Crystal strolled into her meeting with Darryl wearing a faint smile and humming a song in her head. He was waiting for her in the conference room, also smiling.

“Good morning. Did you have a nice weekend?” he asked.

“I did, thanks.” She realized she meant it wholeheartedly. She’d spent a fantastic weekend with Jamie. They’d gone to the zoo up in Portland with Alaina, Evan, and Alexa and then Jamie had taken her to Huber’s for dinner so that she could experience the fabulous Spanish coffee demonstration for herself. She’d tried to convince him to let her spring for a fancy hotel room downtown, but he’d insisted on driving her home to his loft where they’d slept until nearly noon on Sunday. Okay, there’d been more than sleeping, but probably best not to think of that just now.

She and Darryl had work to do! “So tell me what you’ve got,” she said, taking a seat at the table.

“I think I found the mother lode—at least with regard to your Dorinda story.”

“Oh wow, that’s great.” Especially since Crystal hadn’t achieved much—any, really—success with her cold-calling Fosters in the Syracuse area. She’d exhausted Syracuse proper and some of the surrounding areas and was beginning to lose hope, so this was spectacular news.

“In searching newspapers in upstate New York, I found something published in 1918.” He opened his trusty file folder and handed her a photocopy of an old article. “Go ahead and read it.”

The piece was several paragraphs. She forced herself to carefully read every word and not skim as she was tempted to get to the punch line. Bad habit from reading too many scripts.

It was written by someone with seemingly no relation to the Fosters—the byline was Henrietta Wilcox. That a woman had authored the story was amazing.

The story told of a young woman from a poor family outside Syracuse who, seeing no potential in her current surroundings, went West in 1878 with her brother to find their fortunes. A family friend had settled a town in rural Oregon and encouraged them to come.

Crystal looked up at Darryl. “This is so cool—it’s like finding that puzzle piece that fell under the table.”

He chuckled. “Good analogy.”

“It reads like a story, not a news article.”

“It does,” Darryl said with a nod. “I see that a lot in old newspapers—the historical equivalent of a human interest story.”

That made sense. Going back to reading, Crystal had to remind herself again to go slow. She didn’t want to miss anything in her excitement. Not that she wouldn’t likely read this a thousand times.

The woman settled in Oregon where she married a man she met there. They built a farm, but things didn’t go well, and he died not too long after they married. Crystal wondered about their romantic story—had they fallen in love? Had they fallen in like and sort of paired up to face the hardships of living in the rural West? The storyteller in her, which she now realized existed, was already spinning a tale of what she might put in the screenplay. She liked the latter, with them ultimately falling in love and then tragedy ripping them apart when Hiram got sick.

But she was totally losing focus now. She shook her head and started reading again.

The woman, who the author only referred to as “D,” wrote to her New York relatives, but no one had enough money to bring her home. Her brother, who’d gone to Oregon with her, had also died. Destitute, she turned her home—the only thing of value she had—into a boardinghouse.

Unfortunately, that seemed to have failed too, because at some point, the boardinghouse became a brothel. Crystal ignored the author’s condescending tone, certain that Dorinda hadn’t made that decision lightly. She’d tried other measures, and they’d failed. Crystal wasn’t going to judge, not when women’s choices were so limited in that time. Hell, women’s choices were still limited in many ways in many places.

The next paragraph dealt with the fallout from the brothel—some folks in the town weren’t happy about it. In fact, the mayor had threatened her on more than one occasion, a fact the author of the article had read verbatim from D’s letters to her family in New York, which was how Henrietta had learned of the story.

There were letters! Or at least there had been in 1918. Crystal longed to find if they were extant.

She looked over at Darryl again. “I would love to get my hands on these letters.”

He grinned. “I knew you’d say that. I’m working on it—and you can too by calling the rest of those Fosters. In the meantime, I’m putting together a list of other descendants whose names aren’t Foster. I should have that for you next week and then you can start calling them.”

