Heart Of Gold (10 page)

Nick stepped
back, and she heard his labored breathing over her own. His shirt was veering
at a crazy angle from her having yanked at it, and she flushed, wondering what
in the hell had caused her to act so aggressively.

For a
long time, he stared at her as if trying to come to terms with the passion that
had exploded between them. He seemed as surprised by it as she was.

“I
think I should leave now,” he said finally.

As he
turned away, she whispered, “Yes. So do I.”

* * *

Nick left
the campsite in a hurry. In the gathering darkness, there was still enough
light so that the way down the mountain was obvious. He didn't need the help,
though. He knew every bend in the trail, every boulder he walked past. The
familiarity was comforting.

Because
he sure as hell didn't know what had gotten into him.

How they
had gone from arguing to that rousing kiss was a mystery. One minute he'd been
angry with the woman and the next he'd been overwhelmed by how incredibly
beautiful she was with the setting sun on her face. Then she'd kissed him and
the whole damn world had caught on fire.

That
mind-blowing intensity was not what he had intended.

He'd been
attracted to her from the start, true. But he'd had no idea what it would be
like kissing her. He hadn't been prepared for the feel of her body against his,
her breasts pressing into his chest, her lips returning his kisses with a
passion as great as his own.

It had
been a long time since anyone had kissed him like that. Hell, no one had kissed
him like that. No woman had ever gripped the front of his shirt like it was a
pull chain and whipped his head forward to her mouth. She'd had him under her
complete control in that moment.

His body
throbbed just thinking about it.

Nick sped
up his descent. He was not a man who got overwhelmed easily, and he sure as
hell didn't lose control of himself that often. Certainly, never with a woman.
Until now. With the mere touch of her lips, he'd felt as if he'd been thrown
into a volcano. Out of control, burning hot, he'd had no defenses against the
onslaught.

Hadn't
been interested in mounting any, either.

Gritting
his teeth against his need, he decided it had to be a fluke of nature. He
hadn't been with Candace in a while, what with his Japan trip and then the
headache. That had to be the problem.

That just
had to be it, dammit.

Coming to
the end of the trail, Nick walked out into the meadow and then across the lawn.

Before
heading inside, he paused and glanced back at the mountain. Close to the
summit, he could see the glow of a fire. He felt a strong urge to go back up
there, as if he'd forgotten something important.

Nick
cursed out loud before making himself go into his home. He went directly to his
study and, with grim determination, picked up the phone.

He knew
just how to take care of any unhealthy preoccupation he might have with that
archaeologist.

When
Candace's voice came on the line, he spoke clearly. “It's me.”

“Hello,”
she said, surprised.

“I
want you to come back up this weekend.”

“Darling,”
she breathed, “I would love to.”

“Come
Thursday night. Stay for however long, through the next week if you want.”

She
positively cooed with pleasure. “I'd stay the whole summer, if you'd let
me.”

Nick
didn't reply. He was too occupied by a sensation of strangulation that had come
over him.

This was
wrong, he thought.

“Nick?”
she purred.

“What?”

“Does
this mean you've given some thought to our conversation about the future?”

Oh,
Christ. What was he doing?

“Of
course, I've thought about it.”

“I
knew you'd come around.”

“I've
got to go,” he said quickly.

“See
you soon.”

Candace's
voice was happy as they hung up.

Nick knew
damn well why she was so pleased and surprised. He generally kept her down in
the city, wanting to save the lake house for those times when he could really
unwind. And he sure as hell hadn't ever given her an open-ended invitation.

Nick went
over to his wet bar, poured a scotch, tossed it back, and poured another.

With a
groan, he thought of Cort. He needed to go and talk with the boy, to try and
bridge the gap that had been widened once again. But what could he say that
hadn't already been thrown back at him a hundred times?

“Bloody
hell,” he said aloud.

Gertie
poked her head in the door. She was buttoning up a yellow sweater and had a
handbag with a big sunflower on it hanging from one arm..

