Somer opened her eyes. The single room of the guest house, serenely quiet, was awash in the pre-dawn of day. She’d suggested to Nash that they stay in the guest house instead of the main house, hoping to have no unexpected visitors during the night. She’d lain awake, long after hearing his steady breathing, knowing he’d fallen asleep. Curled beneath his arm, her ear pressed against his chest, she listened to the beating of his heart and considered how like the man it was—strong, steady, determined, and patient. She’d never thought she’d find someone with all of the qualities she’d vowed in secret her perfect man would possess—and it didn’t hurt that he was drop-dead gorgeous and had a body made for sin.

She smiled, snuggling against the warmth of his body spooned to hers. She’d tried not to think about the future—what would happen once her research was complete. The attraction between them was obvious, their chemistry in bed off the charts. Each time they’d made love it became more explosive, more satisfying than the last. But a lingering doubt hovered over their bliss. Was this simply a wonderful tryst that would end in a day or two? Or was it more?

“I see you’re awake,” she said softly. He nuzzled the curve of her neck. His hand slid to cup her breast, his caress more rough, insistent than usual. But, as always, her bones liquefied beneath his touch. Her eyes drifted shut as he pushed lower between her thighs, his hot breath searing her cheek as he stroked with the finesse of a maestro, pulling pleasure from her body. She grabbed the pillow, and through the erotic fog in her brain, she heard the sound of a door. Opening her eyes, she saw Nash walk out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his hips. He was drying his hair with another.

A scream climbed from her throat as she scrambled out of the bed, grabbing the sheet as she stumbled to the floor. Nash grabbed her arms to prevent her from falling flat on her face. Clinging to the sheet, she frantically searched his eyes to be certain it was him.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, concern etched on his handsome face.

She looked back at the empty bed. Maybe she’d been dreaming. She wrapped her arms around him, needing him close, needing the strength of his embrace.

“Hey.” His arms came around her. He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “It’s okay. I’m here. Tell me what’s going on.”

She leaned back, meeting his worried gaze. “I must have been dreaming,” she said. Yet even as she said the words she felt the residual tingle of arousal mixed with fear. “I thought I felt you touching me. It seemed so real.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered, soothing her fears. He kissed her forehead and drew her into his arms again. “You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to wake you. You were just dreaming, sweetheart.”

Somer wasn’t at all certain whether it was a dream or not. The sensations seemed very real. She hugged Nash tightly and breathed in his soap and all-male scent. She turned her face, kissing the underside of his chiseled jaw, moving to where his pulse beat strong and sure on his neck. He hadn’t yet shaved, evidence of soft abrasions from its sandpapery roughness marking her flesh in his exploration of her body.

He pulled her face to his, drugging her mind with a slow, burning kiss. “Good morning,” he said, holding her gaze a few inches from his.

Pulling him to the bed, she pushed softly against his chest and he fell to his back, the towel doing little to hide his erection. Peeling it away, she grabbed a condom off the nightstand and tossed it to him.

“You’re quite resourceful this morning, Doc,” he joked, rolling on the protection.

Somer dropped the sheet and climbed over him, kissing her way up his torso. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll make it a great morning,” she said with a smile, then lowered herself, taking him in fully.

Nash’s eyes rolled back into his sockets. He groaned with pleasure as he gripped the tops of her thighs.

“Look at me, Nash. We need to look at each other in the light of day. No shadows, no darkness.”

He rose to meet her mouth in a searing kiss that made her want to weep in its possessiveness. She’d never be able to get enough of the taste of his mouth, the way it hungered for hers. Fused together, she wrapped her arms around him, claiming this moment, wanting to remember it forever. This was real. He was hers. Was it possible to find someone in such a short time and feel as though, in every way, he was the one?

He lay back, pushing his hips upward, moving his hands over her body as she braced her palms on the firm plane of his torso, fucking him with unbridled joy, watching his smoldering gaze ignite as she rode him to a fiery completion.

Exhausted, she lay her head on his chest. She grinned, hearing the gallop of his heart.

“I don’t want to lose you, Doc,” he said quietly.

She swallowed, unsure if she’d heard him correctly. Folding her arms over his chest, she propped her face to meet his gaze.

“When this is all over,” he continued, brushing an errant strand of hair from her forehead. “When you’ve finished your research.” His gaze held hers. “I don’t want us to be over.”

There it was. Every question, every concern rolled into six little words. Granted, it wasn’t a declaration of love, but it was a beginning—a start.

“I don’t want to lose you, either,” she said with a smile. She kissed his chest, sliding the tip of her tongue over his hardened nipple.

“Hell, yeah,” he breathed out in an erotic sigh. Relief showed in his grin. “How much time do we have before Auntie Iris gets here?”

