Heat washed over Emma, and it had nothing to do with the temperature. “Um, uh, I don’t think there’s room for you in the pit, so . . . you want to sift for a while?” She pulled her gaze from his sculpted pecs and pointed to another shaker screen a few yards away. “I can show you how.”
While the two maintenance men continued with their excavation of the pit, Emma unfolded the screen, positioned it near hers, and shoveled dirt in it. “Just rock it back and forth, like I’m doing. Then use your hand to knock what’s left through the holes.” Reaching in her backpack, she pulled out an extra pair of gloves. “These will help protect your hands.”
They worked in silence as Sam got the hang of rocking the screen back and forth. “What do you do when the soil is wet?” he asked.
“Pour water through it,” she said with a grin. “Usually by hooking up a water hose. It’s really messy, though.” He glanced at the dirt on his gloves and shoes and raised an eyebrow. She laughed. “Yep, messier than that.”
“If you say so.” Sam rocked the tray again, and a clump of dirt broke apart, revealing something black embedded in the clod.
“Hold on,” she said, picking it up. “Oh, wow!”
“What is it?”
Her heart kicked into high gear as he stood behind her, peering over her shoulder. Momentarily she enjoyed the warmth his nearness brought. He reached for the clod, and their arms accidentally touched, sending an electrical jolt through her.
Sam brushed the dirt away from the object. “An arrowhead! I’ve never found one that small.”
She drew in a shaky breath and stepped out of his shadow, breaking the connection. “It’s a bird point. Looks like it’s made from obsidian.” She frowned. “But I don’t understand how it got buried this deep . . . unless it fell in when the hole was originally dug.”
“How did it get to Natchez? There isn’t any obsidian around here.”
“Probably traded from tribes either from Ohio or even out West,” she said, looking up. Big mistake.
Emma did not know what was going on with her. True, she’d loved Sam back before . . . reality set in. Before he let her down. If Sam had done what he’d promised, all their lives would have been so different. Get real, girl. It was her fault Ryan had deserted her.
Her jaw clenched. If only she could stop the memories of her last words to her brother. It didn’t matter that Ryan had been the one who made bad choices, that he was the one who didn’t know when to quit drinking. Her words to him must have been the tipping point. Think of something else. Emma shifted toward Sam. He turned, and his smoking gaze turned her knees to water.
“We better get back to work,” she said, jerking her attention away from Sam’s scrutiny and the brown eyes she’d gotten lost in. “But first, let me snap a photo of your arrowhead and put it on Facebook and Instagram.”
“You do that much? Post on social media?”
“Sure. It’s great publicity for the Trace and Mount Locust. I usually do a couple a day.”
Once she had the photos posted, Emma went back to work, very aware of his presence as they sifted the dirt in silence. Just as the sun dropped below the tree line, one of the men said, “It’s quitting time, and I think we’ve dug as deep as you wanted us to.”
Emma wasn’t ready to quit. Just a little deeper and they might discover what was buried here. She grabbed the stick and measured the hole. A little over three feet. It was time to use the trowels. “Thanks, guys. I’ll take it from here.”
As the other two men walked away, Sam said, “I’m going to change.”
After they all left, she busied herself picking out the hand tools she would need and hoped that Sam left with the men. Instead, he returned a few minutes later, dressed in his green-and-gray uniform.
“You ready to leave?”
“You don’t have to stay,” Emma said. “I need to get everything set up for tomorrow, and I’m fine closing up alone—I do it every night.” Still not looking at him, she picked up a hand trowel and set it with the other tools.
He stilled her hands, his touch searing her heart. “You are not staying here by yourself.”
His voice brooked no argument, sending a wave of anger through her. She probably should quit for the day, but Emma didn’t like Sam assuming she would leave when he said so.
