Stacey Joy Netzel Boxed Set (2 page)

Melanie’s breath caught and her heart
hammered in her chest, leaving her off-balance and dizzy. She
wished she could sit down. Next to the ink-colored stone by now,
she reached out a hand for support. Upon contact with the rough
surface of the top of the stone, her fingers were inundated with
heat. With a silent gasp, she snatched her hand back. Where it
rested deep in the shade, the granite should’ve been cool to the
touch, not warm.

Oblivious to her disquiet, John continued
the story. “As they crossed the bridge, Lorena’s horse nearly
trampled a woman and her two small children. One of the little
girls fell over the railing into the river.”

Soft exclamations from the older women
mirrored Melanie’s dismay.

“Some say Andrew stopped his horse and dove
into the rapids to save the child, others say the sheriff shot him
and he fell into the river. Whichever way it happened, he did save
the girl before the current carried him away. When they found his
body a mile or so downstream, they discovered he’d been shot in the
back. The official records, however, state the cause of death as
drowning.”

“Good for the sheriff,” the man to Melanie’s
left said decisively.

“What happened to Lorena?” she asked.

John grinned as if he held the juiciest
piece of the tale. “Well, after Sheriff Tucker shot Andrew, he kept
on riding.”

Surrogate grandma harrumphed with
disapproval. “The sheriff didn’t help save the little girl?”

“No,” John confirmed with a shake of his
head. “He rode after Lorena and neither one of them were heard from
again.”

“Was the sheriff in on the robbery?” George
asked with enthusiasm.

“That’s what’s been argued for years. One
customer in the bank said Andrew tried to stop Lorena, and that the
sheriff
is the one who shot her father, but that woman’s
version was swept aside by the unarguable testimony of Jacob Van
Bueren himself. He swore Lindeman pulled the trigger. Hard to argue
that, folks.”

Melanie couldn’t help but voice her
confusion. “But if Andrew Lindeman struck gold, why would he rob
the bank? Not to mention he was marrying the banker’s daughter—a
lucrative move in that time period.”

“Van Buren testified Lindeman had made some
bad investments and lost everything. He claimed Lorena was going to
cancel the wedding, but Lindeman turned her against him and
convinced her to rob the bank instead.”

Melanie felt a small prick of disappointment
as she stared at the etchings in the stone. Up until the very end
of the story, the romantic in her wanted to believe Andrew Lindeman
was the hero. It was such a strong name, and he probably had been
tall, dark and handsome, too. But when the chips were down, he was
nothing but a thief who’d drawn the wrong card, and only by a twist
of fate managed to redeem himself with one last sacrificial act by
rescuing the little girl.

She dropped her gaze from the name on the
headstone and saw another rock embedded in the ground. Lichen
covered and weathered over time, it was too close to belong to
another gravesite. She knelt in the shaded grass, brushing her
fingers across the stone’s cold, rough surface while deciphering
the worn letters.

Andrew Lindeman
.

She frowned up at John. “Why are there
two?”

“The townsfolk marked his grave with that
first one when they buried him, providing evidence of his death,
then they changed the name of the town to Lindeman’s Crossing as a
warning to other outlaws. Crime had increased with the height of
the gold rush, so they spread the story far and wide that anyone
who committed a crime—namely, rob the bank—would cross over as
Andrew Lindeman had.”

The air stirred around John as he spoke. She
could see through the haze, but everything behind that small area
was distorted, as if she were looking through the bottom of an old
Coke bottle. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and she rose
to her feet. She cast a quick glance around, but no one else seemed
to even notice the odd disturbance.

“What ever happened to the bank owner?” one
of the ladies asked. “He must’ve been broken hearted over his
daughter.”

John nodded. “Historical journals confirm he
was. She was his only child and after a few months, he moved back
east.”

“
He was in on it.”