“I
left you a plate of dinner in the fridge. And before you ask, Cort's up in his
room. Took his food upstairs.”

Nick sent
a weary smile her way. “How did you know I was thinking about him?”

“He
was upset when he came in and, whenever you're wondering what to do about the
boy, you always look like this.”

“What
do I look like?”

“Like
your tail's under a rocking chair.”

He
finished the scotch. “I should go up and talk with him.”

“Good
idea.”

As he put
down his glass, Nick changed the subject. “I've asked Candace to come up
here for a while.”

Gertie
said nothing; she just took out a scarf from her pocket and knotted it over her
hair.

“No
reaction?”

“I'll
make sure everything is ready.”

He
frowned.

“Don't
give me that look,” she said curtly. “I can't make you feel better
about doing something you know doesn't sit right.”

He ran
his hand through his hair as she shut the door quietly behind her.

Thank God
Gertie was the only one who could read him so well.

At least
no one else would know the kind of mess his life was in.

The next
morning, Carter woke up to the sound of an alarm clock. This was a surprise
because she hadn't brought one with her.

It took
her some time to figure out that the staccato beats were coming from a
woodpecker. As the relentless tapping droned on, Carter wrapped her pillow
around her head, thinking if the bird didn't give it a rest, it was going to
cure her of being a nature lover.

A little
later, she pushed the pillow aside and tried to read the face of her watch. If
she calculated it right, she needed three more hours of sleep to make up for
the insomnia that she'd had the night before.

Fat
chance of that as long as Mr. Snare Drum kept it up.

She
unzipped her sleeping bag, thrust her legs out, and got up. After she changed
into blue jeans, a turtleneck, and a fleece pullover, she stepped into her
boots and emerged from the tent to confront the noisemaker.

“I'm
up,” she barked. “You satisfied?”

The bird,
startled by the sound of her voice, took flight in a fit of self-preservation.

“What
a pecker head.”

Going
over to the mess tent, she made some coffee. After downing a mug full, she
began to feel a little more like herself and started to plan the day. Having
spent so many hours in the dark probing why she'd kissed a man she should
dislike, it was great to think about work. God knew, her midnight machinations
hadn't gotten her any closer to some relief. Maybe she just needed to focus on
other things.

Like the
job she was there to do.

Going
into Papercut Central, she picked up the definitive biography of General
Farnsworth, a copy of his journal, and a pad and pen. She paused to fill up a
thermos with more coffee and headed out to the big view. As she stepped free
from the trees, she was astounded at the sunrise that greeted her. Pink and
yellow streaks filled the sky, and down below, the water's calm surface
reflected all the glory.

Now this
was worth waking up for, she thought.

Choosing
a boulder with a flat top, she climbed aboard and sat cross-legged. The
pine-scented mountain air was crisp in her nose and the sun's rays were warm on
her face. Comfortable, satiated, and much happier than she'd been in her tent,
she cracked open the larger of the books. Drinking her coffee and occasionally
looking up to monitor the sun's progress as it rose, she reread parts of the
biography to refresh her memory of the general.

Farnsworth
was the illegitimate son of a British nobleman and he'd joined the king's
forces because he had few other prospects. Embroiled in the New World's
military conflicts, he rose to power fast, using a combination of scare
tactics, bribery, and deadly force against anyone who stood in his way. Within
two years, after numerous victories in battle, he was given command of Fort Sagamore.

In the
fall of 1776, just after taking up his new post at the fort, he got himself
into serious trouble during a trip to the harbor of New York. While there to
develop military strategy with other British leaders, he took a fancy to a
young barmaid and apparently wouldn't take no for an answer. The girl's father,
a colonist with a lot of friends, caught the general brutally raping the
colonist's daughter. When Farnsworth tried to flee the city, he was captured by
an angry mob. Demanding his freedom and maintaining his innocence, he claimed he'd
been seduced by the girl, a defense that would have been far more believable if
she hadn't been found under him, bloodied and in shock.

