Guarding the Treasure (3 page)

She pushed her legs off the side of the bed.
I should check my email
, she thought, looking at her dangling feet. Professor Kian Smith had not returned her email requesting a translation of the diary from Old Gaelic to English. Sophie considered herself lucky to have stumbled upon his name on a history teacher's website. The site had included a post mentioning his translation services and stating his desire to translate manuscripts from the sixteenth through the eighteenth century. He wanted to research those time periods for comparison to the culture of twenty-first century Ireland. He hoped to gain access to the papers, books, and diaries of regular people who had lived and died in Ireland hundreds of years ago. His post made it clear that the work would be done for history professors only, not historians. Sophie had hoped to hear back from him before now, but it had only been a week, and she knew how history buffs could be when they believed they held something authentic. She had to remind herself to be patient and wait for his response.

Sophie completed her usual Saturday routine of light housework and laundry and finished the morning with coffee and a wheat bagel topped with blueberry cream cheese. She changed into blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and then quickly applied some blush, mascara, and lip gloss. She stood in front of the mirror, inspecting herself as she ran a brush through her long dark hair. “Who in the world spends a beautiful Saturday afternoon at the city library?” she asked the thirty-year-old woman in the mirror. She laughed and answered herself. “People with no real life,” she said to the image looking back at her. But today it didn't matter. The hours spent poring over books about Ireland at the university library was at least a change of scenery and a chance to get out of the house. Besides, the diary was calling to her once again, and she wanted only to be alone at a quiet table with a reference book on the Gaelic language. And hopefully, no one would recognize her.

The city library was always quite predictable. It was quiet and void of too many people. But then again, why would people be inside? The day was perfect, warm with a light breeze from the south and a hint of green brushing the tips of the trees. Springtime in Washington was always beautiful. Driving into the heart of the city, she had passed two parks littered with small children who were running, swinging, and playing with family. She saw people walking dogs, couples jogging together, and still others getting some welcome tee time on the local golf course. No wonder Pullman had been named the best place to live, pulling a number one rating for its quality of life.

The beautiful spring weather was doing its best to tempt her back outside as she stood on the steps of the downtown building, but as she entered, the smell of old books and new ink within the walls of Neill Public Library was stronger than the warm sun shining on her back.

Sophie pushed on the heavy oak doors, listening as the large rusty hinges turned in their cradles. Even though they smelled of fresh oil, they still emitted a sound of stress and were a bit reluctant to open. She passed by four well-used wooden tables before finding the exact spot she had studied in before. It was near the west wall of the large room of bookshelves. She was close enough to the children's reading area to notice they were finished with
Story Time with Darcie
for the afternoon, so there would be no little ones interrupting her thought. She set her purse on the smaller of two round tables near the shelves where she would be searching, far enough from the front desk to allow plenty of privacy. The area she needed was in the nine hundreds, and glancing to her right, she saw the nine-hundreds almost directly in front of her.

“What luck,” she said, smiling as she pulled the diary from her backpack. Opening the old book, Sophie headed to the first set of shelves in hopes of retrieving the book on the Gaelic language she had opened earlier that month. That encounter with the reference book had been brief, she recalled. A couple of students had discovered her and consumed much of her free time, asking questions about Gaelic history as well as offering their opinions. Shaking her head, she moved through the narrow aisle, perusing the selections. How amusing that people thought she only wanted to talk about school and history as if she had no other interests. Running her fingers over five or six titles, she discovered the coveted volume. “Here it is,” she said, quickly pulling it from the shelf. Sophie anticipated what she would find between its yellowed pages, feeling like a kid in a candy store, wanting to learn as much as she could about the language dominating the diary she balanced in her hand. Sophie turned and leaned against the shelf of books, randomly thumbing through the pages. The words were foreign to her yet deeply familiar. She had memorized the handwriting of some of the words from the diary and could form them in her mind as she looked at the same words in the reference book. It seemed a little more difficult today than she remembered, trying to put the words together to form sentences while struggling to hold both books open at the same time.

