Windswept (44 page)
Authors: Ann Macela
“Not today,” Davis told his son, then turned to his cousin. “Exactly what are you going to do in your encampment? We’re not set up for shooting firearms of any kind.” Davis didn’t know what kind of permits the event had, but he wasn’t going to have bullets flying around the kids.
“I know that,” Lloyd grumbled, while Davis breathed a sigh of relief. Then the general perked up to say, “We’re going to march and demonstrate how armies camped in the war. We also have permission to build a revetment—dig a trench and use the dirt for the wall—to repel an attack. We’ll remain totally in character when we talk to our visitors.”
Looking slightly harassed, Lloyd’s wife Grace came hurrying up. “Oh, here you are, dear. The reenactors need you. Something about fortifying the camp.”
“Duty calls,” Lloyd said pompously, and after a semi-salute, strutted off with Grace. Davis heard him mutter, “You must call me ‘general’ when I’m in uniform, honey.”
Davis shook his head. “How did we wind up with a cousin like that?”
“Walker blood,” Bill answered. “We weren’t going to let the ‘regiment’ take part until we all realized it would keep Lloyd busy.”
“Let us hope,” Davis said fervently.
***
At noon, after presentation of the colors by the honor guard of local veterans, and welcomes by the head of the State Parks Office and the mayor, Davis took the microphone.
“Thank you all for coming today. We’re here to raise money for hurricane relief, and I’m happy to report that all of the ticket and raffle proceeds, your donations, and half of what you spend with the vendors will go to that worthy cause. Our purpose is fitting because this plantation, Windswept, received that name after it was almost blown away in a storm in the early 1800s.
“My grandfather, Edgar Preston Jamison, whose one-hundredth birthday we celebrate today, was determined to leave the house and surrounding land to the state on his death. Granddaddy had a great love of history, and his stories and tales brought it alive to me and my cousins.
“Please take advantage of the opportunity to learn about everything from plantation cooking and gardening to how soldiers lived in the field. We have people who can help you with hurricane preparedness. For those of you suffering from the lack of football, some pro players will be running plays in which all ages can participate. For those of you still able to move after all this, tonight we’ll have a dance. Local merchants and organizations have also contributed goods and services which will be raffled off both days. Please, folks, be generous. All proceeds will go to help those in need. All the Jamisons thank you for coming.”
***
That night, the smaller cousins had been taken back to Taylor and Corinne’s for a slumber party when the adults and teenagers gathered for the dance. A band capable of playing all sorts of music, from zydeco to swing to fox trots to square dance and more, quickly drew people onto the large floor that had been constructed in one of the parking lots. Candles in hurricane glasses, electric lanterns, and strings of colored lights helped create an ambiance of festivity, and soon everyone was having a good time.
Barrett found herself an object of attention, not so much as a dancing partner, but as someone to be pumped about a variety of subjects—Davis’s investment firm, her own history books, plantation life over the last two centuries, and her brother Mark’s plans after retiring from professional football.
Phooey! Where was Davis when she wanted to dance? The words had no sooner formed in her mind than she heard a familiar tune, and Davis stood in front of her, as tall, dark, handsome as the day they met, and now with a sly smile on his lips.
“I believe they’re playing our song,” he murmured and drew her into his arms and into the seductive rhythms and steps of a tango.
Their song, indeed. She’d fallen under his spell the first time they danced a tango. After ten years of marriage, still entranced by her husband, she surrendered to the music, the dance, and the man.
When he lifted her from the low dip at the end, Davis held her close for a few seconds and whispered, “If we could only leave . . .”
“I know,” Barrett sighed, “but that’s the problem when you’re the host.”
“Remind me the next time we throw a party, it will be in our own house.”
“Like the first one I attended there?” She grinned at him, and he returned it.
“Oh, yes, I remember it vividly,” he murmured and gave her a little kiss.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, get a room,” Bill teased as he and Teresa came up with preliminary numbers.
Barrett laughed while Davis glared at his brother, and they became hosts again.
***
By noon on Sunday, Davis was beginning to relax. The crowd was a little larger than yesterday, sales and raffles were going well, and all were enjoying themselves.
He let himself be talked into running a few football plays with Mark and his football buddies and all of the kids around. What a blast that was! Especially when he showed his boys how to stuff the football under their T-shirts while he faked a pass. They both scored a touchdown! Thanks to the adults looking the other way, of course.
Davis was heading for the cold drinks and maybe a bowl of gumbo when one of the reenactors came running up. The man was covered with dirt and grass stains.
“Mr. Jamison, come quick!” he panted. “We found a coffin!”
“What? Where?” Davis asked as, at a jog, he followed the man back the way he had come.
“We were digging to build our revetment, and there it was. Lloyd . . . uh, I mean, General Walker sent me to find you.”
“Holy . . .” Davis scanned the crowd. “Taylor!”
When his cousin caught up with him, Davis said, “This fellow says that Lloyd and his men found a coffin. Find a couple of our police security and bring them to the reenactors’ camp.”
Taylor went off on the errand, and Davis and his guide continued to the field where Lloyd’s cohorts were digging a trench close to the fence and tree line.
Lloyd, still immaculate in his uniform, stood at the head of the trench. Inside it, about three feet down, three men shoveled dirt out of the hole. They stopped when they saw Davis.
“What do you have, Lloyd?” Davis asked as he approached.
“See for yourself.” Lloyd pointed down.
