“Hi, Dylan,” Nessa said as she approached him with her two students. In her hands was a large, black flashlight.
Dylan’s eyes drank her in. She was the type of woman who could wear a potato sack and still have him lusting after her. Today, she was wearing faded jeans, that molded to her curves, a blue and white, Tidewater Community College, short-sleeved T-shirt, and sneakers. The perfect outfit to go exploring and possibly digging in the dirty basement this afternoon. But it was her glowing smile and twinkling eyes that had his heart rate speeding up and his cock threatening to cause his own jeans to noticeably bulge. Down boy. “Hi, Nessa.”
She stopped a few feet away from him—too far away for his liking—and introduced him to her students, who appeared to be in their early twenties, instead of their teens. Both were wearing jeans and T-shirts as well. “Andy Markowitz and Erik Garvey, this is Mr. McBride.”
Extending his hand to one then the other, Dylan said, “Hi, Andy. Erik. Feel free to call me Dylan. Mr. McBride makes me look around for my father or grandfather.”
The two young men grinned as they shook his hand, with Erik saying, “Dylan it is. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He pulled a set of keys from the front pocket of his jeans, then raised an eyebrow at Nessa. She was still too far away for him to figure out if she’d used whatever had made her hair smell like strawberries the other day. It’d driven him wild each time the scent had tickled his nose. He gestured toward the front porch of the old farmhouse. “After you.”
Her smile warmed him from the inside out. “Thank you. Andy and Erik, can you grab the metal detectors, shovels, and lights? When you walk in the door, there’s a hallway to the kitchen straight ahead. In the pantry to your left, there’s a trap door in the floor with a ladder under it. We’ll meet you down below. Just watch your step.”
“Sure thing, Professor,” Andy responded, his gaze lingering and dropping to Nessa’s ass for several seconds after she turned and started for the porch. It appeared the younger man had a bit of a crush on his teacher, and Dylan didn’t blame him one bit. With her luscious curves, Nessa had probably starred in many of her male students’ fantasies over the years.
Finding the correct key, Dylan unlocked the door and pushed it open. There was plenty of sunshine streaming into the house, so he didn’t need to turn on the lights. The public library had taken over the meager electric bill until the sale went through, so the property could be maintained. Since everything was pretty much turned off, unless needed, it wasn’t more than $30 per month.
Dylan followed Nessa into the kitchen where she opened the pantry door and pulled the cord for the overhead light. She bent over, curling her fingers into an indent in the trapdoor, then lifted it up. The single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling gave them enough illumination to see into the hole. With the agility and confidence of someone who’d done this before, Nessa climbed down the ladder then turned on her flashlight. Within seconds, Dylan was beside her doing the same. The air was cool and relatively dry, despite the basement being underground. On the other side of the stone wall to Dylan’s left, was where a concrete one that’d been added decades ago, adding to the structural support of the building. The stone wall would have given the illusion to anyone in the main room of the basement that the foundation ended there instead of five feet further. Unless someone took measurements or had an engineer’s eye, nothing would have seemed out of place. The extra square footage, running the width of the house, is where Nessa believed slaves had huddled in fear and exhaustion, waiting for night to fall again, so they could start the next leg of their grueling journey toward freedom.
The main room of the basement had been emptied of everything Elise had stored down there—boxes of holiday decorations, unused furniture, family memorabilia, et cetera. The washer and dryer had been sold along with many other items. Dylan kind of felt bad for Elise—decades and generations of items that’d been collected and kept in the family now belonged to strangers. At least the library board had noticed some things had been valuable enough to be auctioned off or donated to the local historical society.
Dylan aimed his flashlight at the dirt floor. Unlike the main basement, the floor in the smaller space hadn’t been covered in concrete at any point. He ran the beam of light up the walls to the ceiling. There were no signs that any rodents or reptiles had ever occupied the space, but spiders had definitely found a home down there. Nessa knocked down a few old cobwebs and stepped further into the space. Above them, the young men were making noise, bringing in the equipment. Looking up through the hole in the ceiling, Dylan said, “If you want to start handing that stuff down, I’ll grab it from you.”
“Sounds good,” one of them responded, but Dylan wasn’t sure which it’d been.
The first thing lowered into the hole was one of the metal detectors. After giving his flashlight to Nessa, Dylan made quick work of lining everything up against the wall as it was handed down to him. Andy and Erik then joined them in the narrow space. Within a few minutes, they had commercial lights set up, illuminating the entire area, so the flashlights were no longer needed. Dylan realized that the two students must have done something like this before. They’d picked up the metal detectors, turned them on, and started working in a grid pattern at the far end of the space, all without any instructions from Nessa. While Erik and Andy swept the hand-held machines back and forth, Nessa and Dylan stood back, waiting to see if there was a “hit.” Any metal under the dirt surface would cause the detectors to respond by beeping loudly.
Dylan glanced at Nessa and smiled. Her hands were clasped together, like she was praying, and she appeared to be holding her breath. Her gaze was pinned on her students. When they’d reached the halfway point, Dylan was almost certain he’d been right. They weren’t going to find anything down here. Even if it had been a refuge for slaves, it was highly doubtful any remnants remained.