Melanie startled and jerked around toward
the sound of the rough, angry voice. No one stood behind her, and
yet that’s where the words had come from. She quickly faced the
others. They stared back at her like she’d gone crazy.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

“Hear what, dear.”

“He was in on it.”

John’s head tilted in consideration. “Jacob
Van Bueren? Hmm. You know, I never thought about that possibility
before.”

“No. I mean, someone said those words just a
second ago.
He was in on it
.”

“Yes, dear, you did.” The surrogate-grandma
reached out and patted Melanie’s arm with reassurance. Melanie
opened her mouth, then shut it again, fearing she’d end up talking
in circles trying to explain it to them. Besides, how did one
explain they were hearing voices?

The man who’d applauded the sheriff for
shooting Andrew in the back crossed his arms over his chest and
gave a soft snort. “If the town thought this Lindeman fellow robbed
the bank and shot the banker, then why’d they put up this fancy
rock for him? The first one I get, but the second don’t make no
sense to me.”

John took up his story again. “As I said
earlier, the town marked his grave with the small stone, but
historical records show the family of the little girl he rescued
from the river had this larger one made sometime after.”

“Is she buried here, too?” Melanie asked.
“Do you know her name?”

“Vanessa
Brisbane. I don’t think—”

“Brisbane?” Excitement exploded inside
Melanie. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, although that was her maiden name, and
the family moved away shortly after she married, so I don’t believe
any of them are buried here.”

Her great-great-great-grandmother Vanessa
Brisbane had married Edward Kurowski and moved from Lindeman’s
Crossing, Colorado to Wisconsin in 1872. Never had she imagined her
ancestor played such a pivotal character in this town’s past. And
of all the stories passed down through the generations of her
family, why had
this
one been left out?

Oh how she wished Grandma were still alive.
If she had
any
family left in the world, she’d have been on
the phone in a heartbeat. As it was, the town was her last tangible
connection to a history her grandmother had taught her to love.

John concluded the tour and answered any
final questions before the group of senior citizens boarded their
bus. Melanie stood off to the side and waved goodbye.

“You’re not riding back on the bus?” John
asked when the doors closed and they departed.

“Oh, I’m not with them,” she explained. “I
don’t live far from here and when I saw the tour listed in the
paper’s local events, I just walked over.”

“Interested in our history, are you?”

“I’m a bit of an addict,” she admitted.

He placed his hand flat on his chest. “A
woman after my own heart.”

Melanie laughed. “Your passion is evident in
your presentation. I had a great time on the tour, and you have me
totally intrigued with the local historical society. I’d love to
come to a meeting.”

“We’d love to have you. New blood is always
welcome, and rarely do we get members as young as you. Why don’t
you stop by the museum some time and we’ll get you a meeting
schedule.”

“Thank you, John, that’d be great.”

After he gave directions to the Lindeman’s
Crossing Historical Museum, she walked toward the cemetery gates
closest to her home, happy in her euphoric daze.

Her family, steeped in such astonishing
history! What a story it would be to tell
her
children and
grandchildren some day. Yes, despite her lack of success in the
romance department, and no prospects on the horizon, hope remained
of finding a connection to last a lifetime.

She swung around and walked backward,
letting her gaze wander over the rows of headstones. Even with the
beautiful Rocky Mountains highlighted by the setting sun, the
imposing oak drew her eye like a magnet.

There in the shadows, the dark figure of a
man stood beside the black tombstone.

Her heart stopped, her breath caught. As her
pulse thundered in her ears, she stared until he started to move
forward. Toward her.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. Backing up, she
swallowed hard and finally blinked.

The figure disappeared.

Melanie froze. Blinked again. Still
gone.

She didn’t waste a single second more
waiting for whatever she’d seen to reappear. Thankful she’d changed
into tennis shoes for the tour, she bolted for home as if she’d
just seen a ghost.

****

He stood in the shadows, watching the young
woman run through the gates without looking back. Almost as if
she’d seen something that had frightened her.

