“Come here,” she whispered.
Jake crouched behind her. Carved into the bench was a picture he’d seen before—four five-petal flowers with rounded petals and two concentric circles in the center of each, connected by stems with three leaves. Crude block characters curved around one side of the wreath, spelling out “M ARIAH 1852.”
His long, low whistle split the shadows, eclipsing Emily’s gasp. “What do you know about the Underground Railroad, Miss Foster?”
September 2, 1852
Water lilies brushed the sides of the canoe with a soft whisper. Quiet, yet more noise than Liam would have liked. The night was still. A chill hung over the moonlit river in clouds of low fog, engulfing him in thick gray mist one moment then dropping like a sheet falling from a clothesline the next. Paddling just enough to steer clear of the bank, he combed the river’s edge with seasoned eyes. His newly rifled musket rested on his thigh. A dozen minié balls rattled in his pocket like a handful of lead acorns. But the weapon that fit his hands as if he’d been born with two fingers attached to the string nestled beside him like a trusty hound. Balancing his paddle across his knees, he reached over his shoulder and stroked the turkey fletching of an arrow pulled out, ready and waiting, from the others in his quiver.
Soon
. A half mile ahead, a clearing created a gathering place. As the deer nibbled on the lily pads and stems, he would find the young buck that had eluded him for three nights.
He shifted his cramped legs, inadvertently grazing the traps with his boot. Chains rattled. Liam gritted his teeth. Ten more yards and he’d pass Hannah’s porch. No one should have to travel at night in this dampness that seeped through buckskin like it was parchment.
With a deep breath for courage, he let his gaze travel the riverbank to the porch. Two rugs hung over the railing. His heart missed two beats. His stomach felt as though he’d swallowed the bullets in his breast pocket.
He would be back tomorrow night.
C HAPTER 5
E mily still sat on the low, scarred bench, rubbing her arms for warmth. Leaning back against the rock wall, she tried to separate logical thought from the fanciful musings of the man who had just left.
She regretted the “significance” remark. Though the feeling hadn’t left, it made her sound melodramatic. And it had fed Jake’s imagination. Like the ink blots framed as modern art on the walls in Vanessa’s office, this room could be whatever a person wanted it to be. She, a preschool teacher in her former life, saw a coatroom filled with giggling children and muddy boots. Jake Braden, the history buff, saw it as a secret hideaway for runaway slaves. He’d rattled on and on about abolitionists known to live in Rochester, and documented letters proving the village had been a temporary sanctuary for fugitives from the South. But they’d searched every inch of the room before he left and it gave no clues of its previous life other than the flower and a woman’s name.
Had Nana Grace known about this room? Emily pictured the woman who’d always reminded her of a giant pillow cinched in the middle. Shoulders wide for a woman, a puffy chest that could smother an unsuspecting child, and she was even wider at the bottom. Grace Ostermann’s generous hourglass figure could never have squeezed into this space.
Jake seemed to think that none of the previous owners knew anything about it, or they’d kept its stories secret. More than likely, the room’s origin and history was simply nothing worth sharing. A root cellar or storeroom dating back to the 1840s was interesting, but not something people would pay to see.
Pay to see
. The thought lodged in her brain like a tree damming a river.
He wouldn’t…
Why hadn’t she told Jake not to tell anyone about this? Within hours, the place could be swarming with curious neighbors and little old ladies from the
Jake crouched behind her. Carved into the bench was a picture he’d seen before—four five-petal flowers with rounded petals and two concentric circles in the center of each, connected by stems with three leaves. Crude block characters curved around one side of the wreath, spelling out “M ARIAH 1852.”
His long, low whistle split the shadows, eclipsing Emily’s gasp. “What do you know about the Underground Railroad, Miss Foster?”
September 2, 1852
Water lilies brushed the sides of the canoe with a soft whisper. Quiet, yet more noise than Liam would have liked. The night was still. A chill hung over the moonlit river in clouds of low fog, engulfing him in thick gray mist one moment then dropping like a sheet falling from a clothesline the next. Paddling just enough to steer clear of the bank, he combed the river’s edge with seasoned eyes. His newly rifled musket rested on his thigh. A dozen minié balls rattled in his pocket like a handful of lead acorns. But the weapon that fit his hands as if he’d been born with two fingers attached to the string nestled beside him like a trusty hound. Balancing his paddle across his knees, he reached over his shoulder and stroked the turkey fletching of an arrow pulled out, ready and waiting, from the others in his quiver.
Soon
. A half mile ahead, a clearing created a gathering place. As the deer nibbled on the lily pads and stems, he would find the young buck that had eluded him for three nights.
He shifted his cramped legs, inadvertently grazing the traps with his boot. Chains rattled. Liam gritted his teeth. Ten more yards and he’d pass Hannah’s porch. No one should have to travel at night in this dampness that seeped through buckskin like it was parchment.
With a deep breath for courage, he let his gaze travel the riverbank to the porch. Two rugs hung over the railing. His heart missed two beats. His stomach felt as though he’d swallowed the bullets in his breast pocket.
He would be back tomorrow night.
C HAPTER 5
E mily still sat on the low, scarred bench, rubbing her arms for warmth. Leaning back against the rock wall, she tried to separate logical thought from the fanciful musings of the man who had just left.
She regretted the “significance” remark. Though the feeling hadn’t left, it made her sound melodramatic. And it had fed Jake’s imagination. Like the ink blots framed as modern art on the walls in Vanessa’s office, this room could be whatever a person wanted it to be. She, a preschool teacher in her former life, saw a coatroom filled with giggling children and muddy boots. Jake Braden, the history buff, saw it as a secret hideaway for runaway slaves. He’d rattled on and on about abolitionists known to live in Rochester, and documented letters proving the village had been a temporary sanctuary for fugitives from the South. But they’d searched every inch of the room before he left and it gave no clues of its previous life other than the flower and a woman’s name.
Had Nana Grace known about this room? Emily pictured the woman who’d always reminded her of a giant pillow cinched in the middle. Shoulders wide for a woman, a puffy chest that could smother an unsuspecting child, and she was even wider at the bottom. Grace Ostermann’s generous hourglass figure could never have squeezed into this space.
Jake seemed to think that none of the previous owners knew anything about it, or they’d kept its stories secret. More than likely, the room’s origin and history was simply nothing worth sharing. A root cellar or storeroom dating back to the 1840s was interesting, but not something people would pay to see.
Pay to see
. The thought lodged in her brain like a tree damming a river.
He wouldn’t…
Why hadn’t she told Jake not to tell anyone about this? Within hours, the place could be swarming with curious neighbors and little old ladies from the
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