Just as Dylan was trying to think of something to say in response to Nessa’s inevitable disappointment, Andy’s metal detector started beeping like mad. He ran the base of the machine over the area, trying to determine where whatever was under the soil started and ended. Nessa hurried over with a shovel as Erik moved to give her room. Glancing down, Dylan grabbed a second shovel and joined the threesome.
“Dig carefully,” Nessa instructed.
Doing as he’d been told, Dylan dipped the shovel into the dirt at a shallow angle, just as Nessa was doing. Slowly, they made a hole, tossing the excess dirt to the side. Erik had temporarily abandoned his detector and moved one of the standing lights closer to the dig site. Suddenly, Dylan’s shovel hit something solid . . . something that sounded like a cross between a ding and a clang.
He froze, then lifted his gaze to Nessa to find she was also standing still. They both dropped to their knees and began to move the dirt with their hands.
“Here.” Erik handed Dylan a tiny, whisk broom and Nessa a shovel no bigger than her palm. Together, they worked to uncover the hard, black object, while trying not to damage it.
As the hole became bigger, Dylan couldn’t believe what he was looking at. Was it what he thought it was? Had Nessa been right? Her sudden gasp gave him his answers.
“Oh, my God! It—It’s a shackle and part of a chain made of wrought iron! Look, here’s a keyhole.” Her gaze went to her students. “Some shackles had a hinge to open and close them, and they were bolted shut. Others were predecessors of today’s handcuffs and required keys. It depended on the blacksmith who was making them.” She took the brush from Dylan and cleaned off more dirt. He liked how she took the time to further educate her students, even though she was obviously ecstatic over the find. “I don’t see any markings. Some would actually say ‘Property of,’ with the owner’s name on it, but many of them didn’t. That would be an extra, unnecessary expense for some owners.”
“These really belonged to a slave?” Dylan asked, still stunned by the find.
Nessa nodded, her eyes shimmering. “I think so.
We’ll have to bring in an archaeologist and also let the historical society know. Testing will have to be done. But . . .” She grinned at him. “I really do think we found the proof we need.”
Chapter Eight
Two hours later, a team from the Archaeological Society of Virginia was scheduled to respond to the Coldrick farm first thing in the morning. Andy and Erik had packed up all the equipment into the latter’s truck and headed back to the college, still excited about being part of the potentially historical find. Nessa had explained to Dylan that although she had her doctorate in history, any further digging was best done by trained archaeologists. There was a good chance more items would be found, and everything had to be properly documented when it came time to formally request the farm be designated as a historical site.
Nessa was still grinning from ear-to-ear as she finished up a phone call to her college’s dean, while pacing back and forth in the house’s empty living room. Dylan leaned against the doorjamb leading to what had been the dining room and watched her. She had to be the most passionate woman he’d ever encountered and, not for the first time, he wondered if she was that passionate in bed with a man.
“Yes, I will. Thank you, sir.” Disconnecting the call, she spun on her heel to face him and let out an exuberant sigh. “I think that’s it. I’ve called everyone I can think of. One of my undergrads will fill in and administer the exam I had scheduled for my American History 101 class at 8:00 am, so I can be here when the team arrives. Dean Mathers okayed everything and will stop here in the morning. He’s all excited because this is big news for the college and will get it some recognition in the academic circles.”
“If the testing proves those shackles belonged to a slave during the era of the Underground Railroad,” Dylan reminded her.
Taking a deep breath, she then let it out slowly and nodded. “Yes, you’re right. I just wish I knew where that damn diary was. It would be the added proof we need.”
Dylan pushed off from the jamb and strode toward her. “If it’s out there, I have no doubt you’ll find it.” That was the truth. Nessa was the type of woman who could do whatever she set her mind to. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. What do you say about going out to dinner somewhere to celebrate?”
“I—” She glanced down at her dirty clothes and then his. At least they’d been able to wash their hands, arms, and faces in the kitchen sink, since with the electricity on, the well’s pump was still working. It had just taken a few minutes for clear water to run after not being used for so long. “Um . . . I think we’d get thrown out of any restaurant looking like this.”
Chuckling, he took a few steps toward her. “I think you’re right. So that means we have two choices. We either go to our respective homes, shower, change, then meet out somewhere.” He paused. “Or you could follow me home to my place, use my guest shower, throw on a pair of my sweats and a shirt that you’ll be swimming in, then enjoy my barbecuing talents. In case you’re wondering, I prefer the second option. Either way, though, it’ll be our second date.” Yup, he definitely wanted that follow-up date now more than ever.
An adorable blush stole across her face. “Um . . .”
Her hesitation had been expected, and he’d been ready for it. “Tell you what. You can call as many friends as you want and let them know my name, address, phone number, and birthdate for safety reasons. You can also ask my mother if you can trust me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Your mother?”
“Um-hm. She just pulled up.” He’d seen her car turn into the drive through the living room window. “I called her while you were on the phone with the archaeological society. She’s almost as excited as you are and wanted to stop by to see the place, even though I told her she couldn’t go down the trap door.”
