by Jodi Thomas
Dan grinned. “Who knows, Miss Harold, that might have been for the best. I’ve been trying to recover from a wedding for fifteen years. But no regrets. I got my Lauren away at college. If I brag about her too much, stop me.”
“I will.” She smiled, wondering if her father had ever talked so proudly about her. Maybe he had.
“Makes sense to clear up the name. Folks would get confused.” Dan nodded. “A few started calling you Harold the minute they heard the bastard didn’t move to Texas with you.”
She stared at the sheriff. “What makes you think he was a bastard?”
Dan smiled and stepped through the threshold. “He’d have to be, Angie, if he left a find like you.”
As his footsteps echoed down the stairs, Angela fought back a giggle. That was the nicest thing she could remember anyone ever saying to her.
But her head was spinning. Maybe she had made a mistake changing back to her real last name, but despite her father’s warning, why would anyone come after her? The people in Crossroads already knew her real name. She hadn’t said anything when she’d signed Harold on the lease for the cabin made out to Angela Jones. Now the fake name on the lease would keep her safe. If she was careful, she could leave little record of her real name.
But then, what did it matter if the people called her Harold now that she was here? They weren’t likely to run into any of her relatives half a continent away.
Time to stop worrying about her family and dive into work. This was her new life, her new beginning. She had been so unimportant in her father’s family they’d probably forgotten her by now anyway.
Angela grinned, remembering how last Thanksgiving Uncle Anthony’s latest wife had moved the family’s big dinner and forgotten to mention it to her or her father. Now, if any of them dropped by the beach house on Anna Marie Island, they probably wouldn’t be worried enough to ask where she’d gone.
She picked up her notepad and went downstairs. One of the volunteers was giving a tour this afternoon, and she planned to learn as much as possible.
* * *
OVER THE REST of the week, the museum drew her in like a magic time machine to a period in history that she’d loved since she’d discovered Little House on the Prairie as a girl. Yet somehow, she felt she belonged in this place. To her knowledge no one in her family had ever come west. She was the first pioneer, even if she was over a hundred years late.
Friday morning, Angela was deep in paperwork when she glanced up from her records to find Wilkes Wagner standing at her office door. He seemed to be blocking the entire entrance with his tall frame and wide shoulders. She had no idea how long he’d been lurking there.
“If you’ve come to assault me or ask for my hand, Mr. Wagner, I’m sorry, I’m busy. You’ll have to come back later.”
The cowboy had the nerve to smile and walk in as if he’d been invited. “I haven’t recovered from the last beating you gave me, Angie. I’ve still got a bruise on my rib.” He towered over her. “You want to see?” He tugged at his shirt.
“No.” She decided the sheriff must have left out dumb when he mentioned the Wagner family traits. Only, he wasn’t dumb. Arrogant. Rude. Sexy as hell, but not dumb.
“Well, if stripping is out—” he winked, telling her he’d been teasing “—then I’m here to do some research. You store county records under this roof. I’m looking for details about an old house that may have been one of the first in Crossroads. A friend of mine, Yancy Grey, claims it haunts him.”
She stood, trying to look her most professional, but it was hard to pull it off in the baggy trousers and bulky sweater she’d worn for a workday behind the dusty display cases. Any hope that he wouldn’t notice vanished when she saw him studying her from the knot of wild hair on the top of her head to her tennis shoes.
“Please follow me,” she ordered, her chin high.
He did just that, though she guessed he knew exactly where the museum records were kept. It was a beautiful room in the heart of the building. Although windowless, the walls between file cabinets and bookshelves had been painted sunset yellow. The tall room’s lighting had been expertly crafted with low-hanging wrought-iron chandeliers. Local cattle brands were laser cut into the dark iron giving the room a warm, Western glow. The Double K for the Kirklands, The Bar W for the Collins’ ranch and many others including the Devil’s Fork. Wilkes’s family brand looked like the branches of a winter tree that nature had shaped into the lines of a three-tine fork.
She started when Wilkes overtook her a moment before she reached for the doorknob. He held it open for her and then followed her in. For the first time, she noticed a leather backpack slung over one of his shoulders. “I’m afraid I can’t show you around. I haven’t had a chance yet to explore all the wonderful records in this room.”
He dropped his pack on the nearest chair and sat on the end of the long oak table that sliced down the middle of the room. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve explored these stacks. My mother used to volunteer here on Saturdays, and I always tagged along. I think this place is why I majored in American history in college.”
“You went to college?” The words were out before she could stop them. Somehow with his worn boots and old jeans she’d formed the idea that he’d never left the ranch for more than a few hours.
He grinned, that wicked grin she’d seen her first day. “Much as I tried to goof off, I ended up with a degree in history and a minor in math.” Sitting on the table, he was eye level with her, which made him impossible to ignore. Men shouldn’t be that rugged and that good-looking at the same time.