“Two hours, roughly. She was going to come around lunch.”

“Good,” he said, turning her beneath him and offering one of his bone-melting kisses. “Means we’ve got some time.”

***

No-nonsense. That was the best way to describe Auntie Iris. She’d arrived promptly at noon, driven by a tall, quiet, young man in a pristine red 1960 Ford Thunderbird with a canvas top and gleaming whitewall tires.

From the moment she walked into the foyer of the main level, dressed in her yellow calico church dress and white pillbox hat, her eyes caught everything. Her senses, apparently, caught more. “Lots of hanky-panky goin’ on around here,” she said. The rubber tip of her cane tapped across the wood floor. She glanced at Nash and narrowed her gaze, but just made a sound low in her throat before she hobbled past him. “Lots of hanky-panky, to be sure.”

Nash shot Somer a look as they followed the old woman through the room to the back of the house. She stopped as she crossed over the threshold and stood on the sun porch. Her chin lifted as though her very presence was a beacon to the spirit world.

“Can we offer you a glass of tea?” Somer asked.

Aunt Iris looked at her, and raised a brow. “I would like to be introduced to those residing here.”

Nash stepped forward and held out his arm. “You’ve met us. The only other resident”—he tossed a look at Somer— “that we’re aware of is a woman who’s name is—”

“Lucille,” Auntie Iris said quietly, then nodded. “Yes, she is here.”

Her driver took up residence on a coat bench in the foyer. Nash, exuding his cowboy charm, escorted Auntie Iris throughout the entire house. Somer stayed a few steps behind. Upon descending the staircase, she stopped and looked from Nash to Somer. Her dark brown eyes, steeped with wisdom, studied them. Then she nodded and hooked her arm through Somer’s. “Show me this journal that my baby Savannah spoke to me about.”

Somer guided her to the table she’d arranged for this meeting on the lower-level sun porch. Even though it was just after noon, the skies were gunmetal gray, puffy dark clouds thickening on the horizon.

Auntie Iris sat down primly and placed her hands either side of the book.

“We found it in the floorboards in the bedroom upstairs,” Somer added. She waited, watching as the woman eyed the book several moments before lifting one frail looking hand and gently touching the cover. She stared at the book, then closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She then placed both gnarled hands, nearly ashen gray with age, atop the journal.

Nash watched mesmerized.

Somer sat in awe of the raw energy she felt surrounding the woman. Her eyes would drift shut and then open wide, as though seeing a new vision. Soft, melodic sounds emitted low in her throat. Her grandmotherly face would, now and again, cloud over. “Storms a’comin’,” she whispered.

Gooseflesh rose on Somer’s arms as she remembered the old blind woman near Jackson Square.

“She’s weary,” Auntie Iris muttered.

“Weary?” Somer repeated.

“Yes, yes,” she answered. “Been waitin’ a long time, long time.”

“For what? How can we help her?” Somer prodded.

The woman took a deep breath and, closing her eyes, turned her face up to the heavens. “She’s weary, waiting for her man.”

A low rumble of thunder rolled across the afternoon sky.

Auntie Iris cocked her head to one side. “She’s afraid of him. Afraid he’ll try to force himself on her. He wants her for his own.”

Somer’s gaze shot to Nash’s. He nodded.

“They had to keep it a secret between them. His daddy could never know.” She stopped as though listening, then rocked as she shook her head gently. “He was powerful jealous.”

“Who?” Somer grew more confused by the minute.

“His daddy. His daddy is at the root of this.” Auntie Iris’s tone softened. “Yes. She loved him with all her heart. Says he was a fine-looking, tall, strapping man with eyes the color of dark honey.”

Somer met Nash’s gaze, remembering how the color of his eyes were what struck her first about his good looks. A slow understanding began to unravel in her brain.

“Nash,” the old woman stated emphatically. “My Nash,” she said in a softer tone. Auntie’s voice cracked with emotion. “My one and only, Nash.”

Auntie Iris lowered her stoic gaze to Somer and then looked at Nash.

The poor man was stupefied.

“This young woman needs our help,” Auntie said.

Somer nodded her agreement. “Yes, what can we do?”

Auntie sat back and placed her hands on either side of the book before she spoke. “Untruth tore them apart. The truth will set her free.”

“What do you mean, the truth?”

With slow deliberation, she pushed from the table. She nodded to her driver, who’d been standing patiently, hands folded at the doorway to the porch. Hesitating a moment, she lifted her hands—one still clutching the cane—high in the air.

Nash ducked the cane-sweeping arc.

A bright flash of light illuminated the sky, followed by a crack of thunder that Somer swore rattled her back teeth. The winds picked up outside. One by one the French doors along the back of the house slammed open, pushed by a rush of wind.

