Chapter Thirteen
The heat in the tiny room had shifted from stifling to electric, the air no longer feeling thin but heavy with a new, vibrating energy.
Every cell in Ryan’s body seemed to have realigned, focusing entirely on the soft, steady pressure of Nicole’s lips against his.
The panic that had been clawing at his throat only minutes ago had vanished, replaced by a grounded, solid warmth that had everything to do with the woman currently threading her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.
His arms were locked around her waist, pulling her flush against him. In the dark, with only the glow of his phone lying on the floor casting jagged shadows against the sloping ceiling, the rest of the world—the ranch, the family, the century of history—had ceased to exist.
A sharp, digital trill shattered the silence, the sound bouncing off the wooden walls like a physical blow.
Ryan jerked, not wanting to pull away, not wanting to move, but someone needed to talk to him.
On a heavy sigh he rested his forehead against Nicole’s for a long, shaky second, their ragged breathing the only other sound in the cramped space.
The phone on the floor continued to ring, the vibration making it shimmy around the floor.
Taking a reluctant step back, his hands slid away from her waist as he moved to pick up the offensive apparatus still buzzing against the floorboards.
Bending down with a grunt, Ryan scooped the phone off the floor.
The caller ID flashed Quinn. He swiped the screen, the light momentarily blinding him. “Hello.”
“Where the heck are you?” Quinn’s voice boomed through the speaker, sounding far too loud for the small room. “Your truck is sitting in the drive and you’re nowhere to be found. Aunt Eileen is about to put out an APB.”
Ryan rubbed a hand over his face, trying to force his brain back into functional mode. “I’m in the attic. We got…” There was no way he was going to tell his brother that he’d been thoroughly and delightfully distracted by the most amazing kiss he’d ever shared. “Stuck.”
“Stuck? In the attic? Have you been drinking?”
“Of course not. It’s only…” He turned his wrist to glance at the time, shocked to realize they’d been up here for hours. No wonder Quinn sounded so annoyed.
“Never mind that. Get your tail down here. Uncle Brian and Aunt Anne just rolled in from Austin. They came as soon as they heard about Seamus and the diary.”
Ryan’s eyes found Nicole’s. She was watching him, her hand resting on the edge of a dusty crate. The way she nibbled on her lower lip made him wonder if she was as thrown as he was.
“Earth to Ryan,” Quinn barked into the phone.
“Sorry. We need a little help.” Ryan stepped toward the door, his hand finding the unyielding iron ring. “We found an old door that leads to a small storage room. Part of the original house, I think. Anyhow, the door slammed shut behind us and locked. We can’t get out.”
The line went silent for three full heartbeats. Then, a roar of laughter exploded through the phone. “You’ve got to be kidding me! You’re locked in a newfound room with the new carpenter—a girl? Valerie is going to kill herself for not having a camera up there.”
“Just get up here and open the door,” Ryan growled, the heat returning to his neck.
“On my way.” The line clicked dead.
Ryan shoved the phone into his pocket and looked at the door. “They’re coming.”
“I heard.” Nicole leaned back against the sea chest. “Uncle Brian and Aunt Anne. I’m guessing these are Ian, Jamison, and Hannah’s parents?”
“Yeah.” Ryan moved back into her space, his hands finding her waist again, though the touch was lighter now, more tentative. “I can’t imagine my mother setting foot in this house.”
The sound of heavy, stomping boots thundered on the stairs. The noise grew louder as it crossed the modern plywood of the main attic, finally reaching the original oak planks. “Ryan? Nicole?” Quinn’s voice was muffled but close. “You still in there, or has Seamus’s ghost carried you off?”
“Open the door, Quinn!” Ryan shouted.
The rusted metal latch gave a sharp, mechanical clack as it was lifted from the outside. The heavy timber door swung open, and the sudden influx of light and air felt like a physical weight being lifted.
Quinn stood there, leaning against the doorframe with a grin so wide it looked painful.
Behind him, Gray pushed his way into the room, his tail wagging so hard it hit the side of a crate with a rhythmic thump.
The dog made a beeline for Nicole, nudging her hand for a scratch as if confirming she was still in one piece.