“Excellent.” She could hardly wait. If she could get those letters, written in Dorinda’s hand… She’d know the woman as well as she ever could.

“So you read the part about the mayor threatening her?” Darryl asked.

“Yes. Those Stowes really were assholes, pardon my French.” She felt bad for Jamie.

“No need to censor yourself around me. I’ve called them much worse.”

The story concluded the way Crystal expected, that the brothel had been destroyed by a fire in 1902 and D had died—“a tragic end to a tragic life,” Henrietta wrote rather dramatically. There was, however, no mention of the KKK or why they’d burned down the brothel. That was perhaps a mystery they’d never solve.

Crystal sat back in her chair. “I wish we knew why the KKK torched the brothel.”

He nodded grimly. “Yes, that seems to be the one thing we may never know.”

“So frustrating.”

“Agreed. It’s really too bad the present-day Stowes didn’t have any information.”

Yes, it was.

Crystal chatted with Darryl for a bit longer, and they plotted their next move. She was eager to share this information with Kelsey and the others. If she could get the letters, or at least copies, that would be a huge contribution to the Ribbon Ridge exhibit.

Which opened in about two and a half weeks.

Crystal doubted they could get them by then, but held out hope that it would be possible to find them. She left in an even better mood than she’d arrived, which was crazy. Not that she would complain. It felt good to feel good. She smiled at her corniness as she drove home.

Except it wasn’t home. Why was she making that mistake?

Before she could reflect on that, which was for the best, really, Alaina waved at her as she pulled into the driveway. She waited outside the garage as Crystal parked and strolled inside as Crystal was getting out of the car.

“Hey, I just came over to get some toilet paper.” She winced. “Yes, I ran out. Your theory that I overstock is now officially debunked.”

“Not really. Since you have some over here, I’d say that theory’s still in play.”

Alaina rolled her eyes. “You’re a dork.”

Crystal blew her a kiss. “One of the many reasons you love me.” She went into the house and Alaina followed. “I’ll grab you some, hang on.”

She went to the hallway closet where there was probably three months’ worth of toilet paper. As well as tissue, Q-tips, bandages, and an assortment of other items. But no condoms.

Traipsing back with a package of TP, she set it on the kitchen counter. “That closet is the definition of overstocked, except when it comes to prophylactics. You might want to consider stocking those.”

Alaina laughed. “Well, now that I know you need them, I’ll do that.” She pulled her phone from her pocket. “I’ll just text Evan. He’s making a Costco run.” She looked up from the screen. “They sell condoms, right?”

“Oh, put that away,” Crystal said, now taking her own turn to roll her eyes. “I can get my own condoms. And I definitely don’t need the Costco-sized box.”

Alaina narrowed one eye at her. “Are you sure?”

Thinking back over the time she spent with Jamie… “Have him get the condoms.”

With a giggle, Alaina texted her husband. “Evan will find this amusing.”

“I’m sure he will.” Crystal grabbed an iced tea from the fridge. “You want a sparkling water?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“I just met with Darryl. You won’t believe the awesome goodness he found—an in-depth newspaper story compiled from letters written by…” She paused for dramatic effect. “Dorinda.”

Alaina’s eyes widened. “Shut the front door!”

“Totally serious. It was written in 1918. And now I’m on a mission to see if those letters still exist.” She went on to tell Alaina what the article had revealed.

“Wow, such great information for your story. Are you excited? You seem excited.”

“I am.” In fact, she was itching to sit and write. She had a ton of notes she wanted to make. Plus, she wanted to reread the story and make more notes. Dorinda’s story was finally coming together in her mind, and she couldn’t wait to put it on paper and share it with the world.

If she was lucky. For starters, she’d share it with Kim.

“You know, I’ve talked to Sean about this, and we’re pretty enthusiastic about producing this.”

Crystal hesitated in taking a drink from her iced tea. Alaina’s tone seemed to say it was a done deal—that they were producing it. But then she didn’t know that Crystal had talked to Kim, and that Kim would be shopping it.