Over the wind and thunder, Auntie leveled a look at Somer. “Storm’s a comin’.”

Auntie nodded, and for the first time a smile appeared on her face. “Truth be victorious,” she called over her shoulder as she took her young driver’s arm. “Always is. Always is.” In her wake, the fierce wind whipped the drapes in the living room as though they were made of chiffon.

Somer looked back at Nash, who was placidly reading through the journal as though unaware of the tempest storm raging around them.

Exasperated that their guests were leaving and the whole world, it seemed, had suddenly turned upside down, she ran after the pair, watching on the front patio as they glided down the drive in the classic gunboat car. Shoving her shoulder against the front door, she managed to shut and lock it before hurrying back to the rear of the house. With no help from Nash, she struggled to close the French doors and then leaned against them, exhausted. She held her hand to her head. “What can we do?”

Nash carefully closed the journal and looked at her. “She’s jealous of you, Somer.”

“Me?” she replied. “I believe in her. I want to help her.”

He nodded. “I know,” he said. “Listen, everything in the journal thus far, we’ve experienced to some degree. In whole, or in part—”

“Everything?” Somer’s head throbbed with confusion.

He stopped and shook his head. “Not everything,” his voice softened. “You’re the one who pointed out the similarities.”

Somer shook her head. “I’m not following.”

“She feels betrayed. Like Nash has betrayed her.”

In a strange way, it was possible that Lucille had mistaken a man who looked similar to her lover—who carried his name and lived in this house—as her lost love. And true, he’d been sleeping with another. “But we don’t know what happened to him. We can only assume he followed his father’s wishes and went off to fight for the Confederacy and never made it home,” Somer answered.

“We have no idea what his father might have told this poor woman, Somer.”

Somer smiled. “Be careful, Nash, it sounds like you maybe believe in this woman.”

A sharp crack of lightning split the afternoon sky. Rain pelted the windowpanes.

He grabbed the journal and held out his hand. “I have an idea. Do you trust me?”

Somer eyed the wicked lightning outside. “Is it dangerous?”

He tipped his head. “Potentially.”

“Are we going to die?” she kidded…almost.

He looked from her to the garden and back again. “Not if we’re lucky.”

Somer chuckled. “I like this plan.” It was, in all fairness, the only one they had.

***

Nash grabbed the French doors before they were ripped off their hinges.  He hooked his arm around her shoulder, sheltering her as best he could from the driving rain. He headed through the maze to the marble fountain.

The storm had closed in around the house, enveloping it in a fist-like grip. Jagged bolts of lightning speared one of the oak trees, and a fiery explosion followed, splitting a large branch, which bounced to the ground in a heap.

Nash placed the journal on the fountain’s ledge, anchoring it open to the last entry. Hoping Somer would go along with his game plan, he pulled her into his arms, noticing a flicker of confusion pass through her eyes just before he took her mouth in a possessive kiss.

Her fingers grabbed his shirt, fisting the fabric, matching the desperation, the uncertainty roiling inside him. He didn’t know why fate had caused their paths to cross, but he wasn’t about to let her slip through his fingers. She was the woman he wanted—he needed—at his side…if she’d have him.

The fierce wind whipped around them Somer’s hair tangled, twisting around her face. The small stone he’d used to anchor the pages rolled free, and the pages fluttered, then flipped madly as though possessed by an invisible hand searching frantically for answers.

“What are we doing?” Somer asked, searching his eyes.

He wasn’t entirely sure. Another bolt of lightning zig-zagged across the sky. Nash pulled Somer against him, wrapping his arms around her. He leaned back and looked at her. “I don’t know how you’re going to take this, Doc,” he shouted above the storm. “But you need to hear that I’ve fallen in love with you.” He blinked away the rain dripping from his eyelashes. “I know it sounds crazy. But it’s true. I loved you from the first moment I saw you.”

Her eyes widened as she glanced over his shoulder.

He turned to follow her gaze, just as a branch hurled through the air and clipped him on the side of the head. The force dropped him to his knees. He groaned as he reached up to touch his temple and drew blood back on his fingers.

Somer kneeled beside him, struggling to keep her balance in the mighty wind.

“Read the last entry out loud,” Nash said, trying to push to his feet.

She grabbed the journal and found the entry he’d requested. Skimming the page, she looked up, confusion etched on her face. “This passage wasn’t here before,” she yelled over the howling wind.

Nash tugged her down to sit beside him, using the fountain wall as minimal protection. “Just read it.”

Somer blinked and began to read aloud.

“Dearest Lucille,

I know that when I fail to return, you will conclude that I deceived you somehow. That I’d betrayed you—our love. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Be assured that, until the day I die, my heart is yours and will forever be. Look to the East, down that dusty road to Atlanta. I swear I will be there, waiting.”