In the bottom of the trench the men had uncovered a rectangular metal box that appeared to be about two feet wide and six feet long. It might have been a coffin, but it looked more like a crate for moving or storage.
“Can you get it out of there?” Davis asked.
“Long as it’s not too heavy,” one of the diggers said. “We can see the bottom edge.”
The law arrived in the person of the St. Gregoryville chief of police. George Wheeler took in the situation and told the men to see if they could raise the box. Then he ordered the deputy he’d brought with him to get the crowd back to a manageable distance.
“Some of you help the deputy,” Lloyd commanded his men before turning eagerly to Davis. “What do you think it is? A body? Pieces of the family silver? Treasure from a raid on the Yankees?”
“You’re letting your imagination get the better of you,” Davis replied. Trust it to Lloyd to come up with fanciful tales. After all, he had been the one who kept yelling about a “terrible secret” hiding in the plantation papers. Davis doubted they had the same situation here.
Barrett and Grace came running up, and he quickly filled them in. Barrett frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t remember any comment in the papers or journals about something buried in the fields.”
The troops brought ropes to slide under each end, and those in the hole heaved on their shovels to free the crate. After some adjustment and with a certain amount of cursing, they lifted the crate out.
An old-fashioned lock held the metal hasp closed.
“Can you break that lock, Melvin?” Lloyd asked as a trooper came forward with a crowbar.
“Yeah, the metal’s rusted and pretty thin. I think it’s only a metal skin with wood underneath. Don’t stink, so I don’t think there’s a body here.”
“Get on with it, man,” Lloyd growled.
A couple of men held the box in place, and Melvin slid the crowbar under the hasp and pulled. With a
creeeeeaaaaaaak
and a
snap!
the lock flew off.
“Stand back, men!” Lloyd pushed himself to the front.
Davis stood by the police chief and watched Lloyd get his gloves dirty as he tugged on the top—and nothing budged.
Melvin took pity on his commanding officer and used the crowbar again to work on the lid. The top gave way grudgingly and finally flopped open.
The first thing everyone saw was gray-green oilcloth tied together through metal grommets. Exactly as Edgar’s and Mary Maude’s journals had been. Davis stared as Barrett gasped and grabbed his arm.
Lloyd pulled a knife and cut the twine, then flipped back the oilcloth.
A sigh, then a laugh rippled around the audience.
Inside were a very rusted musket, a badly dinged and dull cavalry sword, some wooden guns, a Confederate hat and a Yankee one, a variety of toys, and, last but not least, a good pile of Confederate money.
“Looks like some of the younger Jamison boys played here at one time,” Chief Wheeler remarked.
“Let’s hope this is the last secret of Windswept Plantation,” Barrett said.
“And,” Davis added, “we can tell Preston we did find a treasure.”
The Absolute End
Books by Ann Macela
The Magic Series
This award-winning, contemporary paranormal series revolves around people who call themselves magic practitioners and use magic in their work. Have you ever seen someone do his or her job, be it carpentry to computer programming to playing an instrument, and you have no idea how they are so good at it? Well, maybe they’re using magic . . .
If you could cast a magic spell to help you with your everyday job, what would it be?
The Oldest Kind of Magic
Do You Believe In Magic?
Your Magic Or Mine?
Wild Magic
Unexpected Magic
Legendary Magic
Windswept
, a contemporary romance with a historical twist
All are available as e-books.
WINDSWEPT Awards
Winner, 2008 Best Romance, Small Press, Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Awards
Winner, Single Title Romance, The Lories Best Published Contest, From The Heart Romance Writers
Winner, Single Title, The Beacon Contest, First Coast Romance Writers
Winner, Long Contemporary, Volusia County Romance Writers, Laurel Wreath Contest
Finalist, Colorado Romance Writers Award of Excellence Contest.
Finalist, National Readers’ Choice Award, Oklahoma Romance Writers of America
TOP FIVE of the 2009 HOLT Medallion Best Southern Theme Category, Virginia Romance Writers.
Finalist, Single Title, Aspen Gold, Heart of Denver Romance Writers
About the Author
Hi, I’m Ann Macela, and I write enchanting, smart, and sensual contemporary romance and contemporary light paranormal romance. Sometimes with a touch of humor, sometimes with a little sorrow, always with passion and emotion.
My award-winning Magic Series is about a group of people who can cast spells to help them with their everyday jobs. Wouldn’t you like to have an ability that would help you type faster, make accurate change, fix the plumbing, or grow flowers and vegetables? Or whatever it is that you do? And these people, who call themselves practitioners, are guaranteed to find their soul mates. Ready or not, and whether or not they want one at that particular moment. As the series progresses, the magic gets more complicated and so do the relationships. Included in the series are the last two in the series, never before published.
Windswept
won the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best Romance, Small Press, 2008, and several other awards. Writing this standalone contemporary with a historical twist took me back to my first love, the study of history, and it definitely shows off my Texas roots. There’s a terrible secret in the papers of the Windswept Plantation . . .
I’m a native Gulf Coast Texan, now living in The Frozen North of Chicagoland. I started life reading mysteries, then sci-fi and fantasy. When I discovered romances, I saw a way to combine all the aspects of books that I liked into my own stories. And what a welcome difference from writing computer manuals--my old job and which has no magic about it at all.
Let me know what you think of my stories. Contact me either at [email protected] or [email protected]
My website is www.AnnMacela.com and you can find me on Facebook, too.
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