Heart Of Gold

“I
AM NOT A GOLD DIGGER.”

Carter
Wessex cradled the phone against her ear while emptying a duffle bag onto the
floor of her laundry room. The clothes that came out were covered in dirt,
moss, and some other things that looked like they were moving.

“I
never said you were.” Her oldest friend's voice was soothing, and Carter
recognized the one. It was the same one that had gotten her into trouble when
they were teenage girls.

“Yeah,
well, I'm also not a masochist,” she countered, trying to ward off the
attraction she felt toward the opportunity. “The guy who owns Farrell Mountain is a real piece of work. He's thrown more of my colleagues off that pile
of dirt than a starting pitcher.”

Laughter
came over the line. “C.C., I hate sports analogies, and that one barely
works.”

Carter
decided to fight harder, hoping her plan for taking the summer off wouldn't be
ruined by a proposition she couldn't turn down. “Well, from what I've
heard, Nick Farrell takes misanthropy to a new level, and he's got a particular
distaste for archaeologists. Do you know who he is? The corporate raider whose
name was splashed all over the papers because he double-crossed some guy
in a business deal?”

“I know
the story and his reputation."

“So
why are you doing this to me?” The words came out in a groan.

“Because
it's about time someone solved this mystery. The story's been left hanging
since 1775.”

“It's
a fairy tale, Woody.”

“Woody”
was more commonly known as Grace Woodward-Hall. The two had first met at a
picturesque New England prep school where they'd spent four years specializing
in winning field hockey games and smuggling packs of wine coolers into their
dorm. They'd been popular thanks to both.

As
adults, they had a personal and a professional relationship. Carter's specialty
as a historian and an archaeologist was the colonial period. Grace's family ran
the Hall Foundation, one of the nation's largest sources of grants for the
discovery and preservation of American history. Carter had received Hall
funding for a number of her digs.

“You've
read that Brit's journal, right?” Grace's Upper East Side background
marked her words with perfect intonation, but Carter knew the truth. For all
her prim and ladylike exterior, Grace had a raucous sense of humor and an
affection for trouble, both of which had cemented their relationship.

“Farnsworth's
diary? Of course I've read it. All colonial historians have a copy. It comes
with the bizarre predilection for musket balls and minute-men.”

Carter
glanced down and saw a spider crawling out from under a pair of khakis. She
wasn't prepared to kill the thing but didn't want it as a housemate, either.
Reaching over the washing machine, she picked up a coffee can full of nails,
dumped it out on top of the dryer, and covered the arachnid.

“So
you've got to wonder what happened,” Grace prompted.

“I
know what happened. An American hero was slaughtered, a fortune in gold
disappeared, and the Indian guide was fingered as responsible. End of
story.”

“I
find it hard to believe,” Grace said dryly, “that you aren't struck
by all the holes in that narration. Someone needs to go up on Farrell Mountain and find out what happened to the Winship party.”

“Well,
it doesn't have to be me.” Carter started loading shirts and socks into
the washer, careful not to tip over the can. “What they really need is a
paranormal investigator to put to rest all that haunting nonsense. Red Hawk's
ghost guarding the gold? Give me a break.”

“Look,
specters aside, this really is the perfect project for you. In your period, up
in the wilderness, a prime piece of history ready for the picking.”

“I
just got home from a dig,” Carter moaned. “I've got twelve pounds of
dirt under my fingernails, I'm in desperate need of sleep, and I have it on
good authority there are black flies the size of bats in the Adirondacks this
time of year.”

She knew
because they were alive and well in the Green Mountains of Vermont, too.
Glancing through a screened window, she saw a cheery June day beckoning on the
other side but she wasn't fooled. She'd been chewed on by them in her garden
that very morning.

“Aren't
you curious about what happened to the gold?”

“Like
I am about the Easter Bunny. You show me some proof that an upright rabbit
carrying a basket of chicken eggs exists and maybe I'll believe there's a
treasure up in those mountains.”

“Come
on, that gold couldn't have disappeared into thin air. And what happened to the
remains of the men who were killed?”

Carter
leaned a hip against the washing machine. “The Americans should never have
transported that kind of fortune while they had a captured British madman on
their hands. They were bound to get ambushed. The only surprise was that Red
Hawk was the one who turned on them. If one of the aggressors didn't take the
gold, someone else probably found it and had the good sense to keep his mouth
shut. As for the bodies, they could be anywhere. You know how big the Adirondack Park is? It would be like winning the lottery to find them.”

She
peered over her shoulder into the washer. Hitting that mess with water was
going to create some kind of mud bath but there was room to stuff in a little
more. She bent down to pick up another pair of khakis.

“Did
I mention we have bones?” Grace drawled. “From a site that's
identical to the one Farnsworth described in the journal.”

Carter
snapped upright. “Bones?”What kind of bones? Where were they
found?"

Grace's
satisfaction came through loud and clear over the phone. “Conrad Lyst
found them up on Farrell Mountain.”