“Read it all,” Nash insisted.

Somer continued eyeing the sky as though in preparation of Lucille’s wrath.

“He’s waiting, Lucille. Go. Look for yourself.”

Thunder rumbled in the belly of the storm.

“Look.” Somer nudged his arm. She pointed to the widow’s walk atop the main house. There stood a figure of a woman, her hair drawn into a neat coif at the nape of her neck. She leaned on the wrought iron rail, searching the road to the east.

“Look in your heart,” Somer continued, though she no longer tried to compete with the din of the storm.

Nash felt Somers hand slide into his as the woman seemed to look down at them. Then, as though hearing her name, she turned.

He pulled out his bandana kerchief and dabbed his temple as he clamored to his feet with Somer’s help.

“Look, over there.” She pointed to the mud road leading through an alley of old oak trees. Through the torrential rain appeared the image of a young man. He was dressed in what appeared to be a Confederate uniform.

Somer slid her arm around Nash’s waist and he welcomed her support. A blinding flash of light, so close it made the hairs on his flesh stand on end, illuminated the sky. Nash shielded his eyes from the glare. An instant later, both the soldier and the woman had disappeared.

Somer looked up at him, her hair plastered to her skull, fresh tears streaming down her rain-kissed face. “We need to tend to that wound, Mr. Walker.”

He accepted her help, slumping into the first chair he could find. He grimaced when she dabbed at the wound with a fresh cloth. “A couple of aspirin and I’ll be fine,” he said, watching her through one eye. “Ouch.”

“You’ll live,” she said, carefully cleaning the blood from his face.

“I guess we can say the truth was victorious.” He caught her quick glance.

“You’re referring to the mysterious entry?”

He stopped her first aid and pulled her gently to his lap. “Yes, I mean the entry.” He held her chin and softly kissed her.

“About what you said out there. Was that truth? Or just part of the plan?”

“I needed to get Lucille’s attention,” he answered. “But I meant every word, Somer. Do you remember what you read?”

Somer glanced in her jacket. “I put the journal right here. It’s gone.”

Nash stopped her from searching her other pockets. “It said, all she had to do is look in her heart and she’d find him.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “How’d you remember that? I could barely hear myself reading above the wind.”

“I wrote it.” He shrugged.

“You did not.” She stood and rifled through her pockets again.

“I did.” Nash nodded. “Not my best penmanship, but I was in a hurry.”

“But all that…Lucille thought it was her Nash.” She pushed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “You don’t realize what you’ve done.”

“On the contrary, Doc. I simply used the exact logic of what a woman would think if I hadn’t contacted her after a first date.”

“B-but,” she sputtered. “I saw her…and him. How could you know?”

Nash grinned. “You didn’t listen to Auntie Iris, did you?” He stood, framing her face, brushed a droplet of rain from her soft cheek. “The truth is victorious.” He searched her eyes, waiting for her to make the connection.

“All she had to do was stop looking everywhere else and look in her heart. That’s where the truth was—in her love for him.”

He lifted his shoulder. “She just needed to accept in her head what her heart already knew.”

Somer pushed to her toes and kissed him. “And I’m the one with the PhD.”

He gave her a wicked grin. “I know. Incredible. Isn’t it?” He wrapped his arm around her as they stepped into the garden. He glanced up at the clearing sky and a brilliant sun they hadn’t seen in days.

“You do realize that I’m crazy about you, right?” she said, her arm tight around his waist.

He searched the sky, relieved that it was just the two of them now in the big, old house. “Yeah, I pretty much figured that.”

Somer slapped his shoulder playfully. “You know, there are still a great many things you’ve yet to learn.”

He waggled his brows. “I’m all yours, Doc.”

“Regarding parapsychology,” she replied drily.

“Oh.” He nodded, wincing as he touched his temple.

“And maybe a few other…things.” She tossed him a grin.

“Sign me up,” he said, pulling her into his embrace. He started at the soft spot below her ear, his intent to lick away every drop of rain from her skin.

“Nash?”

“Trying to work here, darlin’,” he said.

“We’ve got company.”

Nash straightened, met her gaze, and followed it over his shoulder to one of the old swings attached to the oak branch. It swayed slowly back and forth, though the wind had long since stilled. From a few yards away, a little boy appeared on the swing. He simply stared at them.

Nash sighed. “I better get used to this, hadn’t I?” He studied the child’s solemn expression, then looked at Somer. “You’re like a ghost magnet.”

“You’ll get used to it.” She pulled his face to hers in a kiss that left him thunderstruck, then took his arm and led him toward the house. “Is he following?”

Nash glanced over his shoulder and met the little boy’s gaze. “We better give Auntie Iris another call.”