“Holy Moly.” Quinn’s gaze took in the surroundings. “Did you find anything helpful?”
“The oldest looking thing in the room is that sea chest over there, but we can’t get it open. We didn’t have enough time to search the belongings because the door slammed shut, leaving us in near total darkness.”
The way Quinn’s gaze darted from Nicole to him and back a few times, he was challenged to maintain a neutral expression under the quiet scrutiny. The last thing he needed was for his older brother to discover they’d been caught up in a liplock while waiting to be rescued.
“Well, I suppose we can haul this thing downstairs. Seamus is here as well. The kitchen is buzzing with people and I’m willing to bet my life’s savings that they’re going to be as eager as you are to find what’s in that trunk.”
His brother maneuvered around them and walked straight to the trunk in question. When neither Ryan nor Nicole moved, Quinn raised his hands in a short quick gesture. “Well? What are you two waiting for? I’m not expecting Superman to blow in and help move this sucker.”
Immediately they both hurried to Quinn’s side, grabbing hold of the old rope handles and hefting it off the floor and across the attic.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, Ryan’s gaze drifted to the now open door that led to the small room, to the place he’d been thoroughly and perfectly kissed.
As much as he dreaded being locked in again, he wasn’t so sure that being set free was a good thing.
“Look what we found.” Releasing the rope handles of the old chest onto the kitchen floor with one resounding thud, Ryan and Quinn straightened.
Nicole moved to the side, her gaze tracking a fine cloud of gray dust that billowed into the air. The two men had made it clear at the top of the stairs that they didn’t need her help with the heavy lifting, a brand of Texas chivalry that was growing on her.
“What have we here?” an unfamiliar man about Uncle Sean’s age, with the same chiseled features all the Farraday men seemed to share, called out from the counter. Beside him, a woman with a calm, observant expression nodded a greeting.
“Turns out these two locked themselves in the attic.” Quinn didn’t even try to hide his amusement with the situation.
“How the heck did y’all do that?” Aunt Eileen’s gaze narrowed and her head tipped as she studied her nephews. “There’s no lock on that door.”
“There is on the one we found.” Ryan rinsed his hands in the kitchen sink. “Over the original cabin footprint. Did you know there was a door behind all those boxes stacked on the far wall?”
Uncle Sean and his wife shook their heads before their gazes dropped to the trunk.
“This was inside?” Aunt Eileen pointed.
“And a whole lot more,” Nicole added, pleased by the curiosity dancing in everyone’s eyes.
Slapping her hands together, Aunt Eileen rubbed them enthusiastically. “Let’s check it out.”
“Maybe it will shed some light on our family connection.” Seamus sat at the table by Finn. The man blended in as if he’d always been a part of the household.
“Anyone here good at picking hundred year old locks?” Nicole glanced around at the fallen faces. “I’m guessing no?”
“Wait.” Aunt Eileen jumped to her feet. “We used to have a ring of old skeleton keys that belonged to the house before modern doors and locks were installed. Let me see if I can find it.” The woman hurried out the kitchen and down the hall.
Eloise came from around the table and kissed her fiancé on the cheek. “Any more word on your parents?”
“Yes, when is our beloved in-law arriving?” The man who had to be Ryan’s Uncle Brian reached for the coffee pot.
“I spoke to Patrick last night.” Uncle Sean squatted down to examine the lock on the trunk. “The only way he could get Mariah to agree to come to the wedding was to promise they didn’t have to stay anywhere near the ranch house.”
“As difficult as ever.” Uncle Brian sighed.
“Why do you say that?” His wife looked at him. “I mean, before they disappeared, I didn’t find her all that difficult.”
“That’s because she avoided you like the plague after she found out that you and Patrick had once been engaged.
” Brian took a long first sip of hot coffee.
“I should have seen this coming. Patrick was always stressing over not upsetting Mariah. At first it was simple things. Her feelings would be hurt if he didn’t notice she’d bought a new dress, or changed her hair style.
But after the wedding, the woman seemed to keep a score card over how much time Patrick spent with people instead of with her.
