Along the Cane River: Books 1-5 in the Inspirational Cane River Romance Series

by Mary Jane Hathaway

“Humor me,” Tom said.

  “It was too much. I never should have told her all of that.”

  “And when would be a better time?”

  “Oh, I don’t know… somewhere without fifty other people dancing in a big circle?” Gideon couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  “Why?”

  He let out a huge sigh. Two nights in a row he sat on a bench just like this one and watched Henry’s apartment. Bix told him that Alice and Paul had come home on Thursday and had the locks changed as soon as they heard about Henry’s missing keys. That had left Gideon with one night of catch up sleep. Apparently it hadn’t been enough. He was exhausted.

  Tom sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Gideon, you’re never going to be normal.”

  He knew that but it still felt like a kick in the gut to hear. “Obviously.”

  Tom went on. “That’s not a bad thing. But it is when you keep trying to make yourself into someone else.” He gestured back toward the dance floor. “Blue Chalfant is not going to spill his guts to Henry while they’re dancing. He’s not going to describe the inner workings of his psyche or detail his biggest fears. He’s not going to take the opportunity to expose the darkest moments of his life.”

  “Thanks for the reminder,” he said, but there was no heat in his words.

  “We could sit here and wonder what Blue will really say. You could practice some smooth lines and a little chit chat for the next time you see Henry.” Tom looked him in the eyes. “But something tells me that you’d end right back where you were tonight, telling her things that actually mattered.”

  Gideon knew he was right. Something about Henry made him want to tell her the truth, all of it.

  “Do you really want my honest opinion?” Tom asked.

  “If this isn’t your honest opinion, I’m afraid of what is.”

  Tom said nothing, just waited patiently.

  “Okay, give it to me.”

  “I’m not really worried about why you’re telling her all these things. It makes perfect sense to me, in a way. You’re not the kind of guy to waste time talking about the weather.” Tom paused. “The real question is… what is Henry telling you?”

  Maybe he hadn’t screwed up as badly as he’d feared. Henry had done her share of blurting out the truth. She’d told him things she’d never told anyone else.

  Maybe to a woman sick of lies and pleasantries, honesty was a good thing. Maybe there was a chance for him after all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I do not mind lying, but I hate inaccuracy.”

  ― Samuel Butler

  Henry opened her e-mail and blinked at the name at the top of the list. Gideon Becket. She hadn’t seen him since the Friday of the Zydeco Music Festival weekend. Now it was Thursday. They’d spent every Thursday evening so far down in the basement of the Finnemore house and all day she’d been swinging between anticipation and dread.

  She took a deep breath and clicked it.

  Dear Henry,

  I borrowed a lathe and shaved down the door where it was sticking against the frame. It should open easily now (from both sides). Let me know if it doesn’t open for you and I’ll come over.

  Gideon

  She stared at the page for several minutes. The feeling in her stomach was the same as when she’d been dumped by her first high school boyfriend. He hadn’t really been a boyfriend, just a crush. Just like Gideon.

  He’d bolted from the dance as soon as the song had ended. Henry had pried into his life too many times and he’d had enough. She thought that meant the end of any chance of social interaction, but it must also mean the end of working together. Well, not together, but together together.

  Fine, she’d been avoiding him, too. On Sunday, she’d gone to Mass at the basilica instead of St. Augustine’s. She’d told herself that it was because Patsy and Denny were visiting, but the truth was that they would have gone wherever she wanted. In fact, they loved the historical little country church. Father Tom would have been happy to see them again. It was Gideon that Henry was avoiding and he must know it. Hence, the fixed door.

  She tightened her ponytail, pushed up her glasses and tapped out a quick reply.

  Hi Gideon,

  Thanks so much! I appreciate that.

  Henry

  She hit the send button before she could think about it. Done. It wasn’t so hard to e-mail him. She didn’t know why she’d insisted on seeing him face to face. It was better this way, actually. When they got together, they seemed to do a lot more talking than they needed to and certainly a lot more divulging of personal details. At least, she did.