The memory of their kiss warmed her and she licked her lips. His smile faded, but his eyes darkened slightly, telling her he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Wilkes folded his arms and looked away. One kiss might have been an accident, a part of a game he assumed was being played, but another would be an advance. He was silently telling her it wouldn’t happen again.
He was right, of course. It shouldn’t have happened in the first place. The best kiss of her life had been a mistake. Nothing more.
She tried to be polite. Change the subject before her cheeks matched the color of her hair. “There’s not a great deal you can do with a history degree unless you want to teach, I’ve heard.”
He crossed his legs at the ankle, almost touching her shoes as he did.
She moved a foot away.
“I’ve no interest in teaching. I want to ranch, Angie. Tried to find something else but waking up to clean air and sounds of the country won out. Maybe I didn’t love ranching so much as I simply had no great ambition to do anything else,” he said. “Today, I’m just helping a friend who wants to learn about one of the houses at the edge of town. I’m not working on some great research project.”
She took another step toward the door. “I’ll come back and check in on you later. We have painters down in the foyer and a high school group coming in to look at the wagons.”
“Who is the we?” he asked.
“Well...me,” she admitted, realizing just how alone she was most of the time. Normally, she loved it, but somehow, with him here, she wanted to feel as if there was a crowd around. In an odd way, this rough-around-the-edges cowboy tempted her. He wasn’t relationship material, but maybe for that one-night stand all her friends talked about but Angela had never tried. If he made love as well as he kissed, he might be more than she could handle.
Who was she kidding? His old uncle Vern was probably more than she could handle.
Still, she could dream about it, even if she knew nothing would ever happen. Wilkes Wagner seemed perfect to fall in love with for the night and then walk away. He’d never work for long-term but she had a feeling he’d start a fire that would fill her dreams for years.
He stood so smoothly, so silently, she was halfway to the door when he said, “Ang
ie, I’m not going to attack you. I didn’t the day we met. You just jumped when I must have startled you.” He moved around the table and pulled a chair out as if proving that he’d come to work. “And just for the record, I won’t ever ask for your hand. If I come a-asking, it’ll be for a lot more than just your hand I’d want, darlin’. I have no doubt there’s a woman beneath all those baggy clothes.”
Now several feet away, she felt more comfortable. “I wasn’t startled,” she lied, not wanting to think about the hand comment.
“You’re the most skittish woman I’ve ever met. Hell, I’ve seen horseflies calmer than you.”
Angela smiled, feeling safe so near the door. “You meet a lot of skittish women, do you?”
“Not many,” he admitted as the corner of his lip lifted slightly. “Not any that taste like warm honey.”
She walked away, her cheeks burning.
He called out before she closed the door. “Let me know when it’s closing time. I don’t own a watch and I forgot my cell.”
Glancing back, she noticed there was no clock in the room. Wilkes was already busy opening the file drawers, and, to her surprise, he did look as if he knew his way around the stacks of records.
She promised herself she would not go check on him until five o’clock, but a little after four she couldn’t resist any longer.
As silently as possible, she opened the library door to find the long oak table covered in books and papers. Wilkes Wagner was sound asleep, his chin on his chest and his boots propped on the chair across from him.
She moved closer and noticed the stubble along his jaw and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He seemed to be a man who laughed often even if he was a puzzle. Why would someone get a college degree and not use it? Why would a handsome man flirt with the likes of her? Why did he let his uncle talk to him as if he were a kid?
As she studied him, she spied a few scars on his chin and one just above his eye. For a man who couldn’t be much into his thirties, she was surprised to see so many deep scars on his hands.
A photograph of a house lay next to his left elbow. It was a small two-story, built low into the ground. She’d read early homes often were dug into the plains’ sod to save on lumber and to keep the small dwellings warmer in winter and cooler in summer.
Above the photograph someone had written Stanley House. Angela began to put facts together like puzzle pieces in her mind. A family named Stanley was listed among the first settlement in the area. They worked as blacksmiths and farriers on the Kirkland spread. She couldn’t remember seeing any Stanleys on the current membership list, so they must have died out or moved away.
She left the room quietly and ran to the wagon exhibit she’d just shown on the high school tour. There, at the back, was an old, faded vardo wagon that looked like a tiny house on wheels. A Gypsy wagon made of wood. The name on the plaque read “Stanley Wagon. One of two traveling with James Kirkland in 1872.”
She smiled and headed back to tell Wilkes that she’d found something that might help, but a dozen people suddenly filled the foyer. They seemed to be having a small reunion and asked Angela to see their great-aunt’s collection of quilts that had been donated to the museum forty years ago. It took Angela and both volunteers, Miss Bees and Miss Abernathy, to find them in the archives. By the time the quilts were carefully folded and put away, it was long past closing time.
As she said goodbye to the older ladies and locked up, she remembered the sleeping cowboy in the library. Maybe she could simply let him sleep the night. No, that wouldn’t work. The last thing she wanted was Wilkes Wagner wandering around here after dark.
He’d already spent far too much time wandering around in her dreams.