The
colonial community demanded his death. The British, however, had no intention
of losing such a valuable military asset, and they had the perfect bargaining
chip. Just weeks earlier, at the conclusion of a bloody skirmish up around Boston, Nathaniel Walker had been taken prisoner. One of the great colonial leaders of the
Revolution, he was, ironically, ensconced in the dungeon of Fort Sagamore. After tense negotiations, a deal was struck between the two sides. A trade would
be made.

Two
colonial soldiers, who'd been farmers before the fighting, were chosen to
escort Farnsworth upstate where the swap would occur. They were joined by the
Reverend Jonathan Winship, a close friend of Nathaniel Walker's, and a
spiritual as well as community leader in the colonies. It was the expectation
that his influence would temper the min-utemen's hatred for the man they were
escorting and thus assure the prisoner arrived for the trade alive.

The
Winship party, as the group was called, retained an Indian guide to navigate
the way north to the environs around Fort Sagamore. In spite of the risks, it
was conceivable that the party could have survived both the trip into the Adirondacks and the exchange, despite being so close to the enemy's seat of power. They
were all smart men who knew their way around a musket loader, including the
reverend, and they were being led by an Algonquin Indian who had been born in
the area.

What
tipped the scales in their disfavor was that they weren't traveling light.

Revolutionary
supporters in the city had laden the three colonists with gold. It was to be
used for purchasing food and furs for soldiers who would have to brave the fury
of the coming winter at strategic outposts along the Hudson River waterways.
The plan was for the Winship party to link up with a band of militia close to
the south end of Lake Sagamore and transfer the gold there, well before they got
close to Farnsworth's fort. The thought was that transporting the precious
metal with Farnsworth was advantageous because the Winship party held a kind of
diplomatic immunity as long as the British leader was under their care.

All
along, Farnsworth had planned to have the party ambushed. He wasn't a man who
played fair to begin with, and he was looking forward to starving Nathaniel Walker
to death in his dungeon. While the negotiations between his side and the
colonists had taken place in New York, it had been easy to send word to his
fort as to when and where to attack the party in the mountains. His plan was to
slaughter the Americans, slowly, and leave their bodies to feed the bobcats.

But, as
soon as the party started out into the wilderness, he realized he had the
opportunity to come out of captivity a far wealthier man. His escorts were
carrying a heavy load in a small strongbox and he knew there was only one thing
that could make a man's shoulders sag like that: gold, and lots of it. When the
colonists lingered for a night at Lake Sagamore, and then headed out still
burdened and decidedly more anxious the next day, he realized he had a prime
chance to better his financial prospects.

To the
frustration of historians, the curtains on the drama were closed at this point.
Farnsworth was the only one who made it out of the mountains. Severely injured,
he dragged himself back to Fort Sagamore and collapsed outside of its stone
walls. The only thing he had with him was his journal but he hadn't been able
or willing to detail the final chapter.

While
Farnsworth lingered near death, Walker escaped and came back with
reinforcements. His attack on the British stronghold would become known as one
of the major battles of the War of Independence, and Farnsworth died during the
assault, at Walker's hand. As the general was heaving his last breath, Walker demanded to know what had happened to the reverend and the other colonists.
Farnsworth told Walker of a murderous attack made by Red Hawk, their guide. A
search for the killer ensued but the Indian was never found.

And
neither was the gold.

From that
point, the story drifted down to the present with the popular consensus being
that Red Hawk attacked the party. The Native American had never been seen or
heard from again so it was assumed that he had been killed in the process and
that the gold was likely somewhere in the vicinity of Fort Sagamore. Beginning in the late 1800s, as the Lake Sagamore region was settled more densely,
people drawn to the lore and by greed began to get ideas. That was when the
digging started. Farnsworth's descriptions of the clearing in which the party
had camped were pretty clear, and folks started to traipse up and down
mountains on either side of the lake, looking for the precise spot. Nick
Farrell's mountain was one of the favorites, and the fact that there were
rumors of a ghostly Indian spirit who wandered around its summit only increased
his property's allure.