Emma jerked her hands away and stepped back, tripping over one of the tent poles. Sam grabbed for her as she tumbled into the hole and landed on her outstretched hand. Sharp pain shot through her wrist. She was barely aware when Sam jumped down next to her. In seconds he scooped her up and set her on the edge of the hole.
“Are you okay?” he asked gruffly.
As much as she wanted to say yes, the knot that popped up on her hand would give her away. That and the wincing every time she moved her fingers. “I think I’ve broken something.”
“Let me see.” He gently examined her wrist. “Can you move your fingers?”
She tried and gasped. “Not without pain.”
“Yeah, you’ve probably broken something. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“No! I’ll ice it when I get home.”
“Emma . . .”
“I don’t have time to go to the hospital. I need to wrap things up here.” She pulled her hand away from his. Bad mistake, as pain shot through her wrist. She hugged her hand to her chest, with pain now throbbing with each heartbeat, making her nauseous. “Or maybe not. What time is it?”
He checked his watch. “Almost five. I can take you to the ER and your dad could meet us there.”
“No, don’t call him.” Friday night was when her dad got together with several of his buddies to unwind, something he desperately needed by the end of the week. She wasn’t taking him away from that because of her clumsiness. “Take me to the sports clinic. They should still be open.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied her. Finally, he nodded. “Do you have any ice at the visitor center?”
She tried to think. “No, but there may be some in the kitchen at the maintenance building.”
“Do you want me to carry you?”
In spite of how she hurt, Emma laughed. “It’s my wrist, not my leg,” she said.
“Right. Still . . .”
“Thank you, but I can walk to the office.”
A few painful minutes later, she fished the key from her backpack with her good hand, and he unlocked the door to the building. Gently, he guided her to a chair in the kitchen area. “You sit here.”
A few minutes later, he placed ice wrapped in a towel around her wrist. “Think you can hold it in place?”
“Yes.” The ice gave cooling relief.
“Then if you’re ready . . .”
“Give me time to collect myself.”
“Five minutes, and we need to leave. Otherwise, we might get to the clinic too late,” Sam said and nodded toward her office. “Do you use your office much?”
He was trying to take her mind off the pain. “If I have a volunteer at the visitor center, I come over here and write reports.”
He walked around the kitchen, studying the different photos taken at stops along the Natchez Trace. “Good shots,” he said, and then he cocked his head. “How’s the pain?”
In other words, was she ready to go to the clinic? “Better.”
“Good.” He held the door open for her. “We’ll take my SUV.”
Emma hadn’t even considered that she couldn’t drive. Sam walked her to his vehicle and steadied Emma while she climbed in. It dawned on her that there would be a lot of things she couldn’t do.
Twenty minutes later, Sam held the door open at the Cole Orthopedic Clinic and then filled out her paperwork since she couldn’t use her right hand. “Aw, man,” she said. “I just realized all the paperwork this little accident will take. And with my left hand, no less.” She was in trouble for sure, since anything written with her left hand was illegible.
“I can help you.”
“It’s okay, I—”
“Ms. Winters, come on back,” a nurse said.
“I can go with you, if you’d like.”
Emma hesitated. His presence was comforting, and at least five patients had been called ahead of her. No telling how long she’d be stuck waiting in one of the little cubicles by herself. Why did things have to be so hard? And why did her heart want him to stay? Her head knew better.
“Seriously,” he said. “I feel partly responsible for this happening, anyway.” Guilt or compassion, she didn’t know which, filled his brown eyes.
“Okay. Thank you.”
After an X-ray, which the technician refused to give her any information on, they were put in a small room to wait.
“I called Nate and told him what happened,” Sam said. “He’s sending a deputy to guard the site.”
“Good.” She shook her head as she thought of everything that needed to be done. This accident couldn’t have happened at a worse time. “Hopefully, I’ll be back to the site in the morning.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. If no bones are broken, there’s no reason I can’t return to work.”
After staring at her like she’d lost her mind, he walked around the small room, glancing at the diplomas on the walls. “Do you know this Dr. Cole?”
