Wildly, Boldly (Return to Culloden Moor #4)

Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

“ T here’s a cemetery I think you might find interesting,” Wyatt said as they pulled away from the lodge. “It’s about forty minutes from here, and dates back to the gold rush era.”

Sophie immediately perked up in the passenger seat. “Really? What makes this one special?”

“It’s where they buried a lot of the original prospectors. I figure if you’re looking for historical spirits, that’s probably your best bet.” He couldn’t believe he was actually encouraging this, but something about her enthusiasm was infectious.

The drive took them through winding mountain roads, with Sophie documenting the journey for her followers. Every few minutes she’d gasp at another stunning view, and Wyatt found himself seeing the familiar route through new eyes.

Finally, he pulled his truck into the small gravel lot beside Gold Rush Cemetery.

“This is perfect!” She was already pulling out her camera equipment. “Did you know cemeteries from this era often have the highest concentration of paranormal activity? All those stories, all that history...”

“All those dead people?” he offered drily.

She shot him a look that was half amusement, half exasperation. “You really don’t believe in any of this, do you?”

“I believe in what I can see and touch.” He got out of the truck, scanning the area out of habit. The cemetery sat nestled against the base of the mountains, surrounded by towering spruce trees. The morning fog hadn’t fully lifted, creating exactly the kind of atmospheric scene Sophie probably dreamed about.

“But isn’t that limiting?” She fell into step beside him as they walked toward the iron gates. “Think about it—a hundred and fifty years ago, people didn’t believe in radio waves or x-rays or quantum entanglement, but they existed. We just couldn’t detect them yet.”

“Are you comparing ghosts to quantum physics?”

“Maybe.” She grinned up at him, and something in his chest tightened. “I’m just saying, being skeptical is good, but being closed-minded isn’t.”

The gates creaked as he pushed them open, and Sophie immediately started filming. “Okay ghost squad, we’re at the Gold Rush Cemetery where prospectors, settlers, and maybe even a few outlaws found their final resting place. The fog rolling in from the mountains creates the perfect conditions for?—”

A raven burst out from behind a nearby headstone with a harsh cry, making Sophie jump and grab Wyatt’s arm. Her camera swung wildly as she pressed against his side.

“Perfect conditions for bird watching, apparently,” he said, trying to ignore how warm she felt against him.

She laughed, stepping away too quickly. “Okay, you got me there. But come on—you have to admit this place has atmosphere.”

He did have to admit it, though not out loud. The old headstones rose from the misty ground like ancient sentinels, their weathered surfaces telling stories of lives lived and lost in the pursuit of gold. The fog wrapped around the markers like ghostly fingers, and the only sounds were their footsteps on the damp grass and the occasional call of a raven.

“Here’s one,” Sophie called out softly, crouching beside a ornate headstone. “‘Jefferson ‘Soapy’ Smith, 1898. Died as he lived—by the gun.’“ She looked up at Wyatt. “Tell me about him.”

“Con man and gangster.” Wyatt leaned against a nearby tree, watching as she carefully filmed the grave. “Ran a criminal empire in Skagway during the gold rush until he made the mistake of crossing the wrong person. Got himself shot on the Skagway wharf.”

“And?” She raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“And what?”

“No ghost stories? No reports of his spirit still walking the wharf, looking for revenge?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but if Soapy Smith’s ghost is still around, he’s keeping a lower profile than he did in life.”

Sophie stood, brushing grass from her knees. “You know, for someone who doesn’t believe in ghosts, you sure know a lot about local history.”

“Kind of comes with the job.” He pushed off from the tree, trying not to notice how the fog made her auburn hair glow like copper. “When you’re constantly correcting tourist misconceptions, you need to know the real stories.”

“And what makes you so sure the ghost stories aren’t real too?”

Before he could answer, movement caught his eye. Another raven had landed on a nearby headstone, its black feathers gleaming in the weak sunlight. Sophie raised her camera slowly, but the bird took off with a flutter of wings that echoed through the quiet cemetery.

“They’re probably keeping an eye on their nests,” Wyatt said. “Ravens are incredibly intelligent. They remember faces, solve problems, and—” He caught himself starting to lecture and stopped.

But Sophie was looking at him with genuine interest. “And what?”

“And they’re known to play tricks sometimes. They’ll steal shiny objects, mess with other animals, even pull pranks on humans. People see them acting weirdly and assume it’s supernatural, when really it’s just...ravens being ravens.”

“Hmm.” She tilted her head, studying him. “You know what I think?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“I think you’re a lot more interesting than you want people to know.” She started walking backwards, camera raised. “All this knowledge about history and wildlife, but you act like you’re just here to keep tourists from feeding the bears.”

“That’s a pretty important part of the job,” he pointed out, following her. “You’d be surprised how many people think bears would enjoy a candy bar.”

She laughed, the sound echoing off the surrounding mountains. “See? There it is again—that dry sense of humor hiding under all that grumpiness.”

“I’m not grumpy,” he said grumpily.

“Sure you’re not.” She turned, focusing her camera on a cluster of smaller graves. “Oh wow, look at these. They’re so small...”

“Children,” he said quietly. “The winters were hard back then. Disease, accidents, lack of medical care...”

Sophie lowered her camera, her usual enthusiasm dimming. “It really puts things in perspective, doesn’t it? All our modern problems seem pretty small compared to what they faced.”

He watched as she knelt beside one of the tiny headstones, gently brushing away some fallen leaves. The morning light caught her profile, and for a moment she looked like she belonged here—not as another tourist chasing stories, but as someone who understood the weight of history this place carried.

The fog was starting to lift, taking with it some of the cemetery’s ethereal atmosphere. Sophie stood, tucking her camera away.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“For what?”

“For not making fun of me when that raven scared me. For sharing all this history. For...” She gestured around them. “Just for being a good guide, I guess.”

“It’s my job,” he said automatically, but they both knew that wasn’t entirely true. His job was to keep tourists safe and protect the park. Spending the morning exploring a cemetery with a ghost hunter wasn’t exactly in the job description.

As they walked back to the truck, Sophie’s phone pinged repeatedly.

“My followers are going to love this place,” she said, scrolling through notifications. “Though they seem more interested in my tour guide than the ghosts.”

Wyatt felt his ears grow warm. “What?”

“Oh, don’t worry—I didn’t film you. Much.” Her impish grin made his heart do that uncomfortable flip again. “Ready for the next stop?”

He was in trouble, he realized as he started the truck. Real, serious trouble. Because despite his best intentions, despite knowing better, he was starting to look forward to these outings with Sophie Marlow.

And that was definitely not part of the plan.