Before he could say anything more, there was a gentle but firm knocking on the front door. With a wink at Nessa’s gaping mouth, Dylan strode into the foyer and opened the door. He might be bias, but Kaye McBride was a classically beautiful woman. The black hair and blue eyes she’d inherited from her Irish ancestors had knocked Dylan’s father right out of his boots the first time he’d laid eyes on her. According to Gavin McBride, it’d been love at first sight. He’d known from the moment he’d introduced himself and took her hand in his that he’d met the woman he was going to marry and spend the rest of his life with. And he had. For the next thirty-six years, it was highly doubtful Dylan’s father had looked at another woman the way he looked at his bride every day until his death four years ago. Kaye had felt the same way about her husband. As far as Dylan knew, his mom hadn’t accepted any offers of dates that came her way since becoming a widow—and he knew there had been several of them. She’d had her prince, and no one would ever compare in her eyes.
“Hi, Mom.” Towering eight inches over her five-feet-five-inch frame, he leaned down and kissed her cheek, before stepping back and letting her enter.
“Hi, sweetheart. I hadn’t realized how beautiful this house is.” Her gaze took in the surrounding craftsmanship. “I knew I should’ve asked for more information or come to you after Reverend Price rushed through the presentation at the last board meeting. The way he made it sound, this place was falling down. Look at the woodwork. It needs a little pick-me-up, but I’m certain it could be restored to its original glory. Oh, hello. You must be Vanessa Adams. It’s so nice to meet you.”
Dylan hadn’t realized Nessa had appeared in the living room doorway behind him as he’d watched his mother peruse what she could see from the foyer. He gestured between the two women. “Nessa, this is my mom, Kaye.”
“It’s nice to meet you too,” Nessa said, shaking the older woman’s outstretched hand, after checking to make sure her own was still clean.
“Dylan told me how you’re trying to save this farm, and I think it’s admirable of you. I’m so glad you found some evidence. Will it be enough to convince the powers that be that this house should be a designated historical site?”
Her gaze flickered to Dylan before returning to his mother. “I’m not sure, but I hope so. As I was telling Dylan, I just wish we could find my Aunt Elise’s ancestor’s diary. It apparently has a lot of entries, detailing her family’s participation in the Underground Railroad.”
“A diary?”
Nessa nodded. “Yes. Elise’s great-great-aunt, or something like that, was about thirteen at the time and wrote about it in a diary. Aunt Elise said she remembered reading it when she was a teen, but she didn’t know what’d happened to it. A lot of her grandmother’s things were donated to various museums and historical societies decades ago, and I’ve been trying to track them down. I’ve written letters and emails to over thirty possible places, but I’ve only had a few comply with my request to search their inventory and respond to me.”
“Hmm. Maybe I could give you a hand. I have quite a few connections and could put in a few calls to see if we can move things along. Could you get me a list of those organizations that are still outstanding?”
Nessa’s eyes widened. “Really? Oh, my gosh, that would be wonderful! Yes, I can get you the list.” She glanced around for her purse she’d retrieved from her car earlier. Finding it, she rummaged around and pulled out a pen and a small notepad. “Where can I send it?”
His mother rattled off her email address at the library. “I’ll be there all afternoon tomorrow and can easily go through the list. Even if I don’t have a connection at some places, I’ll probably know someone who does. Since my husband died a few years ago, I’ve become a bit of a philanthropist in my free time, and I’ve made many new friends in the process.”
“Any help you can give me would be greatly appreciated. Thank you so much.”
“It’s my pleasure. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“Actually, mom,” Dylan said with a grin. “You could help me out here. I’m trying to convince Nessa she’s safe if she takes me up on my offer for dinner at my house.” He gestured to their dirty clothes. “We’re a litt
le out of sorts to try going to a restaurant.”
A broad smile appeared on his mother’s face as she turned to Nessa. “I can’t remember the last time Dylan introduced me to a woman he was interested in, and if he’s inviting you to dinner at his place, then he’s definitely interested. He doesn’t do that often, at least, to my knowledge. And he definitely doesn’t ask me to speak up for him, but I’m happy to in this case. He’s a complete gentleman, Vanessa. My husband raised our boys to be nothing less. Almost every young lady my boys have dated in the past has remained friends with them long after the relationship ended—from high school through today.” She gestured to the pad and pen Nessa was still holding. “Take down my phone number. If he does anything out of line, you just call me.”
The blush he loved so much bloomed on Nessa’s cheeks as she wrote down his mother’s cell phone number. When she was done, Nessa looked at him, with amusement in her eyes. “I . . . um . . . guess we’re barbecuing at your house.”
After straightening up Dylan’s guest bathroom following a refreshing shower, Nessa placed her dirty clothes in a plastic bag he’d given her. She’d turned down his offer to throw them into his washing machine. He’d already done so much for her already, she couldn’t ask him to do that. She was now wearing a pair of his sweatpants, with the drawstring pulled as tight as possible and the legs rolled up several times, so she didn’t trip over them, and a T-shirt she was swimming in, as he’d predicted.
Going, Going, Gone Page 4
