“What about his wife? If she was pregnant, why didn't she stay behind at the fort?”
“Because, alone there, she would be defenseless against the other men. She would not leave his side unless he ordered her to. He would not do that.”
“Did you like her, too?”
His eyes crinkled in the corners with the recognition at the true meaning of her question. “I thought she was charming. But, then, I thought all the ladies were charming. But there was only one special lady who caught my attention during my travels. She was standing across the room at the first dance of the season, dressed in a pale green gown and her auburn hair piled atop her head. Her stance informed me she was as royal as a queen, but her brown eyes also told me she was as impudent as a fairy elf.”
“Faith.”
“You,” he said. She stiffened and began to raise herself, but his grip was stronger. Without really struggling, she leaned her head back on his chest as he continued. “I do not know why I am here, or you, but I do know we were here before. You may call it fate, or destiny. Whatever. It does not matter. I know we were together. Our lips might lie, but our souls cannot.” His words carried such quiet authority that, for a moment, she believed them. Only for a moment.
“Armand. I like you very much,” She crossed her fingers at the understatement. “But I don't believe in fate. I think all this is just a trick of time.”
When he shrugged, she felt his muscles tighten and relax from the motion. Delicious. “Believe whatever makes you happy. I know what I know.”
“You autocratic, chauvinistic...”
His fingers tightened in her hair and turned her mouth to his. “Oui, ma chérie, I am all of those. And more,” he admitted calmly before claiming her lips once again. Kissing was the only way he knew to keep her from fighting; it was a very effective tactic.
His lips drifted away from hers, and he lay back on the earth. “We will not discuss this again. My beliefs and yours will not mesh before they are ready. Until then, talk is futile.”
“My master has spoken,” she said dryly.
“That is so,” he said, as if she had uttered the truth.
As the early-evening wind cooled off the humid air, Hope fed Armand fried chicken left over from the night before.
“Who is this Colonel Sanders? What war did he fight in?” Armand stared at the picture on the cardboard bucket.
“None that I know of. He's just a Southern gentleman who devised a special blend of spices for his chicken. His title is honorary, bestowed by his friends.”
“And he cooks this chicken and then sells it?” He took a big bite out of a drumstick, sinking his white teeth into the meat.
Her stomach tripped as she swallowed her reaction. His virility affected her strongly under normal circumstances; she certainly didn't need to visualize a Tom Jones banquet. “There are probably hundreds of chicken places. Anyway, I think the Colonel died.”
“Who continues with his business? His wife?”
She laughed. Armand's imagination was having an impossible time stretching to the boundaries of the country and absorbing the changes since he had last roamed the world. “No, she's gone, too, I'd imagine. But several people formed a company, and now it's a very big business from coast to coast.”
His eyes lit up. “So there is another coast to this land. I thought there must be.”
“Yes, but the so-called Northwest Passage wasn't the way to get there.” She reached into one of the bags she had dropped yesterday, pulling out a small atlas. Finding the North American continent, she turned it toward him. “See? Until we built the Panama Canal the only way to the west coast was overland or around the Horn,” she explained, following the trail with her finger.
“This is the land that belongs to America?” he asked, pointing to the United States.
“Yes.”
Suddenly she was flooded with questions. And his dismay, as well as his exaltation, were wonderful to watch. “But France has lost all her possessions on this continent! And see the size of Austria! Amazing! Tell me more about this vast land!”
She told him about airplanes and railroads and trucks and cars. She explained the road system. Then she hit upon his favorite topic: food, mentioning other fast-food restaurants that operated around the country. She described French restaurants in New York, and American restaurants in Paris and even in England. He seemed confident and cocky that, of course, the French were the best chefs.
They talked of politics, but because Hope knew only today's status and he knew only yesterday's, their meeting ground was not as secure as with other topics.
They mulled over some of the fashions shown in the magazines, the dreariness of men's clothing, the style and fabric in women's. One common ground was jewelry, abundant in both cultures.
With every topic his eyes became sadder, and Hope's mood matched his. So many years, and so much lost.
“I think I have not enough time to absorb all of the changes in this world,” he said, more to himself than to her. Their backs were against the large rock. They stared out at the trees across the lake as the sun melted into pure crayon colors of orange, red, yellow and deep blue. He squinted into the sunset, but she knew that he wasn't seeing it. He was seeing the past. “Help me, Hope. Please, help me to find myself again.”
It was the closest he had come to a confession of sadness and frustration. “I will,” she said, touching his thigh, aching to wipe away the pain that she knew was just under the surface. “We'll start tonight. Instead of the tape recorder, I’ll take notes and then work from there. It will work. I know it.” Her tone was so sincere that he had to smile, turning to her with a blinding intensity that drove the breath from her lungs. She cleared her throat. “And in the morning, we'll see if we can find the chest.”
“You are a remarkable woman,” he said softly.
“Yes, I am, aren't I?” she answered teasingly.
His chin lifted. “Now we will begin.”
Hope sighed resignedly. Remarkable she might be, but he was certainly arrogant and self-assured enough for both of them!
