And no gun, she thought. The horrors of the sniper attack and Conroy’s manipulations were slowly receding.

“How did you get ahead of me?” she asked. “Did you drop out of a helicopter?”

“With an ex-pilot and a pararescueman in the family, I suppose I could have. But you’d have heard a helicopter.”

“I don’t know. With this wind, I might not have.”

But he’d found a spot sheltered from the wind, still and quiet as she sat next to him.

“There’s more than one way up here,” he said.

“Then you weren’t already here. You saw your uncle—”

“He said he did what he could to make sure you wouldn’t be fined for recklessness when he had to come pluck you off the ridge. I told him not to underestimate you.” He moved in closer, and she had the feeling if she scooted away from him even an inch, she’d fall off into oblivion. “It’s easier to track a woman who wants to be found than a fugitive who doesn’t.”

“Well, I did narrow your options.”

He smiled and touched the corner of her mouth with his thumb. “I’ve missed you.”

“Good, because I wasn’t sure if I was crazy—” She caught his wrist in her hand and slipped her fingers into his. “Sometimes it’s hard to know what of that week was real and what wasn’t.”