When she found Wilkes still sound asleep, her next problem was how to wake him. If she frightened him awake, he might jump or attack. Miss Bees told her Wilkes had served three years in the army after college.
Angela had heard of soldiers fighting if surprised.
Maybe if she just tapped him on the shoulder and jumped out of range. With her arm outstretched, she moved slowly toward him, but when she could have touched his shoulder, she corrected slightly and brushed his light brown hair with the tips of her fingers.
It was far softer than she would have thought. Thick, with just a bit of curl circling over her fingers. She could never remember wanting to touch any man’s hair before. Most of her encounters with the opposite sex were awkward and none she ever wanted to repeat. But almost of its own will, her hand brushed lightly over his hair once more.
When she finally looked down to his face, his blue eyes were staring up at her, waiting to see what she’d do next.
“Oh! I’m sorry.” She leaped back. “I wasn’t sure how to wake you.”
“Saying wake up would have worked,” he said, unfolding from the chair. “But I didn’t mind you brushing my hair back. My mother used to wake me like that when I was a kid.”
“I, um, just needed to let you know that it’s long past closing time.” She picked up a few of the books, trying not to look at him, then remembered the wagon. “Oh, wait, I wanted to show you something.”
He grabbed his pack and shoved a notebook inside. “I can’t wait.” He grinned that killer grin again, then followed her down the stairs. “Mind if I leave the research out? I’ll start again tomorrow.”
“You’re coming back?”
His gaze seemed to be studying her. “If I’m welcome?”
She straightened, wishing she were taller. “Of course you’re welcome, Mr. Wagner.”
He grinned as they moved down the stairs. “Want to call me Wilkes, Angie?”
Wilkes must have spotted the paint supplies neatly piled in one corner of the foyer and the front desk that was no longer manned by volunteers. “Looks like we might be alone,” he said. “I hope you’re not plotting to attack me again.”
She ignored the comment as she rushed down the long hallway to the sunny room and the old wagons. “I noticed one of your books had a picture of a house called the Stanley House. I found a wagon you might like to see at the back of the display. The two might have some relation to each other.”
She had expected him to be happy, but he was as excited as a kid on Christmas morning as he walked around the old wagon. There were only slight hints of how colorful it once must have been, but Wilkes stared wide-eyed.
“This is great, Angie, but it’s not called a wagon. It’s called a vardo. Think first mobile home. Just imagine, this one came here almost a hundred and forty years ago. It must have been stored in a barn or it would never be in this good of shape.”
“Glad I could help.” She couldn’t hide her smile.
“I’ve got to call Yancy. He’s the one who wants to know about the old house. He’s going to love seeing this. The house’s first owner was a man named Stanley, and this is the Stanley vardo. They must be linked.”
Angela dug in her pocket and handed him her cell.
Before she knew it a man pounded on the museum door and almost knocked her down running in. He apologized as he rushed toward the wagons. It occurred to her that she had just let a second crazy man into the building.
By the time she made it down the hallway, the two men had examined every part of the old wagon, figuring out how each part worked, and how it had been put together. A neglected piece of history suddenly seemed priceless.
“Be careful,” she said, leaning down to where Wilkes lay on the floor examining the underside of the wagon.
His hand reached up and brushed her arm. “I will,” he said, letting his touch linger. “Thanks to you, we may have just discovered the value of this old relic.”
She stepped away trying to understand how this man’s slight touch could affect her so. She couldn’t stop watching the way his hands moved respectfully over the old wood.
Wilkes saw its value even through the dust and decay.
She listened as the men talked in low voices as though they were awaking history. Finally, Wilkes turned to her and looked a bit guilty for keeping her so late.
“We have to go, Yancy,” he said without looking away from her. “This’ll still be here tomorrow and our new curator has had a long day.”
She didn’t argue.
“I’ll walk through all the rooms and turn out lights while you get your things.” He was still watching her. “I’ll check locks.”
She touched the place on her arm where his hand had been. When she looked up, he was still staring at her. Probably reading her mind.
“I’ll be right back,” she whispered, guessing he probably knew how to lock up better than she did.
“No hurry,” he added, probably seeing the exhaustion in her eyes. “I know what I’m doing here. I’ve worked on this display before. Your treasure is safe with us.”
Of course he knew the museum. He was a Wagner. He belonged in this place far more than she did.
As she climbed the stairs, she couldn’t stop smiling. Wilkes was a far more complicated man than she’d thought.
When she reached her office, she noticed the message light blinking on her phone. She hit the button as she grabbed a pen to write down the message.
For a moment, there was nothing. Then, in a low voice, a man said simply, “I know who you are. We need to talk.” Another pause as if he was thinking about saying more, then a click.
Angela couldn’t move. Somehow, someone from her past had found her. She hadn’t been gone three whole weeks and they found her. If they’d been tracking her, they must know that she suspected her father’s death hadn’t been the result of a simple robbery. She could almost hear her angry uncle yelling for one of his assistants to go find the girl and bring her back.
