Angel's Rest(37)

“Good for you.” Gabe glanced toward the door. “We probably should look for that flashlight. We may be here awhile.”

He was right. Nic could hardly see anything, and it wasn’t even full dark outside yet. She dropped down onto her hands and knees and began to feel her way around. “It can’t be too far away.”

The cold from the basement floor seeped into her bones and caused her to consider how uncomfortable the coming night might be. Cold. Dark. No food.

No bathroom.

Immediately she felt the urge to pee. “This isn’t good, Gabe.”

A circle of light appeared. He’d found the flashlight. “It’s not that bad. We have shelter. We won’t freeze to death. I have a nine o’clock appointment here tomorrow morning, so somebody will be around to let us out then at the latest. In the meantime, we might as well see what we can scavenge from these boxes and trunks around us. I’ll bet we can find plenty to keep us comfortable enough for one night.”

“There’s no bathroom down here, Callahan.”

“Bet you a hundred bucks there’s a chamber pot, though. Let’s see what we can find, shall we?”

Over the next twenty minutes, they set up camp in the basement. He brought her a stack of quilts and three bearskins that she stretched out on the floor. He found a candelabrum complete with stubby candles and a case containing three clean, dry matches. He tossed her souvenir pillows from Paris and Rome, and whistled with appreciation when he stumbled across a wine rack. “Excellent. My knife has a corkscrew.”

“Lucky us. Don’t forget we need a chamber pot.”

Two minutes later, he presented her a pot with a flourish.

Nic tucked it away in a corner of the basement. By the time the grandfather clock upstairs chimed six o’clock, they’d created an amazingly comfortable nest.

He’d switched off the flashlight to save the batteries, and the discovery of a box of unused candles made conserving those unnecessary. With candlelight casting a warm, golden glow that staved off the deepening shadows of night, she produced two stems of crystal, which he filled with Bordeaux, and they each settled down with one of Elizabeth Blaine’s journals to pass the time.

The atmosphere was comfortable, the air between them easy, and Nic lost track of time as she sank into the history of Eternity Springs and its citizens.

Elizabeth Blaine had immigrated from Ireland to Chicago in the mid-1880s and taken a position as nanny to a banker’s family. When the family moved to Denver with the hope of improving the banker’s wife’s respiratory ailment, Elizabeth moved with them. She lost her position four years later when the wife died and the banker remarried.

Elizabeth then followed the silver boom to Eternity Springs. She cleaned houses and hotel rooms and … Nic pored over the words written on the pages and her heart broke.

“Why the tears?” Gabe asked, jerking her back to the present.

Nic blinked and wiped her eyes, then offered him a tremulous smile. “Okay, I’m an idiot. I can’t believe I cried over something that happened more than a hundred years ago.”

“Tell me.”

“She had a dog. Elizabeth did. His name was King. She brought him with her from Ireland, and he was all she had left of her family. She told a story of how once when the child she cared for was still an infant, his mother had him with her as she worked in her flower garden and a vicious neighborhood dog sneaked up on the baby and the mother didn’t notice. King was inside the house and went berserk. He crashed through a window screen to get outside and chased the other dog away. Anyway, she writes in her journal about how King got old and sick and she had to ask a friend to put him down. That’s what made me cry.”

“You are such a soft touch.”

She shrugged and attempted to change the subject. “Any interesting stories in the volume you’ve been reading? Any clues about the bride or the silver bars?”

“No. Afraid not. This diary covers the months when Elizabeth was falling in love with Harry Cavanaugh.”

“Oh yeah?” Nic sat up straight. She shut her diary and set it aside. “Cool! Tell me about it.”

He passed her the book saying, “I’ll let you read it yourself. Makes me feel like a voyeur to read it.”

“Why? Tell me it’s not X-rated.”

“No. It’s … mushy.”

“Romantic.” Nic opened the book and flipped through the pages. One passage caught her eye, and she read it aloud. “ ‘Harry knocked on my door this afternoon, handed me a bouquet of two dozen roses, and asked me to accompany him on a picnic up at Heartache Falls. He’d engaged the services of a violinist who followed behind our buggy, serenading us with love songs. His manservant prepared our picnic spot prior to our arrival. Fine Irish linens graced a table set for two with fine china. He served us roast duckling and chilled champagne from a silver bucket. My dear Harry quoted poetry to me over our meal, then asked me to dance with him in the meadow. It was the loveliest afternoon of my life.’ Ahh …,” Nic sighed. “That’s so sweet.”