“If you want a good book on understanding the Gaelic language, may I suggest this one?”

Sophie's head rose with a jerk. “What?” Her eyes were automatically drawn to a man with deep blue eyes, brown shoulder-length hair, and a Yankees baseball cap pulled over his eyes.

“This book,” he said, opening to an obviously familiar page, “has origins—as well as dates and definitions—of the lost language of the Irish people. It's one of the best I've ever read on the subject,” he said, looking up and catching the noticeable expression of surprise on her face. Recalling a job he'd done for a friend at the television station several months earlier, he decided she was much prettier than she had looked from behind the camera. Her hair was as brown as her eyes, and she had a beautiful mouth that held a slim smile as she continued to look at him with a bewitching bewilderment in her eyes. He had already sized her up, something he had grown accustomed to doing in his profession. She was quite a beautiful package, he decided.

Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?” she said, trying to decide if he was one of her students or a new faculty member.

“Do I know you?” came out of her mouth just seconds later as a wrinkle formed above her eyebrows. Then Sophie realized he hadn't been one of her students because she would have remembered his self-assured mannerisms—not to mention that every pore on his body screamed sexy, and he had a smile to match. She decided he must be one of the new teachers for the summer semester.

“I'm sorry, let me introduce myself,” extending his hand to her. “My name's Kevin Gates. I'm sure you don't know who I am, but I—along with perhaps the entire city—would recognize you a mile away. You're Sophie Hanes, am I right?”

Sophie narrowed her eyes at him again, still questioning how this Mr. Gates knew her. “How could the entire city—” Just then the diary slid from atop the reference book. She quickly bent to retrieve it at the same moment Kevin Gates bent to help her.

“Here, let me get that for you,” he said, settling his eyes on her. “I seem to have rudely interrupted your thoughts, and the least I can do is pick up your book for you.”

“Thank you,” she said, returning his gaze but only momentarily as he put the diary in her hand. “So Mr. Gates, if you don't mind my asking, can you tell me just how you know who I am?”

Kevin looked past her to the round table where he had seen her put her purse and backpack. “If you don't mind me joining you,” nodding toward her table, “I'd love to tell you everything I know about you,” he said, flashing a questioning look her way.

Sophie's cheeks warmed, and she knew color would quickly follow. She gave him an uncertain smile then turned and started for her table. As they sat, the muscles in her shoulders tightened and her breathing quickened. She glanced around to make sure they weren't completely alone in the library. No matter how great Mr. Gates looked or how sincere his voice sounded, she didn't trust him. Normal, sane people don't just pop up to make suggestions on what you should read and then, without missing a beat, tell you they—and everyone else in the city—know your name.

She shifted in her chair, scanning the library again.

Kevin knew he had come on a bit strong, a trait he had acquired from his earlier days as a reporter in New York City. It often made people uneasy, but in the right situation it could be an effective tool for getting information. As he slid his chair out, he sensed he'd done it again, but this time not on purpose. He needed to ease Ms. Hanes' anxiety as quickly as possible. That is, if he still wanted to get to know her better—and avoid being arrested for harassment.

“So Ms. Hanes, I said I'd tell you what I know about you, and I think it's only fair that I first tell you how I know what I know.” Kevin continued, noting the perfect shape of her brown eyes. Everything about her was exquisitely shaped, but he tried not to be too obvious with his assessment. In fact, he was finding it difficult to stay focused.
The facts
, he told himself.
Stick with the facts and you'll be just fine
.

“I have a friend who's a cameraman for the television station, and a couple of months ago, he asked me to fill in for him. I had no idea I'd be filming an interview at the university featuring the top-ranked history professor in Pullman, and soon, I'm sure, in the entire state of Washington.” He continued, trying to focus on her eyes but struggling because she wouldn't look directly at him.