Hell’s bells. I should tell her.

But something tied her tongue. Crystal took that drink of iced tea instead.

Alaina picked up the toilet paper. “Let us know when you’ve got a draft—we can’t wait to read it!”

A draft. She wasn’t writing a draft. Not yet. She was writing a treatment. Something else she wasn’t going to share. She resented Alaina assuming anything. Maybe Crystal didn’t even want to shop it—maybe she’d want to produce it herself. She probably could…

Alaina turned from the counter. “I’ll let you know when the condoms arrive.”

“You do that.” Crystal shook her head, her lips curving into a smile as Alaina left.

Her smile faded as she stared at the closed door. She ought to tell Alaina. And she would. When she had the treatment done and she’d given it to Kim. She was committed to the path she’d mapped out—her path.

And nothing was going to steer her off course.

---

Jamie parked in the middle school lot and tried not to think of the horrible time he’d spent here. Okay, maybe not horrible, but middle school was the worst, and having your dad as the principal was the worst of the worst.

The sun was already low on the horizon as he made his way to the front door, and the temperature was dropping. He tried the handle before realizing, duh, that it was locked at this hour. Dad was working late, and when Jamie had asked to talk—alone—he’d invited him to come by.

He texted his dad to say he was there, and a moment later, Dad jogged into the front hallway with a wave. He opened the door wide to let Jamie in. “Been a while since you were here. I think that was before we had new carpet installed a few years ago.” He looked down at the dull blue. “Not that you can tell.”

“Middle schoolers are hard on carpet,” Jamie said, following Dad toward the main office.

Dad chuckled. “Middle schoolers are hard on everything.” He walked into his office and sat down behind the desk. “So what’s going on? Everything all right? You don’t need money, do you?”

Jamie had asked his parents for money when he’d started up the winery with his brothers and Hayden—a small loan, which they’d given him. Dad had wanted to do more, but they weren’t wealthy people. They were school district employees who did as much for their kids as they could. And Jamie was eternally grateful.

Jamie sat in one of the ancient, uncomfortable chairs in front of his desk. “Why do you ask, Dad? Because I wanted to talk to you alone?”

“Well, yeah. Sorry. Bad assumption. Maybe you just wanted some man time.” He winked at Jamie, causing him to laugh.

“I’d love some man time. Next Blazer game, we should meet up at Dylan’s. Or better yet, I’ll see if Cam can get tickets from one of his friends.” Cam knew a lot of people in Portland, some of whom had season tickets. “But that isn’t why I’m here. I wanted to talk to you about Mom. And the KKK…thing.” What else could he call it?

Dad pressed his lips together in a grim expression. “She’s pretty stressed about that actually. It came as a shock. She’s still trying to process it, I think.”

Jamie could understand that. “I talked to Uncle Randy about it earlier. I figured Mom would’ve mentioned it to him, but she hasn’t.”

“Like I said, I think she’s still processing.”

“Sure, but they’re Randy’s ancestors too. And mine.”

Dad tipped his head to the side. “True. And I’m sure she planned to talk to him at some point. They’re busy people, Jamie.”

“I know.” Randy had a bustling orthodontic practice in McMinnville. Jamie had managed to get him on the phone that morning due to a canceled appointment. “Anyway, he was very interested in everything, but also troubled by it, of course.”

Dad clasped his hands on his desk. His posture almost made Jamie feel like he was visiting the principal’s office for real. “Of course.”

“I asked if he had any problem with the information being shared, and he didn’t. In fact, he thought it should be, especially in the Ribbon Ridge exhibit that Kelsey’s doing.”

Dad’s forehead creased. “I don’t think your mother is saying it shouldn’t.”

“No, but like you said, she’s having a tough time. Honestly, Dad, I’m a bit uncomfortable with having to keep this a secret, especially from Luke and Cam.”