His eyes narrowed in consideration of the
idea spinning in his head. The notion was almost unthinkable. They
were in a cemetery, at dusk, with plenty of shadows and looming
headstones that could’ve spooked her—given her the
“willies”
, as she’d said earlier.

And yet, that simple, believable, likely
explanation could not quell the single thought making his heart
race.

Could she have seen him?

Her earlier startled reaction confirmed
she’d heard his irate exclamation. When he’d been listening to the
speculation and lies for what felt like the thousandth time and
vented his age-old frustration that no one had seen the truth.

Given that she’d heard his words, was sight
really so inconceivable?

She had been on the right track back there.
If she continued to voice contrary questions the answers would lead
her down a path of discovery he had only hoped would some day be
revealed. And if she could hear him, if she could see him...

Ashes of long dead hope stirred, whirling
into a driving force of energy to follow the pretty redhead. But by
the time he reached the gates, she had disappeared into the night
as if she had never existed.

That night, a handsome man, his dark horse,
gunshots and a raging river plagued Melanie’s dreams. Little
snippets of events and emotions. A husky voice. Dark eyes. Cold
water. Muddy riverbank.

Anger.

Desperation.

Pain.

The emotions were especially vivid. Her only
confirmation the dark dreams weren’t real was the sight of her
cream-colored walls and sage green curtains when she blinked awake
on Saturday morning.

She stumbled out of bed completely
exhausted. Yet after her first cup of tea, an energy she definitely
did not contribute to the limited caffeine pulsed through her
veins. It got her through cleaning the cute little cottage she’d
purchased a month ago, and washing a few loads of laundry.

Still restless, she moved on to weeding her
two small flower gardens in the backyard and then sat at her
rummage sale cafe table out on the patio with her briefcase.

An hour later, after rereading the paper in
her hand and still not sure what it said, she admitted defeat.
Nothing took her mind off yesterday’s cemetery tour or the contrary
thoughts of Andrew Lindeman. And erasing the memory of that
shadow-figure next to his tombstone proved impossible.

Seeing as her current attempts to review her
current court case were proving a complete waste of time, she went
inside to put on her tennis shoes. It was her first weekend off
since starting her new job here in Colorado and high time she had
some fun exploring the town her grandmother had relished speaking
of. It still made no sense Andrew Lindeman’s story hadn’t been
passed down through the generations, but with Grandma having passed
on more than five years now, she’d never know that answer.

She started with the trail next to the river
behind her cottage. The walk along the South Platte River settled
her nerves until she realized it’d looped through the park and led
her back to the cemetery. Her feet rooted to the spot outside the
gate as she stared intently at that one specific shaded
gravesite.

Everything looked normal. No shadow figures.
No shimmering air. No voices in her head.

Most likely her subconscious had been
playing with her yesterday. Her imagination had been in overdrive
after all the wonderful history she’d learned.

Still hesitant, Melanie entered the deserted
grounds and followed the path John had led the senior group along
the day before. Every so often she snuck a glance toward the black
granite, until at the end, she once again stood in front of the
stone.

Deep breath. Let it out slow. Everything’s
fine.

Squatting down, she reached to touch the
old, worn stone sunk in the earth.

Cold
. As it should be.

Her gaze rose to the other one looming in
front of her. Nervous anticipation mixed with dread, raising goose
bumps on her arms like yesterday. Much as she didn’t want to touch
its smooth surface, she had to make sure. Her hand trembled
slightly as she extended her arm.

Cool
.

Relief tingled through her entire body.

With one finger, she traced the
A
in
Andrew, then flattened her palm over the name.

In a single instant, the granite warmed,
almost to the point of burning her flesh. She yanked her hand back
with a gasp, then nearly jumped out of her skin when a male figure
materialized out of thin air right before her eyes.

Dark, glittering eyes locked on her. A
scream froze in her throat and she found she couldn’t breathe.