At the
sound of the man's name, Carter's jaw clenched. “That rat. That nasty
...”

She
allowed herself a couple of truly raunchy but descriptive adjectives. And
followed them up with a doozy of a noun.

“You
finished now?” Her friend asked with amusement.

“Hardly.
It's a wonder that man can find his butt in his own pants. And if by some miracle
he did, his next move would be to sell it to the highest' bidder.”

“Professional
rivalries aside—”

“That
bulldozer is no professional. He's a looter and a thief.”

“I
can't argue with either of those, but he did find a femur and part of an arm.
We examined them here in Boston and they're from the period.”

“That
doesn't mean they're from—”

“They
were found with a crucifix.”

Carter
forgot all about the laundry. “Any markings?”

“Winship,
1773. We haven't analyzed it fully yet but it looks legit.”

The Reverend
Jonathan Winship had been the one in charge of the colonists escorting the
general. He was one of the men who had been killed up in the mountains.

Carter's
heart started pounding in her chest.

“So,
you want to talk about an Easter egg hunt?” Grace inquired smoothly.

* * *

A half
hour later they'd ironed out a grant and, though the laundry remained dry in
the washer, the spider had been carefully released back into the wild. After
pacing around the house for most of the time they talked, Carter ended up in her
kitchen, sitting at her breakfast table in the sunshine.

“I
still don't understand why Lyst presented you with the cross,” she said.
“That's not his style. The more people who know about a find, the harder
it is for him to sell it on the black market.”

“He
says he wants a grant. We won't give him one, of course. If he did dig, he'd
just pocket anything of monetary value and mistreat the rest so it couldn't be
studied.”

Carter
let out a snort of derision. “Someone needs to take that man's shovel
away, and I could tell them right where to stick it. The real mystery is how
the hell Lyst got permission to dig on that mountain.”

“He
didn't. He trespassed and, as you know, Farrell's idea of a welcome wagon
doesn't exactly include zucchini bread and lemonade. Lyst claims some rabid
woodsman chased him off with a shotgun, almost killing him in the
process.”

“Too
bad the guy didn't get the job done.”

“Well,
it got Lyst's attention, which may be the reason he came to the foundation. He
probably figures a Hall grant will give him credibility when he tries
again.”

“He'd
go back?”

“You
know Lyst. What he lacks in scruples, he more than makes up for in
follow-through. That's why you need to go talk to Farrell right now. I know
where his summer house is on Lake Sagamore and you can't live more than an hour
away from it. I've heard he's usually there on the weekends this time of year.
Just drive over this Saturday and ask for permission to dig.”

“What
makes you think the response I get will be any better?”

“You're
going to ask first. And you have better legs than Lyst does. Anyway, doesn't
your father run in the same business circles as Farrell—”

“Stop
right there.” Carter stiffened as anger rushed like acid up into her
throat.

Grace was
instantly contrite. “I'm sorry, C.C. I didn't mean to ...”

The use
of the old nickname reminded Carter of the long history she had with her
friend. She took a deep breath, trying to let go of the rage that came up any
time William Wessex was mentioned. It took her a moment before she could respond.

“If
I go, I won't be using my father as pull.” The word was intoned
like a curse.

“Of
course not. I shouldn't have brought it up at all.”

When they
got off the phone, Carter went out onto her back porch. Up ahead, mountains
rose steeply, brushing the bright blue sky with their evergreen shoulders.
She'd bought the land and the broken-down barn that came with it for the
magnificent view. It had taken her two years to convert the decaying building
into livable space but, now that it was finished, she wasn't sure whether she
liked her home or the scenery better. It was a shame she didn't spend more time
enjoying them.

Arching
her neck, she let the sun fall on her cheeks and forehead. All around, the
leaves of poplar trees were twinkling in the breeze and she could hear the
distant chika-brd-brd-brd of a red-winged blackbird. If she listened
hard enough, she even caught the sound of the stream that was on the far edge
of her property.

She
slowed her breathing down, trying to draw the calm surroundings into her body.

How much
longer would it take before she could stop flinching at the mention of her
father's name? Before she could let go of the past?

It was
two years and counting, so far.

She
turned away from the natural splendor and went upstairs. What had previously
been the barn's hayloft was now her office and her bedroom. The long,
rectangular space was her favorite in the house—an unbroken expanse she'd
paneled in pine and opened up at either end with picture windows.

Her
desks, computers, slide projectors, and research library dominated the room.
Against the long walls, she'd installed bookcases that were crammed with
scholarly works, some of which she'd written. It was a collection of the
resources she used most, and what she didn't have at her fingertips, she could
easily get at the University of Vermont in nearby Burlington. She'd been an
assistant professor of archaeology there for close to three years and had an
office on campus.

As much
as she liked her students, she preferred doing her own scholarship at home.
She'd spent a lot of late nights deep in thought in her pine-scented sanctuary,
time forgotten as she tried to make sense of the clues history left behind.