Dad’s brows shot up. “She asked you to do that?” Jamie nodded. “I didn’t realize. I’ll talk to her.”

Some of the tension leached from Jamie’s body. “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”

“I’m sure she had a good reason.”

“She said she wanted to get more information—about the family. I’m looking into one of the sons, Turner Stowe. I have a friend who can help me, but she’s been on vacation. Once she’s back and caught up, she’ll get back to me.”

“That sounds like a good plan. I hope she’s able to help.”

“Me too,” Jamie said. “In the meantime, I’d really like to be able to share what Mom and I found with Luke and Cam. I hate keeping secrets.”

“Sure, I get it. You should tell them.” Dad studied him a moment. “And Crystal too, maybe?”

The tension that had dissipated came back with roaring force. Jamie clasped the wood arms of the chair. “Maybe.”

Dad sat back in his chair. “Anything going on between the two of you? I got a vibe when she was over for dinner, and I notice you’ve been busier than normal lately. Mom’s offered to bring you dinner once or twice, and you said you were busy.”

Jamie didn’t see a point in not telling him. “Um, yeah, we’re kind of seeing each other. Nothing formal, just hanging out when she’s in town.” Suddenly, he thought of a reason not to tell him—Mom. Duh. He was an idiot. “Can you not tell Mom, though?”

Dad blinked at him and chuckled. “So it’s not okay for her to ask you to keep secrets, but you can ask me?”

“Ouch.” Jamie shook his head. “Why do I feel like I’m about to get detention?”

Dad laughed louder. “We don’t give detention anymore. But I could make an exception.” He was kidding. Right?

“I assume you’re kidding. You can tell Mom. I just don’t want any pressure.”

Dad held up his hand with a tilt of his head. “Say no more. I know your mother better than anyone. I will make sure she knows it’s casual.”

“Thanks.” There was perhaps a little more to it than that. “I’m thinking she doesn’t like Crystal very much either.”

“Why, because of how Crystal sprang the KKK connection?” Dad exhaled. “That was rough, but Mom’s not a grudge holder.” Were they talking about the same person? Mom still occasionally mentioned the girl who’d declined Jamie’s invitation to prom. And not in pleasant terms.

Dad seemed to think better of that comment and added, “She’s not a consistent grudge holder—she’ll always find fault with people who hurt her children, and less so with people who hurt her. When you’re a parent, you’ll understand.”

And there was another person who assumed he’d have children. What did other people know about him that he didn’t?

“I just don’t want Crystal to feel uncomfortable.”

“Got it.” Dad gave a firm nod. “I’ve got your back, son. Always.”

Jamie knew that.

A short while later, he parked in the garage at the lofts and went into the lobby. He stopped short at seeing Crystal sitting on the sofa, a bag of groceries at her feet.

“Well, this is a nice surprise,” he said, going to offer her a hand up.

She batted her lashes at him as she put her fingers in his. “Always such a gentleman.”

He snagged the bag of groceries and walked with her to the elevator, their hands still joined. “What’s for dinner?”

She pushed the Up button. “Pasta primavera with chicken, and some fresh sourdough from Barley and Bran.”

“Mmm. Sounds great.” The elevator doors opened, and they stepped inside. Once again, she hit the button.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Good.”

“Mine too. Great, actually. I’ll tell you about it when we get upstairs.”

“Excellent.” He leaned over and kissed her, his lips teasing hers until the elevator chimed its arrival at his floor.

When he let her into the loft, he belatedly realized his kitchen was a bigger disaster than normal. He’d been looking for something that morning, and consequently, it looked as if the usual clutter had cloned itself.

He winced inwardly, expecting her to make a comment, but she simply started organizing everything without saying a word.

He stood there for a moment, at a loss. Then he sprang into action and set the groceries on the counter so he could help her declutter. “Thanks for your help.”