Once the kids started coming she didn’t seem to have as much time to focus on herself and her insecurities, but obviously, that didn’t last long. ”
Nicole knew very little about the family dynamics except for the few things she’d overheard in passing, but the other uncle’s comment lined up with her theory that someone did something to upset Mariah Farraday the way that the Sherman Brother’s wife was offended and cut everyone else out.
Without asking, Ryan set a hot cup of coffee in front of her and settled into the chair beside her, his shoulder momentarily brushing hers, his smile reminding her of the last few minutes locked in the storage room.
She took one sip and was warmed at the revelation that he knew how she liked her coffee as much as she was by the hot brew or the memories of being locked in his embrace. More importantly, she got the feeling there were no regrets for what happened and that made her much happier than it should.
Throughout the week, she’d watched him navigate workspace, filming crew, and family drama with a steady, quiet patience.
He was a builder, focused on the foundation rather than the trim.
It was that solidness—the way he handled the chaos of filming and building without losing patience—and she was very much aware that this was not a relationship, or friendship, she was ready to walk away from.
“Here we go.” Aunt Eileen carried a large metal ring with enough keys dangling to qualify her as a turn of the century jailer. “This may take a minute.” Dropping to the floor in front of the trunk, one by one, she began testing each key.
The family watched in almost total silence. Under the table, Ryan had taken hold of her hand and every so often gave it a little squeeze. She was pretty sure that was his way of saying he wasn’t ready to walk away from whatever was happening to them either.
“Eureka.” Aunt Eileen shoved the lid up and sprang to her feet with the agility of a much younger woman.
Everyone stood, eager to see the new find. A heavy scent of cedar and aged paper billowed out, filling the kitchen with the smell of a century gone by.
First, Aunt Eileen pulled out a small, rectangular packet wrapped in yellowed parchment and tied with a fraying piece of twine.
“It’s hair,” she whispered, her fingers trembling slightly as she carefully unwrapped the paper.
Inside laid a lock of dark auburn hair, curled into a tight ringlet and bound by a faded blue silk ribbon.
The color remained vibrant, a shocking bit of life preserved in the middle of all that dust.
“Whose hair do you think it is?” Ryan asked softly.
Aunt Eileen shook her head.
“Most likely that of a deceased loved one.” Nicole shared what she’d learned through the years when doing family research. “Could be a deceased child. Could also be from someone left behind.”
“Bridget,” Uncle Sean spoke in a voice that was almost worthy of a prayer.
Beneath where the packet had rested lay a heavy fabric bundle.
Quinn helped his aunt lift the weight out, unfolding it across the kitchen table to reveal a patchwork quilt.
The fabric was worn thin in places, most likely made from clothing remnants.
The patterns—a mix of beiges, browns, and blues—remained clear.
In the bottom corner, embroidered with painstaking block letters in thick red thread, were the initials B N.
“Definitely Bridget,” Nicole sighed. “Probably from her dowry given to her husband to take to the land of opportunity in preparation for their life together.”
“You really think?” Ryan looked to her, not anyone else.
She shrugged. “No telling, but it fits.”
“Especially if you read these.” Aunt Eileen held a bundle of letters that had been carefully tied in the same twine as the hair package. “Letters from Bridget telling him about life on the farm, and her dreams of when they’re together again.”
“He kept them.” Quinn reached for Eloise’s hand.
Aunt Eileen sighed. “He did love her.”
“Which,” Sean sat straighter, “doesn’t sound like the act of a man planning on lying to his wife about his death.”
“And,” Seamus blew out a deep breath, “doesn’t give us any more answers than we had before.”
“Let me keep looking. This sucker is full of things.” Painstakingly, Aunt Eileen proceeded to remove one item at a time.
Somewhere in that trunk the answer to history had to be buried. If not there, then in one of the other items stored in that little room. The physical proof they’d been looking for, a tangible bridge to the woman they’d all thought was a dead end in their history.
Nicole looked from the tiny curl of hair to the heavy quilt.
This wasn’t just data on a screen anymore; it was a life that had been packed away with love and intent.
She shifted her thumb against Ryan’s, feeling the steady beat of his pulse, noticing the awe in his gaze.
It seemed that today held changes for everyone in this room—especially the man who she was absolutely falling for.