The next morning, Hope slept late. She was exhausted from compiling the stack of information about Armand, Faith, and their lives. They had been up half the night when he had decided that he needed another lesson in making love to a very modern woman. It had begun in laughter and ended with the throbbing sweetness of being together. Afterward, she had lain on the sleeping bag and fallen asleep curled around his body, his arms holding her tightly against him.
“It is time to wake up, Hope,” Armand said softly. He blew gently in her ear, which made her groan.
“Later.”
“No. Now. I have a thousand questions to ask you about your world.” His mouth brushed across hers again.
Hope sat up, bending her legs as she tried to focus her gaze on him. He was demanding a history lesson, and all she wanted was sleep. She smiled dreamily. That wasn't quite true. She wanted him to make wonderful, tempestuous love to her, as he had last night.
His mouth slowly tilted at the corners. He'd read her mind, and apparently loved the direction her thoughts were taking.
Then she remembered. They were to locate the chest today, if possible. She replied to his unspoken question, “First things first. Let's see if we can begin to unravel the mystery of Armand Santeuil,” she said, stifling a yawn.
Eventually they got organized, found a shovel, and began to dig. Armand did the labor, as he had both the muscle and the knowledge of the chest's approximate location.
Hope sat cross-legged on the ground, studying the notes in her lap. The only thing they could do so far was to recover his possessions. The chest was a starting point.
Three hours later she was as frustrated as he was tired. “They must have found it,” she declared. “It's the only answer.”
Armand wiped his shirtsleeve across his damp forehead and leaned on the shovel. He frowned. “That is not necessarily correct, ma petite.”
“Of cou
rse it is! You've dug a trench all the way around that damn boulder and haven't found it!”
“But what if the underneath of the earth has shifted? Remember, the rock and the oak have changed much since my last visit here. I could be wrong on the exact location. Of perhaps, since this is not my time, I cannot locate it. Perhaps it must be you who finds it?”
Now it was her turn to frown. “I don't know. This isn't earthquake country. But the box itself could have moved, like rocks work their way around and up through cleared and ploughed fields....” she mused. “Could that be possible, I wonder?”
He shrugged. “Anything is possible. We do not seem to be equipped with rules or regulations.”
She grinned. “I know. Next time I go to Duluth I’ll rent a metal detector,” she said, knowing the outfitters in Two Harbors didn't carry anything that wasn't a normal part of a backpacker's equipment. “That should show us the location.”
“What is this?”
“It's a machine that locates metal under the earth. Coins, bottle tops, even metal chests.”
He nodded. “This is a good tool to have, no?”
“Yes,” she said, still smiling. “It is a good tool to have.” She glanced at her watch, “In fact, if I hurry, I can make it to Duluth and still be back before dark.”
She stood, dusting the seat of her jeans. Armand pitched the shovel up over the lip of the trench, “You are leaving now?”
She nodded. “I might as well. We need to get this show on the road.”
“Show?” he asked, vaulting out of the trench.
She chuckled, “Never mind. I'll be back in about three hours. Meanwhile, don't cover the trench. Let's see if this theory of yours holds when I return.”
It took her exactly three hours to track down a place that rented metal detectors and then head back. The more she thought of Armand's theory, the more she realized that he could be right.
Suppose she did find the chest and pulled it out, what would happen then? Would he suddenly disappear? She shuddered. Then she would be all alone on the island again, and Armand would probably be with his beloved Faith….
When she returned, the sun was just edging toward the tops ol the trees across the lake, marking the needles and leaves with long black shadows.
“I've got it!” she cried as she crested the hill, brandishing the lightweight metal detector in one hand. Armand was standing quietly, contemplating the rock. As she approached, he smiled, but his smile was as sad as her thoughts had been on the road back.
“Hope,” he began when she came close to him. His hands rested on her shoulders, kneading them gently. “We do not know what will happen if you find my chest, so l wish to say goodbye to you now. I want you to know that you are very special to me. Very special.”
She stared up at him, with tears glistening in her eyes. “Don't say it,” she whispered hoarsely, resting her fingers against his lips. “Let's just see what happens, okay? If you go, then you were meant to go now. If you don't... Well, we'll see.”
He nodded, lightly kissing the tips of her fingers. She forced herself to turn away toward the trench he had dug earlier.
Turning on the machine, she began systematically seeping over the ground. Within minutes, it was crackling and beeping only inches from the far side of the trench. “Here!” she shouted. “It's got to be the chest!” She set the detector down and started to dig, excitement doubling her strength. The spade hit something hard, and there was a hollow ping. She outlined the object with the shovel. Luck was with them; it was less than two feet down. Even so, it took her another half hour to dislodge the chest from under two hundred years of earth. When she finally brought it up, she was amazed the metal wasn't more corroded.
“That is it,” Armand said softly, standing to one side and making no effort to move closer.
Hope's hands trembled as she brushed off the top and sides to get a better look. When new, it must have been a work of great beauty, all brass on brass with now-frayed leather thongs tied around it like ribbon on a present. It was small—about a foot long, and maybe eight or ten inches deep.