She grabbed a sanitizing wipe from the canister and tossed him a smile. “Happy to. I actually like cleaning the kitchen. And doing laundry. Weird, I know. But I draw the line at vacuuming.” She shuddered. “I hate vacuuming.”

Jamie snorted. “Surprisingly, I enjoy vacuuming.”

She whipped her head around to look at him as he began to unbag the groceries. “Seriously?’

“Crazy, I know.” Also convenient if they were to ever, you know, cohabitate.

Geez, where had that thought come from?

He pulled out the cooking implements she would need, and she went to work chopping vegetables. “You want a beer or wine? Or I could make gin fizzes.”

“Ooh, a gin fizz, please.”

“You got it.” He fetched the liquor he needed and glasses.

“So I met with Darryl again today, and he had some really great information to share.” She stopped chopping for a moment. “Hey, can you boil some water for the pasta?”

“Oh, sure.” He paused in making drinks to take care of that.

“Back to Darryl,” she said. “He found a story in a tiny newspaper in upstate New York written in 1918 from a bunch of Dorinda’s letters.”

“Wait, the Dorinda?”

“Yep.” She looked over at him, smiling.

He grinned, thrilled for her. “That’s fantastic. I know how much her story means to you. What did you learn?”

“That she came from a poor family, and she and her brother ventured out here for better fortunes. Unfortunately, her brother died.” She focused on chopping a yellow pepper. “But then, I guess that’s what happened to Dorinda too.” She shook her head with an exhalation. “Way to buzzkill the story, Crystal.”

He finished making the drinks and handed one to her. “Not a buzzkill. I’m still excited to hear about it.”

She took the glass with a half smile. “Thanks.”

He clinked his drink against hers. “To Dorinda.”

Her gaze softened, and her smile widened. “To Dorinda,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

Jamie sipped his gin fizz as an unsettling feeling began to uncurl in his gut. He had information that would be useful to her, and he wanted to share it.

“Back to the story,” she continued, effectively cutting off his train of thought—at least for now. “So Dorinda arrives here and marries Hiram Olsen, and they build Bird’s Nest Ranch. He dies—wow, this really is a sad story—and she turns the ranch into a boardinghouse.”

“No kidding?”

“Yeah, but it didn’t work out.” She slid the peppers from the cutting board into a bowl, then moved on to the mushrooms, going to the sink to wash them.

“Let me wash. You talk and cut.” He brought the rest of the veggies over and set to work.

She stood beside him while he finished the mushrooms. “Somewhere along the line, the boardinghouse became a brothel—the specifics of that aren’t discussed. I’d love to get my hands on the actual letters from Dorinda. Can you imagine how much I’d be able to glean from her own writings?”

He handed her the mushrooms, his gaze meeting hers. He loved her passion for this project. “I can.”

She went back to the cutting board, and he started washing broccoli. “This next part is a bit uncomfortable with regard to your family—sorry. After the brothel was opened, the mayor threatened her several times.”

“I wish I could say I was surprised, but the evidence would support otherwise.” It was past time to tell her what he knew. He finished with the broccoli and set it in a colander before turning off the sink. He grabbed a towel to dry his hands and turned to face her at the island.

“I need to tell you something.”

She didn’t stop slicing. “What?”

He moved to her side. “Stop for a second.”

She laid the knife down and pivoted toward him. “What’s the matter?”

“That day that I went to my mom’s to go through the Stowe memorabilia—we found something. She asked me not to say anything until we had more information.”

He watched her jaw work as she swallowed. “What did you find?”

“A couple of letters. One was from Turner Stowe to his mother. Turner was the youngest of Redmond’s sons and not involved in the KKK. Thankfully, he’s the one I look like.” He offered a meek smile.

“Really? There are pictures?”

He nodded. “Mom plans to turn them over to Kelsey.”

“I see.” She sounded…disappointed. Or something. “I’d love to see them.”

He touched her arm, cupping her elbow. “Hey, she planned to give them to Kelsey because of the exhibit. It’s not like she was trying to circumvent you.”