  Enough work. She couldn’t stay in the little office any longer. Vonda and her archeology partner, Joe, were making real progress on the outbuilding excavation. Maybe they would let her help out for a while. She’d worn dark blue slacks and cream colored linen shirt that day so she didn’t even have to worry about a skirt and heels.

  She found Clark, told him where she was headed and struck out across the park. After a few minutes of walking she felt the muscles in her back and shoulders start to relax, as if the land itself was a remedy for her tangled thoughts.

  The little white-washed building was set far back from the path but two large hemlock trees grew up on either side, leaning toward each other like weary sentries. The door stood open. Vonda and Joe were kneeling side by side, brushing away the dirt with stiff-bristled whisk brooms. Floor boards were carefully stacked near one wall and the dirt was marked out with tiny wooden stakes and colored string.

  She knocked on the door. “Hey, you two,” she said cheerily. It was incredibly exciting to see the progress on the excavation. They’d already found several interesting objects, including a clay marble, two old coins, three shell buttons and two carvings that might be more than a hundred years old.

  They looked up and Vonda spoke first. “Hi, Henry. Did you bring us some ice?”

  “Some… what?” She looked around. The tiny room was swelteringly hot even though it was early September. Outside, the breeze made the heat more than bearable, but in the little house, it felt like a sauna.

  Vonda’s face was red and shiny with sweat. The scarf she had tied around her hair was crooked and she looked exhausted. Joe shifted back onto his haunches, then stood and stretched his arms over his head. He was nearly six feet tall and Henry had the impression of a slinky as he lowered his arms and his shoulders slumped.

  “Can I help?” She moved toward the nearest quadrant and looked around. “I saw the notes on your work for the last two days. Y’all have been putting in some really long hours. Do you want some volunteers? Or I can take a few shifts? I don’t want to horn in on your project but I’m ready to help.”

  Vonda looked at Joe and he nodded. “This heat is incredible. I’d rather work at ten below zero like we did last spring, ‘member that, Vonda?”

  “That was like heaven and hell all in one, if hell was freezing cold,” she said.

  Joe laughed. “It started out all heaven, though.” He started picking up his brushes. “The land was owned by a private school but before that, the area was a plantation with slave quarters. Everybody thought the slave quarters were gone until they tore down a house on the property and found the two hundred year old original brick floors in the basement.”

  “It was like a dream,” Vonda said. “Joe and I couldn’t believe we got picked for that project.” She wiped sweat from her face, a dreamy look in her eyes. “The first few days were full of incredible finds. Medicine bottles, ceramics, an ivory button.”

  “And then the weather started to turn.” Joe swept a hand from side to side. “We put up huge tents and got most of the hand-made bricks removed, photographed and catalogued so we could put them back later. Then it started to rain and never stopped. Pretty soon we were bailing ourselves out like we were in a sinking ship.”

  “Sounds like a nightmare,” Henry said.

  “It got worse,” Vonda said. “It was March and usually
that means spring but this was Maryland and suddenly it was snowing.”

  “A lot,” Joe said. “The tent started to collapse. The water on the floor froze. We had portable heaters hooked up, trying to thaw out sections of the floor so we could dig.”

  “But mostly we were just trying not to freeze to death,” Vonda said, laughing. “Remember when you slipped backward into that slush puddle and your backside was freezing solid?”

  Joe held up a hand. “We don’t need to tell her everything.”

  She turned to Henry. “I was afraid he’d get hypothermia before I could get him home so he stripped down to get into that extra pair of pants and suddenly our chief shows up with the rest of the field techs. They came to pack up because there was a big storm coming but boy, did they get a surprise.” Vonda laughed and maybe it was the affection in her voice, or the expression in Joe’s eyes, but Henry realized these two were more than professional partners.

