“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Sorrow.
“If your apple bread and the smell of that sauce are any indication, I must confess, I’d love a taste of what you’re serving. ” A look washed over his face, and it gave his words a dou
ble meaning. “I mean…if you’re sure you don’t mind. I don’t want to be an inconvenience. ”
“Not at all. I have to eat, too. ” She ducked back into the fridge, rifling more than was strictly necessary. The cool air was a relief on her warm cheeks. What was wrong with her? “How do you feel about pasta?”
“I feel good about pasta. ”
She smiled. Finally a man who didn’t shy away from carbs. “I can pull together a quickie Aglio e Olio. ”
“Sounds fancy. ”
She grabbed the olive oil and made sure there was enough garlic. “It’s just Italian for ‘garlic and oil. ’ Nothing to it. ”
Billy reached up to grab her colander and big spaghetti pot from their hooks. He held them up in silent question.
“Perfect,” she said, a little surprised. “Thanks. ”
He began to fill the pot with water. “While the pasta’s boiling, you can tell me about those letters. ”
She froze for the merest second. “You know about the letters?”
“Your dad told me. ”
And he was interested in hearing more about them? Disbelieving, she poured olive oil in a saucepan and added a decent glug of a Pinot Grigio she’d had in the fridge. Her arm hovered in the air a moment. What the hell? She showed him the bottle. “Do you want a glass of wine?”
“Why not. ” He seemed surprised he’d said it. And a little uncomfortable, too.
She gave him an extra glug for good measure. She knew she needed one herself. She was feeling a little uncomfortable, too, but in an excited-uncomfortable way. Because she kind of liked having the sheriff in her kitchen.
The sauce was reducing, the water put up to boil, and it was time to wait. As she joined him at the table, he put a careful fingertip atop the small stack of letters. “Are these the ones?”
“They are,” she said. “Dated from the 1850s, from my three-times great-grandmother. ”
He shook his head at that, marveling. “When I see something that old, it’s impossible not to imagine the person who owned it. Them picking up this paper—it probably cost a lot back then. And then taking their pen in hand. ”
He’d voiced thoughts she’d had a hundred times herself. Mostly she burned to know exactly who this woman was, this first Sorrow. She was a family mystery. A woman who’d given birth to at least one child out of wedlock, at a time when such things weren’t to be considered. A story had been woven through the generations—but had Sorrow Crabtree really known as hard-luck a life as the tale went?
Photography wasn’t common back then, and she couldn’t even summon a mental picture of the woman. Sorrow had found a couple of old dresses in the attic and fantasized they’d belonged to her ancestor. A dress did much to describe the woman who wore it, and this woman had been curvy—not unlike herself—with a penchant for low necklines and tight bodices. They were the sorts of dresses a lady didn’t wear on a stagecoach. Instead, they were for dancing, or for shots of whisky at a saloon. For bawdy jokes and hands of poker.
“I wonder what kind of pens they used then,” Billy said, calling her from her thoughts. “Do you know?”
She smiled to herself. “I’d like to find all that stuff out, I think. ”
He skimmed a finger along the side of the stack, and she appreciated his care. “Are they really written to Buck Larsen?” he asked. “Did he write back?”
“That’s the thing. ” She inhaled deeply, back in the moment, and reached for them, taking a few from the top. “My great-great-great-grandmother Sorrow never sent them. From what I can tell, Buck Larsen lived here, then took off for the capitol, and well, you probably know the story from there. ”
“Me and every fifth grader in California. ” His eyes caught hers, and there was a look of amazement there. “Now, what they don’t teach is how he left his pregnant lover behind…”
Sorrow felt a flare in her belly as she locked eyes with this man, heard the word lover come from his lips. She cleared her throat. “Looks that way. I’m reading the rest of them, but it’s slow going. The handwriting is pretty tricky to make out. ”
“May I?” He reached his hand out, and she handed him a random letter. Billy studied it for a moment. “Handwriting is a lost art. ”
She leaned in to look, and he edged toward her, moving the page to where she could see. The movement had been automatic, as had the way she’d scooted closer for a look. Only now their shoulders were touching, and Sorrow found she couldn’t focus on the words.
But apparently Billy could. She was grateful when he laughed, pointing to a spot low on the page.