“I get it.”

He wasn’t convinced but decided to continue. “Turner’s letter was from 1923 and mentioned some interesting things. First, Hoyt had died and Turner said he never meant for it to happen.”

“Actually, I think I know about that part,” Crystal said. “Maybe I didn’t tell you. Sometimes I forget who knows what about this tangled story. Darryl found a couple of articles about an altercation involving a KKK group. The leader was stabbed to death, but the killer wasn’t identified or found.”

Jamie leaned his hip against the counter. “Wow. Turner said he never meant to cause harm, only to enforce justice. He said Hoyt and their father, Redmond, weren’t good men. Do you think Turner killed him?”

Crystal’s eyes widened briefly. “Anything’s possible with this crazy story, don’t you think?”

“I’m beginning to, yes. Turner’s letter also outright said they’d murdered a woman out of hate and intolerance.”

Crystal lifted her hand to her mouth. “So they meant to kill Dorinda. Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. But here’s what I do know: Turner married a woman of color. There’s another letter from his aunt—her name was Clara—to his mother, Lavinia. She said she’d received the things Lavinia had sent but hadn’t destroyed them yet.”

Crystal gasped. “What things?”

“She didn’t say, but there were a lot of blank pages in the photo albums. I think those photos might’ve been part of what she’d sent.”

“KKK pictures, maybe?”

“Maybe. Clara also said it was good Lavinia was going to visit Turner and his family. She said it didn’t matter what color Lavinia’s grandchildren were, that they carried her blood and that’s all that mattered.”

Crystal blinked, her expression sad. “They sound like a family torn apart. I imagine that was hard for your mother—all of it, really.”

Her care for his mother touched him. “I’ll tell her you said that. She thinks this is all private family stuff, but she also understands it’s historically important.” He thought she understood that.

“I can see why she didn’t want to share this.” She looked up at him. “But I’m glad you did.”

“I feel like a jerk for not telling you sooner. But she asked me not to. She wanted to find out more information about Turner. I’m trying to do a little research on my own.” The edge of his mouth tipped up in a half smile. “I think you inspired me.”

Her eyes sparkled. “That is so sweet.” She stood on her toes and kissed him, but it was all too brief. “The water’s boiling.” She went to dump the pasta in.

“I want you to know that when my mom asked me to keep this hush-hush, she included everyone, not just you.”

Crystal came back to the cutting board and finished up with the broccoli. “Everyone?”

“Yep, including my brothers. I talked to my dad today, and he said I should tell them. So I’ll talk to them at work in the morning. I figured they could tell Kelsey and Brooke.”

“That’s a great plan. Very thoughtful of you.” She threw him an admiring glance before cutting open the package of chicken.

Jamie’s chest felt as though it might burst. That had gone so much better than he’d anticipated. What had he expected? That she’d be angry? Maybe. And she had a right to be. But no, she’d been understanding and supportive.

“Can you start a pan for the veggies? They won’t take long, then I’ll cook the chicken in the same pan and we can toss everything together.”

“Sounds great.” He pulled a pan out and heated up a little lemon olive oil. “You must be teeming with ideas. Have you been writing?”

She brought the bowl of vegetables over and dumped them in the pan. She gave him a shy look. “Yeah. It’s been…fun.”

“That’s great.” He pulled a wooden spoon from the drawer.

“Thanks. Hey, do you mind tending the veggies while I slice up the chicken?”

“No problem.”

She smiled at him, her eyes glowing and heating him up in the process. He supposed it could be the burner under the pan, but he knew it was her. Nights like tonight made a future with her seem more than possible. They made it seem necessary. He wanted to hold on to every moment with her.

“And thanks for your support with everything,” she said. “It means a lot to me.”

He leaned back from the stove and kissed her, his lips claiming hers briefly. “You mean a lot to me.”

Later, after dinner, he showed her just how very much. With help from the whipped cream he’d found in her grocery bag.