  “I’m glad you thawed out,” she said. “And I wouldn’t want you to get heat stroke, either. You two take the afternoon and go have some fun. Did you make it to the Zydeco Festival?”

  “We sure did,” Joe said and winked at Vonda. “I learned this woman can dance.”

  Vonda giggled. “Not really. But I sure had fun.” She stacked her brushes near the wall. “If you were serious about working in here, feel free to use my stuff. I have knee pads and everything.”

  “Thanks,” Henry said. “I think I will, actually. I need to get out of my office for a while.”

  “Digging in the dirt is good for the soul,” Joe said.

  Then they were gone. Henry took off her glasses and grabbed Vonda’s knee pads. She consulted the graph and chose a place near the open window. There was a tiny breeze there and it stirred the hair on the back of her neck as she leaned forward, gently brushing the dirt away in long swaths, breathing in the heady scent of red clay and history.

  She didn’t know how long she’d been working when she heard footsteps outside but her arms were aching and she’d changed spots several times.

  Shock traveled up her spine when Gideon stepped into the doorway. He blocked out the light for a moment, stopping to knock lightly on the door frame, his face in shadow.

  “Come in,” she said, scrambling to her feet. She stood there awkwardly, brushing dirt from her hands, knowing her hair was a mess. The knee pads were strapped on tight and her pant legs were hitched high above her socks. Henry looked down at herself and tried not to sigh. She must be a laughable contrast to the girl he danced with at the Zydeco Festival.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt. Clark told me you were out here.” He took a few steps inside and looked around. He looked just the same, closely shaved and dressed in his usual button up shirt, but he also seemed somehow different. Maybe it was the way the light touched his profile or the way his eyes seemed bluer than she remembered.

  She wiped sweat from her upper lip and then wondered if she’d just given herself a dirt mustache.

  “I wanted to bring you these,” he said, and held out her keys.

  “Oh!” She came toward him, feeling a little hobbled by the knee pads. “Where were they?”

  “In the box you were sorting.” He placed them in her palm, his fingers barely brushing hers. “I went to move it and heard jingling in the bottom.”

  He’d already been down there working without her. She pushed back a stab of disappointment. A small part of her thought he might still want to work together in the evenings.

  “Alice already replaced the locks but I’m so glad to get these back.” She held them up, gazing at the bundle. “I’d hate to have to replace the locks to all the storage and main buildings in the park. I think I’ll be leaving these in my office from now on.”

  He smiled, crossing his arms over his chest and then uncrossing them. He seemed almost nervous.

  Maybe they wouldn’t work together, but he could still be here for another reason. She hoped it would be something that would involve walking through the park under the trees, talking about whatever came to them.

  “I don’t want to keep you,” he said. “You have a lot of work to do.” It sounded like a question.

  “Actually, I don’t really work in here. I’m so busy I don’t know whether I found a rope or lost my horse, but I just needed to get out of my office.” She gestured to the pile of brushes. “I came out here to check how everything was going and my archeology field techs looked close to heat exhaustion. They took the afternoon off to cool down and very nicely allowed me to muddle around in their workspace.”

  She hesitated, feeling shy. “You’re welcome to pick a spot and get your hands dirty.”

  “If you’re sure they wouldn’t mind, I’d love to,” he said.

  “I’m sure.” She hobbled back toward her space. If she’d thought working across a table in a cool, damp basement was awkward, now Gideon would be watching her sweat through her shirt while she crouched in the dirt. Still, she was pleased that he accepted.

  She explained the system, described a few things they’d found, and then they both got down to business. To her surprise, after a few minutes, she felt the same peace settle over her. They worked in silence for a long while.

  “Your friend calls you Sherlock,” he said, not raising his eyes from the square he was brushing.

  She was going to have to talk to Patsy. “It’s not what you think. Well, not completely. I’m not sitting around waiting to catch someone in a lie.” She hated the defensive tone in her voice. “It’s because she doesn’t call me Henry, really.”

