The Treasure Hunter's Lady by Allison Merritt Page B

harmless.
    Romy looked away from fang, staring at her bedroom door, but not seeing it. Papa had sold so much of their equipment. She didn't think there was any machinery left for carbon dating and nowhere to set it up if she had it. Frustration made her frown. For the first time, she wished they were back in England where she had contacts who could do some tests on the thing. Here on this continent, she didn't know any scientists.
    What few things he'd kept from their exploring days—which was very little—were still packed in boxes and stored in a corner of his room. She set the fang aside and reached for the dressing gown lying across the end of the bed.
    She respected Papa's privacy, but she wanted her tools. Surely he hadn't thrown away a lifetime of memories just because of one little slip up. A double pang of guilt jangled her nerves. Innocent lives warranted more respect than calling their loss a slip up. Those men had believed in Papa's mission. The harder he tried to forget who he was, the more determined she was that they should continue to document the past and the present. Starting with this fang and the legend of the Serpent.
    With her chin up, she marched down the hall and straight into Papa's room. It was stark, with heavy drapes and a bed barely big enough for one person. A scarred wooden trunk sat at the foot of it. There were no photographs, no paintings, not even a decorative rug to cover the stone tiles on the floor. But there were two wooden crates stamped with Papa's initials.
    The palms of Romy's hands itched as she anticipated reaching in and pulling out the tool kit he'd given her for her fifteenth birthday. The wooden-handled brushes were from his first set, re-bristled just for her. Rock hammers and chisels were dinged and dented from years of use. How she’d missed the familiar objects.
    He hadn't bothered to lock the crates, as though he believed she'd never sneak into his room to retrieve them. Papa's word had always been set in stone if she wanted to continue to travel with him. She'd taken it seriously until now. She had nothing left to lose.
    The first crate contained leather-bound journals with pages full of animals and plants unique to certain places in the world. She'd drawn so many of the illustrations in those books. It was bittersweet to pick them up and flip through pages crinkled from moisture and stained with soil, bits of animal fur or sticky plant residue. She smiled at the childish drawing of an arctic fox folded and tucked between two pages about Upper Canada her father had written.
    One chronicle close to the top had a rusty red fingerprint on the corner.
    Blood.
    An icy ball of sickness formed in her stomach. She didn't know whose blood it was and didn't want to know. She placed another journal over it, hiding it from view. These precious books that detailed all the trips weren't what she wanted anyway.
    The lid to the other crate was tighter and it took her a minute to pry it up. Her sadness evaporated when she saw the waterproof canvas bag that had accompanied her since she was a little girl. Her name was inked in careful block letters at the top, faded from years of exposure to the elements. Tears of joy blurred her vision when she pulled it out.
    Romy unfastened the clasp holding the pack shut. The tangy scent of leather from an almost-new pair of gloves filled her nose. It was like being greeted by an old friend. Heaven help her, she'd missed her things and her old life.
    A smaller book found its way into her hands; her personal diary of the trip along the Amazon—right up until the night before their disaster. Romy closed her eyes and remembered the rainy scent of the jungle and the itch of mosquito bites on her neck. The banter of the men as they paddled down the green-brown waters, happy to be on their way to food and a night's rest. The diary fell open to the pages marked with a frayed satin ribbon and a column of flowing handwriting.
    Mr. Farrar and I regret that