distance? What happened to protecting my heart?
“Wow.” I shook my head and attempted to hide the rush of warmth to my cheeks by turning to face the rack of metal shelves to my right.
“So you authenticate antiques? That’s what you do?”
“I used to do more work at dig sites.” He set the bottle back into the metal box and closed the lid. “But now I look at collections for auction houses or museums, anything from ancient BC to the Byzantine era.” A wisp of sadness flitted across his face and was gone.
I wondered if he missed being in the field.
“Do you have a leather fedora and a whip?” I asked him with a grin, trying to lighten the mood that had gone suddenly dark.
“That movie was about an archaeologist, not an art historian,” Simon said, but smiled. “Though I often thought I’d look good in a hat.”
“I could see that,” I said. With his muscled arms filling out the T-shirt and the scruff on his chin, Simon seemed rugged, as though he’d be right at home at an archaeological dig in the Montana badlands.
“What are you thinking, Rosetta?” A questioning smile slid across his face. “Are you imagining adventures in ancient ruins?”
“Something like that.” I pushed away from the table, eager to put distance between myself and Simon’s intoxicating closeness. “What else do you have in those mysterious crates?”
I stayed a few more minutes with Simon. We talked about the rest of the glassware in the crates, and he invited me to come back once they were all unpacked.
Striding down the path, my thoughts were at the cottage with Simon. A shadow figure flashed through the trees to my left. Startled, I glanced back at the cottage. Simon had shut the door and no one else was outside. The silence of the woods engulfed, broken only by the far off snap of a twig. Awareness spiked the hairs on my arms. Movement farther down caught my eye, and I started towards it, determined to debunk the wild thoughts quickening my pulse.
“Hello?” I stopped to listen, scanning the tree trunks for movement. There, in the distance, a flutter of blue low to the ground. “Hey!”
I picked through the woods trying to run, flip-flops slapping against my heels. Hampered by the thick growth and dense foliage, I dodged fallen trunks and nearly lopped off my head on a low branch. Dark clouds, visible through the thick canopy, mottled the sunlight and cast the floor of the woods in eerie shadows.
The blue figure pulled further away, flitting quickly around the trees as if running through nothing more than fog. I lost sight when it slipped behind a white rock far ahead.
I stopped dead, pulse pounding. I’d run headlong into an old cemetery. The white rocks were headstones amid a thicket of overgrown grass and brambles. Turning in a circle, I could hear my own pulse as I took in the rusted black fence and chipped cherub statue pouring imaginary water from a vessel on his shoulder. The only sound disrupting the unnatural stillness was my own labored breathing.
The cemetery must have been at least a hundred years old judging from the dates on the headstones and the wear on the rickety iron fence. A massive tree arched over the burial ground, its long branches weeping over the cracked and crumbling grave markers. Wind rattled the leaves and sent the grasses quivering against the bleached monuments to lives long past.
Movement pulled my gaze to the open gate. A little girl with raven hair and a light blue dress stood staring at me. I gasped and she cocked her head to the side, her blue eyes regarding me with curiosity.
“Are you all right?” she asked. Her slight accent reminded me of Simon’s.
“I—I.” I patted my heart, slowing my breath. “You must be Lavender?”
“Yes.” She curtsied daintily and smiled. “And you are?”
I smiled at her grown up demeanor.
“I’m Rosetta Ryan,” I said and squatted down to her eye level. “Why are you running out here in the woods all by
“Wow.” I shook my head and attempted to hide the rush of warmth to my cheeks by turning to face the rack of metal shelves to my right.
“So you authenticate antiques? That’s what you do?”
“I used to do more work at dig sites.” He set the bottle back into the metal box and closed the lid. “But now I look at collections for auction houses or museums, anything from ancient BC to the Byzantine era.” A wisp of sadness flitted across his face and was gone.
I wondered if he missed being in the field.
“Do you have a leather fedora and a whip?” I asked him with a grin, trying to lighten the mood that had gone suddenly dark.
“That movie was about an archaeologist, not an art historian,” Simon said, but smiled. “Though I often thought I’d look good in a hat.”
“I could see that,” I said. With his muscled arms filling out the T-shirt and the scruff on his chin, Simon seemed rugged, as though he’d be right at home at an archaeological dig in the Montana badlands.
“What are you thinking, Rosetta?” A questioning smile slid across his face. “Are you imagining adventures in ancient ruins?”
“Something like that.” I pushed away from the table, eager to put distance between myself and Simon’s intoxicating closeness. “What else do you have in those mysterious crates?”
I stayed a few more minutes with Simon. We talked about the rest of the glassware in the crates, and he invited me to come back once they were all unpacked.
Striding down the path, my thoughts were at the cottage with Simon. A shadow figure flashed through the trees to my left. Startled, I glanced back at the cottage. Simon had shut the door and no one else was outside. The silence of the woods engulfed, broken only by the far off snap of a twig. Awareness spiked the hairs on my arms. Movement farther down caught my eye, and I started towards it, determined to debunk the wild thoughts quickening my pulse.
“Hello?” I stopped to listen, scanning the tree trunks for movement. There, in the distance, a flutter of blue low to the ground. “Hey!”
I picked through the woods trying to run, flip-flops slapping against my heels. Hampered by the thick growth and dense foliage, I dodged fallen trunks and nearly lopped off my head on a low branch. Dark clouds, visible through the thick canopy, mottled the sunlight and cast the floor of the woods in eerie shadows.
The blue figure pulled further away, flitting quickly around the trees as if running through nothing more than fog. I lost sight when it slipped behind a white rock far ahead.
I stopped dead, pulse pounding. I’d run headlong into an old cemetery. The white rocks were headstones amid a thicket of overgrown grass and brambles. Turning in a circle, I could hear my own pulse as I took in the rusted black fence and chipped cherub statue pouring imaginary water from a vessel on his shoulder. The only sound disrupting the unnatural stillness was my own labored breathing.
The cemetery must have been at least a hundred years old judging from the dates on the headstones and the wear on the rickety iron fence. A massive tree arched over the burial ground, its long branches weeping over the cracked and crumbling grave markers. Wind rattled the leaves and sent the grasses quivering against the bleached monuments to lives long past.
Movement pulled my gaze to the open gate. A little girl with raven hair and a light blue dress stood staring at me. I gasped and she cocked her head to the side, her blue eyes regarding me with curiosity.
“Are you all right?” she asked. Her slight accent reminded me of Simon’s.
“I—I.” I patted my heart, slowing my breath. “You must be Lavender?”
“Yes.” She curtsied daintily and smiled. “And you are?”
I smiled at her grown up demeanor.
“I’m Rosetta Ryan,” I said and squatted down to her eye level. “Why are you running out here in the woods all by
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