She knelt down to study the lock. The keyhole was plugged by over two centuries of soil. It must have required a large key, she mused. The opening was over an inch high. “Get me the screwdriver from the tent, would you?” she asked absently.
“No.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her brows lifted in surprise. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean I do not want you to force the lock. The chest is here, and I am still here. Let us think about this before we do something rash. Perhaps if we break the lock, then I will never rest in peace.”
Hope leaned back on her heels, her eyes searching his. Did he really feel that way, or was it that he didn't want to leave?
He read her expression perfectly. “Think about this, ma petite. When you took the chest out of the ground, nothing happened to me.” He looked down at his body. “I am still here. If we break the lock instead of opening it properly, might it not keep me here?”
Her excitement about finding the chest dwindled with the realization that she could have lost him or, worse, could have bound him to earth to roam for eternity. “You're right. I almost forgot why we were doing this.” She stared down at the chest that contained his journal and the image of his love. Her curiosity was killing her, but she was also afraid of opening Pandora's box. “We'll wait and see what happens.”
He smiled. “We will wait and see,” he repeated, relaxing with her decision.
But a part of him wondered if he was willing to wait because he might not get back to wherever he was supposed to be, or because he didn't want to leave Hope….
He wasn't sure.
CHAPTER SIX
Darkness enfolded the hill like a flower whose petals were closing for the night. The Coleman lantern was hooked on a small aspen just feet away from the entrance to the tent. Its flame bled streaks of white gold through the inky blackness, barely touching Hope and Armand with its glow. They sat with their backs to the light, looking down over the cliff side of the hill.
“Are you all right?” Armand was stretched out beside her, his long legs disappearing into the darkness.
She stared out at the shimmering diamonds the moon had scattered upon the water. They had reviewed everything again, trying to determine their next move. The chest sat at the foot of Armand's bedroll, just inside the tent. It was out of their sight, but they both sensed its presence. “I'm fine. Just cold.”
“Would you like my sleeping bag?” His voice was soft, but his tone held a teasing quality that in itself warmed her.
She smiled, still staring out at the water. “No, thanks,” Her thoughts were consumed by the puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit together.
“So? If you do not care to use my sleeping bag, why do you not come over here and allow me to keep you warm?” he teased.
She turned toward him, a smile of anticipation parting her lips. But then she froze, staring, fear dilating her pupils. “Armand?” she whispered.
He swung his feet around to sit next to her to comfort her and dispel the fear he read in her eyes. Then he saw what she saw.
He held out a hand, splaying his fingers, and the shadow of the tree could be seen through his palm, “Mon Dieu,” he said under his breath, his horrified face a replica of hers.
She reached out as if to stop him from fading, her fingers clamping around his wrist. “Don't go.”
Armand held his gaze on her large brown eyes as she looked up pleadingly. His voice was heart-wrenchingly low. “My poor little one. Is this the way it is to end? Am I to find you again only to leave and wander the stars until I find you once more?”
She shook her head. “No!” The denial rasped in her throat as panic flooded through her. She desperately wanted him to stay with her, to be with her.
He smiled sadly. “It would appear that I have no choice in the matter.” He held up a hand, staring at it intently as if it belonged to someone
else. “The chest must be the answer after all.”
She shook her head, denying his words. She needed to tell him so many things, but the words wouldn't come. How could she say that he had made her feel alive again after the degradation of the past months in Central America? He had handed her an exquisite gift: purpose in her life. It was crazy, but she relied on a ghost to give meaning to her life.
Her expression must have told him all, for his fingers brushed her lips with the gentleness of the night breeze. “Do not, little one. Nothing needs to be said.”
She kept silent.
“Just stay. Stay with me so I can see you until I cannot see anymore.”
She nodded, unshed tears pressuring her eyelids. “I will,” she promised huskily. Then she swallowed hard, staring back out at the darkness that had claimed the land. The moon hid behind a bouquet of clouds, and the only light was from the lantern.
“Talk to me,” he ordered softly. “Tell me what you are thinking.”
“I think that Faith must have been a remarkable young lady. She gave you her love against her father's wishes, which must have been very difficult for her, especially in those times. I also think the voyageurs you spoke of were being manipulated by Faith's father. I'm just not sure how to prove it, or if it's even important.”
“And my chest? The men?” His voice was soft and faraway. Fear clawed at her stomach. She couldn't look at him to see what else had happened. Instead she looked at her watch. Midnight. The witching hour. How apropos.
The chest had been found, and without even being opened, it had affected him. What else could happen if they opened it? “I think we need to think this out. I don't know what to do next, but there are several things that come to mind,” she finally said. “Tomorrow I'll run into Duluth and check on some old records the library has on people who settled this section of Minnesota. Maybe that will give us a clue.”
“How long will you be gone?”
She wanted to tell him that she wouldn't be back at all, couldn't stand to watch him disappear from her life and her island. Instead she said, “Perhaps one night. Or two.”
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