“Sure. You do too. Gordon Cole . . . graduated a couple of years ahead of us. Ryan’s friend, even though Ryan was younger.”
Sam snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah, Doc Cole’s son, Gordy. He was at the Hideaway with—” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Sorry. You don’t need to deal with that tonight.”
No, she didn’t.
“So, Gordy became a doctor?”
“Yep. I think he’s going by Gordon now. He pretty well runs this place now that Doc Cole has semiretired.” Everyone knew Doc Cole, especially if they had a sports injury.
“He’s been here since med school?”
“No, he joined his dad in the clinic last year after practicing several years in Jackson. He’s a good surgeon—did Dad’s knee replacement,” she said as a light tap sounded on the door before it opened, and Dr. Cole walked in.
“Emma, what have you done to yourself?” he asked.
“Hopefully only sprained my wrist.” Given the pain, she doubted it was that simple.
He tipped his head toward Sam. “Been a while,” he said.
“I’ve just moved back to Natchez.”
“I’m sure Emma told you I haven’t been back long.” He typed into the computer, and like magic, her X-rays appeared on the flat-panel screen hanging on the wall. “Well,” he said, “it looks like you may have dodged a bullet.”
She startled. It was almost like he knew someone had shot at her. Relax. It was a common phrase. “My wrist is just sprained?”
“It definitely is that, but . . .” He used his pen to point out one of the bones in her hand. “This may be a tiny break, but nothing we need to cast.” He gently examined her hand, and she flinched when he squeezed the side of her wrist. “Ice it at least four times a day to keep down the swelling. How did you do it, anyway?”
“It was Sam’s fault. We were at Mount Locust and arguing about quitting time and there was this hole . . .” She shrugged.
His eyes narrowed. “Sam pushed you?”
She laughed. “That didn’t come out quite right. We were arguing about quitting time, and I stepped back into the hole.”
He opened a drawer and took out a compression wrap. “You’re excavating at the site? I thought I read in the newspaper you were only mapping out the slave cabins and cemetery.”
“That was the original plan, but something came up that changed everything.” She didn’t plan to tell him what. “It will be okay if I drive, won’t it?”
“Before you answer that,” Sam said, “you might need to know she drives a stick shift.”
Surprise crossed the doctor’s face. “Not many of those around.”
“It’s my dad’s old truck,” she said.
“The old ’97 Tacoma Ryan used to drive in high school?” he asked.
Her throat tightened. She hadn’t expected him to remember it. “Yeah. After Ryan got the Mustang, Dad gave the truck to me.”
Gordon wrapped the compression bandage around her wrist and hand. “I’m going to leave your fingers partially free, but it would be better if you didn’t drive until the swelling goes down, regardless of whether it’s a stick shift or automatic,” he said.
She frowned. “But—”
“Let me put it this way—if you’d injured your foot like this, I would tell you no weight bearing on it if you want to avoid surgery. Same thing here.” He gently pressed the Velcro end to the bandage. “Have you heard from your brother?”
Why did everyone want to bring up Ryan tonight? “No. It’s like he just dropped off the face of the earth.” Ryan and Gordon had been really close before her brother took off. “Have you heard from him?”
“No,” the doctor said. “But I’ve always understood why he didn’t come back, not that I believe he killed that girl.”
“He might think he’d be railroaded,” Sam said.
“Like before,” Emma said. “Sheriff Carter tended to jump to conclusions and then defend them even if he was proven wrong.”
Anger burned in her chest at the former sheriff. She’d never understood why he’d fixated on Ryan being Mary Jo’s killer, unless Carter had gone off half-cocked and then was unwilling to fix his mistake. “How long will this take to heal?”
“A month, if you rest it. Longer if you don’t.”
“Does that mean I can’t drive for a month?”
“I think driving will be okay after ten days. I’ll know for sure when you come back.”