  He looked across at her. “And why not?”

  “Because it’s not the name I was called when we were little and when I chose another one, she’s never really gotten used to it. She knows I don’t like my original name so she has to call me something.” She focused on the little whisk in her hand.

  “Interesting.” He was quiet for a moment and the only sound in the room was straw bristles against the dirt. “Can I ask what your other name is?”

  She bit her lip. It was too late to lie but telling the truth was more complicated than he could ever imagine.

  “I promise I won’t call you by it or mention it. I’m curious what name you found so horrible that you refuse to use it.”

  “Oh, I know you won’t. It’s just that names are so important.”

  “Are they?”

  She straightened up. “Aren’t they? What if I asked you what your other last name is?” She knew he would refuse.

  “Hardy,” he said. “Gideon Theodore Hardy. I was named after both of my grandfathers.”

  She repeated it after him, tasting the names on her tongue. It was odd how she could see him answering to Hardy just as easily as Becket.

  “Lorelei,” she said. “My first name is Lorelei.”

  “It’s pretty.”

  “It doesn’t fit me.”

  There was an expression on his face that she couldn’t quite understand. Part exasperation, part amusement. “And Henry does?”

  “Better than Lorelei. And to be fair, I’m sure my mother meant it as a compliment,” she said.

  “Naming her baby after a siren who lures men to their deaths with her beauty?”

  “Exactly.” Henry sighed. There was power in beauty, but it could be a destructive power and some women knew just how to wield it.

  “All right, so Patsy calls you Sherlock.” He went back to brushing and she took his cue, letting out a small breath. “Is she your Watson?”

  “She is.”

  “Patsy doesn’t strike me as the socially refined one in your relationship. And you don’t seem to be the emotionless, analytical human computer.”

  Henry started to laugh. “I thought you only read St. Vincent Millay poetry.”

  “I read a lot of things. And nobody can say they’re a reader if they haven’t read a few Sherlock mysteries.”

  “We loved those stories when we were in high school.” Her little square was finished and she hadn’t fou
nd anything of interest. She made a note on the clipboard and moved the markers to a different spot. Kneeling down, she paused, brush in hand. “But you’re right. Patsy is more logical, less sensitive. I’m the one who worries about gossip and how people feel.”

  “That must be tough, since you’re more tuned in to it all than most people.”

  Tuned in to it. That was a funny way to put it. “Don’t you worry about gossip?”

  He looked up. “You mean because of my past?”

  She nodded. She’d told him that she didn’t want to know, but the more time they spent together, the more his crime didn’t seem to fit the man in front of her.

  “Is it gossip if it’s true?” He brushed at the dirt for a few seconds then looked up again. “Sorry. That wasn’t really an answer. No, I don’t worry what people say about me. I’m sure most of it is true. What’s not true doesn’t matter. Nothing could be worse than the truth, anyway.”

  He said it without heat or bitterness.

  “I do worry about Tom. I don’t want him to suffer for our friendship,” he said. “But he seems to be one of those people that can turn a crowd in his favor with just a few words.”

  “I’ve known people like that,” she said. “He’s not the kind to abuse his gift but some people don’t always use it for good. They’re charismatic, learn how to manipulate the powerful, sway opinion and come out of it all looking humble.”

  “You’re talking about your aunt,” he said.

  “I wasn’t thinking of her exactly, but she’s a good example, sure.” She tried to sound off hand.

  He cocked his head. “You really can’t stand her.” When she didn’t answer he said, “I’m not saying you’re right or wrong. I’m just curious. She’s made a living off her beauty, true. And she’s silly, yes. And I’m sure being related to her has been a real trial, but it seems like interacting with Kimberly Gray is the worst thing in your life.” He was smiling, as if to take the bite from his observation. “There are so many other things in the world that are worse than Kimberly Gray being your aunt, in my opinion.”