“Needless to say, it was a privilege, and I found it very interesting— that is, after we were finally able to get through the entire interview—how such a young professor rose to the top of her profession in such a short amount of time,” he said, a hint of laughter in his voice.

Sophie shifted in her chair, self-conscious that Mr. Gates had been at the interview. She glanced at him and then back at the books on the table, feeling the heat of embarrassment on the tips of her ears and on her neck as she remembered all the takes they had to do, and the frustration that had emanated from the reporters and the despondent looks on the faces of the stage people. She also reluctantly remembered her nerves, which gotten the best of her. Several times, she'd had to ask to leave the set. Sophie had tried to tell them she was a really private person and all the attention was making her sick to her stomach, but they'd had a job to do and reminded her that they needed the piece for the news that evening.

Looking up, she saw Kevin's eyes fixed on her.

“I don't know what to say, Mr. Gates,” she said, dropping her eyes back to the diary. She tapped her finger nervously.

“You don't have to say anything, Ms. Hanes. I can see I've made you uncomfortable, and if you'd like me to leave, I will. But before I go, I just want you to know I wasn't upset with you during the interview. I understand what pressure can do, and considering the pressure you must have felt, I thought you did a great job.” Kevin slid his chair back and stood to leave.

“No, you don't have to leave,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I mean, if you have somewhere to go. But if you want to stay, I'd like to hear about your work. And you also mentioned a book you thought I'd like?”

Kevin went back to the shelf and returned with the book he had referred to earlier in their meeting. “This is the book I was talking about,” he said, sitting down next her. “I'm not sure exactly what you're looking for, but if you could give me a little information, I think I could be of some help. I've studied the country of Ireland some and know a little bit about it.”

He couldn't help but study her face as he talked. She was listening intently to his every word, like what he had to say made a difference for some reason. And her physical features seemed to grow more beautiful the longer they talked. He wondered how he was going to keep his mind going in the right direction. He cleared his throat. “So why are you interested in Ireland?”

Her eyes moved to the old book in front of her. “This is why.” Sophie carefully slid the diary in front of him.

He opened the front cover and studied the writing. “This is definitely Gaelic,” he said, then turned the diary over and examined it for another brief minute. “By the markings on the back, it looks like the diary was produced in the early to mid-nineteenth century, but that would be odd.”

Sophie inched closer to look at the diary. “Why would that be odd?”

“Because, by that time in Irish history, the Gaelic language had almost—and let me repeat, almost—been replaced by other languages. Plus more than two million people had been lost to disease, famine, and immigration, so only the poor and uneducated that remained would have spoken Gaelic.”

A wrinkle crossed the bridge of Sophie's nose once again. “So that means that this diary belonged to a poor woman?” she asked, not completely following his thoughts.

He looked directly into her eyes. “No, it didn't belong to a poor woman,” he said, pointing to some faint markings in the lower right-hand corner. “See this?” He took her fingers in his and rested them on the markings. “This diary was the property of a woman of wealth. Poor women could not have afforded this book. But the question is, did she purchase it, or was it given to her? And if it was given to her, then by whom and for what reason?” he said, thinking out loud. “I guess those questions can only be answered by the writings within the pages of this little book,” he said, placing his hand over the cover. He stared at the book, thinking. “You know what makes this really odd? Very few wealthy people spoke the Gaelic language. So how did this woman know it, and why would she use it in a personal document?” He leaned back in his chair, pinching his lower lip. “Ms. Hanes, could it be that the woman who owned the diary was trying to hide something, or could she have been an accomplice to something deceitful?” Kevin glanced carefully at Sophie. Her eyes were wide, and the questioning look on her face was priceless. A faint smile set on his lips. He noticed her shoulders had relaxed, but the look on her face was still of surprise, and that was worth a thousand words on paper. He wanted to know her thoughts. He tried to read her but couldn't. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked. He smiled and looked deeper into her eyes as he waited for an answer.