She wanted to roll her eyes. “Thanks for nothing, Doc.”
“That’s Dr. Cole to you,” he said, then grinned. “Doc is my dad. Just call me Gordon. Or Dr. Gordon like the kids do.”
She sighed. “When do you want me to come back?”
He cocked his head to the side. “This is Friday . . . I’ll have the receptionist make you an appointment for next Friday. Unless it gives you trouble—then get yourself back here.”
“Looks like you’ll need me to drive you back and forth from Mount Locust for a few days,” Sam said.
Just what she needed—more time around him. And he didn’t sound all that happy about it either.
11
Darkness and cold met them as they left the clinic. Sam held the door open for Emma, then hurried to open the car door, thankful she didn’t have a bad fracture. The sight of her falling into the open pit had cost him at least two years of his life.
“I can get the door,” Emma said.
“And my mama would skin me alive if I let you,” he replied. Once he had her settled, he walked around and climbed in on the other side. “Are you hungry?”
“I could probably eat,” she said.
“How about a plate of catfish at Jug Head’s?”
Her eyes lit up. “I haven’t eaten there in ages.”
“Good. It’ll give us a chance to talk about your plans for the next few days,” he said. “And maybe we can figure out how we’re going to get through them without taking each other’s heads off.”
Or not, considering the way her lips pressed together in a firm line.
While the restaurant wasn’t far from the clinic, stop-and-go traffic flowing across the Mississippi River to and from Vidalia, Louisiana, slowed them. Sam’s stomach rumbled as he turned into a white gravel drive and searched for a parking spot in front of the quaint plank building. “Pretty busy,” he said. “Want to try somewhere else?”
“It’s Friday—all the restaurants will be busy.”
“Right.” A car pulled from its spot and Sam grabbed the parking space. He hurried around to Emma’s door and helped her out.
He guided her as they walked the zigzag ramp to the door, where the tantalizing aroma of fried food met them.
“I’ll gain five poun
ds just breathing the air,” Emma muttered.
He agreed. There was no better fried catfish in Natchez. Or hush puppies. Or onion rings. The recipes at Jug Head’s had been handed down from one generation to the next since the early fifties.
“Y’all come on in and find a seat,” the waitress called from behind the counter.
Sam glanced around for a table. Very little had changed about the family-style restaurant since he’d left, including the red-checkered tablecloths and a packed house.
“Over there in the corner,” he said, placing his hand on the small of Emma’s back, steering her to the right. Once he had her stomach filled, he hoped to talk about more than her schedule. Whether he liked it or not, their past needed to be dealt with. If nothing else, they needed to make peace with it.
“Hello, Emma.” The greeting came from a table on the left.
Emma paused, and Sam almost bumped into her. He didn’t recognize the speaker, a man with blond hair and pale blue eyes who was dressed in what looked like a tailor-made suit, but Sam did recognize the man’s interest in Emma.
“Corey, I didn’t see you,” Emma said.
“I noticed you when you stepped inside the door. What’s wrong with your hand?”
“It’s all his fault,” she said, glancing at her bandaged wrist and chuckling. When Corey’s eyes widened, she added, “Not really. I sprained it—nothing major. Do you two know each other?”
“Afraid not,” Sam said.
At the same time, the other man said, “Sam Ryker? Correct?”
Sam frowned. He didn’t remember meeting this Corey.
“Didn’t I see in the paper that you were the top ranger for this district on the Natchez Trace?”
That explained it. He’d forgotten the write-up a reporter had done on him.
“Let me introduce you properly,” she said. “Sam Ryker, Corey Chandler. Corey is an attorney.”
Sam held out his hand. “New to Natchez?”
“I’ve been here three years.” He seemed reluctant to shift his attention away from Emma long enough to accept Sam’s hand. “Nice to meet any friend of Emma’s.”
He had expected Chandler’s grip to be wimpy, but instead it was firm. No calluses, though, like his own hands.
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