Garloch had more to offer than the vicar had suggested.

The rough Highland road they’d been following descended into a valley town, protected from the north winds by a rugged ridge of mountain. A coach road, no doubt built by the army for moving troops during the Jacobite Rising, followed the shore of a long, narrow loch that stretched to the west, and a number of shops, cottages, and a venerable coaching inn clustered around the market cross in the village center. A second river converged here at this end of the town, cascading from the higher elevations and flowing beneath a stone bridge that appeared fairly new. The small stone church, the object of their journey, sat in a shady flower-studded glen below the confluence of the waters.

Going directly to the church, Wynne got out to speak to an old man bent over a well-tended plot in the kirkyard.

“That’d be Mr. Kealy,” the villager said in response to his question about the priest. “Ain’t here but once a fortnight, but yer in luck, sir. The young fellow’s arrived for the service tomorrow.”

After a few more questions, Wynne was able to ascertain that Kealy was the curate who divided his time traveling between two churches in area, the rector of the large parish keeping to a single church in a distant village.

“If ye’ve a mind to stretch yer legs along the river path or take some refreshment at the inn, he should be back bye ’n’ bye. Off visiting one of the parishioners, he is,” the older man suggested.

Wynne conveyed this information to Jo as he assisted her out of the carriage. He admired her profile as she raised her face to the sky and closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath.

A great deal had been said between them. She finally allowed him to speak of the past, and she asked about his wife, but that wasn’t where her questions ended. Among other things, she wanted to know if Fiba had a chance to hold Cuffe and for how long she lived after delivering him.

Three days, he told her. She’d lived for three days after giving birth.

A child losing a mother at birth was very personal to Jo, and that fact wasn’t lost on Wynne. It was the reason she’d come to the Highlands. Their journey to Garloch was based on long odds; the incoherent cries of Charles Barton could hardly be considered definitive. But she was not about to leave a stone unturned in her search. Here in this village, she believed she would find answers about her own mother.

“Would you care to go to the inn, or shall we walk?” he asked when she turned her beautiful brown eyes on him.

“Let’s walk,” she replied, linking her arm in his. Following the stone wall that bordered the kirkyard, they made their way toward the river. The path was well used, and they passed pine groves and cottages. Green fields dotted with sheep and adorned with yellow flowers stretched out over rolling meadows on either side of the wood-lined river.

The sun was shining, and Wynne wondered if she knew how much he appreciated the gift she’d given him. A burden had been lifted from him now that he’d had the opportunity to explain his actions and apologize for them. Jo’s absolution was more than he’d ever hoped for.

“I know this is a monumental day for you,” he told her when they paused on a prospect above a bend in the river. “You believe you’ll find a key here that will unlock the past. But regardless of where the day leads, I hope you know that I’m here with you. And I’m not only talking about this village or today. I mean, whatever you need, whenever you call on me, however you allow me to help.”

Wynne didn’t want any misunderstanding to linger with regard to his intentions. He didn’t want to lose Jo. At the same time he understood she had much on her mind. He took her hand in his and looked into her eyes.

“Jo, there’s so much more that I want to say.”

Unexpectedly, she slipped her arms around him and pressed her face against his heart. Wynne’s arms closed around her and he held her. How often in their youth would she do this! When they were alone and she was shaken or upset, she would suddenly turn and embrace him like this. Holding him for even a moment seemed to reassure her that he was there with her.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, releasing him quickly as she always did.

But Wynne wasn’t ready to let go. His arms remained around her, keeping her against him.

“I’m not,” he replied, smiling down into her upturned face. “Does it still make you feel better?”

“Much better. Thank you.” Her bright eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I’ve put so much hope into finding an answer. And now, as the possibility of learning the truth becomes stronger, I feel so unsure. It’s no longer simply an issue of knowing. What happens if I don’t like the answer?”

“Does it matter?” he asked. “Whatever you learn today or tomorrow or next year, it doesn’t change who you are. And it won’t change anything for those who love you.”

Jo smiled and nodded.

“We all need to do what we know is right,” he continued. “Travel the road that we must. Even say the words that we should have said long ago. You’re doing it. You’re chasing an answer that means something important to you. But if you find nothing at the end of this journey, you’ve lost nothing in the search.”

He lifted her chin and wiped away a tear from her cheek.

“You are closer now than ever before, Jo.”

“I know,” she agreed, appearing to be satisfied.

Retracing their steps, they’d just reached the stone wall of the kirkyard when a thin young man wearing a dark suit and waistcoat came hurrying down the path toward them.

The curate hailed them and introduced himself. The old man they’d spoken to earlier had informed him strangers were waiting for him.

Wynne handed Mr. Kealy the letter of introduction provided by Dermot’s uncle, and the curate quickly scanned the contents.

“It will be my pleasure to assist you in any way I can, m’lady,” he said, directing his words at Jo as he glanced at a pocket watch. “Unfortunately, I have only a few minutes at present. I have a previous commitment I must honor, but I can help you once I have fulfilled that obligation.”

“Of course. But could you tell us if you do have records that might help us?” she asked.

“We do indeed. And I’ve been particularly diligent during my tenure here.” Kealy paused and looked at Wynne. “I must say, however, that hasn’t always been the case. Sadly, I know of one curate in recent years who was . . . well, less devoted, shall we say?”

Wynne and Jo exchanged a look as the young man motioned for them to follow him up the path toward the church.

The curate turned to her again. “What is it exactly that you hope to find, m’lady?”

“I’d like to start by looking up the name of a gentleman who may have some connection with Garloch. I can also supply the gentleman’s age, if that helps.”

Passing through a gate into the cemetery, Wynne was struck by the inordinately large number of graves.

“We keep records of birth, baptisms, marriages, and burials in a secure box with two locks,” Kealy told them. “Everyone in the parish is there. Since the change in the law six years ago, we’ve used the official registers from the King’s Printer, and once a year I send a duplicate copy of our records to the office in Aberdeen.”

“And how far back do these records date?” Wynne asked him.

“Well, with the exception of my predecessor, the curates and rectors have kept exceptional records going back to the years before the Union. So, well over a century, I’d say.”

The young man paused and looked thoughtfully at the graves around them. Many of the older stone markers nearest the church had fallen or were askew.

“But of course, one must discount the damage caused by the great flood. And there’s no telling how accurately the records were kept immediately following it.”

“The great flood?” Jo asked.

“Not Noah’s flood, m’lady, but a terrible version of it that struck Garloch, folks say. It was well before my time, but parishioners talk of it still. The churchyard was inundated. You can see the damage to the stones here. The water even reached the church, and the vestry was badly damaged. Actually, we’re fortunate the record box wasn’t lost entirely.”

“When was this flood?” Wynne took Jo’s hand in his, remembering Charles Barton’s agitation about Jo drowning.

“Let me see.” The curate stared at the sky for a few moments as if trying to recall the year. “I’m embarrassed to say I can’t tell you, but—”

“Do you have an approximate year?” Jo persisted.

The young man glanced past the older graves.

“This way, if you please.” He motioned for them to follow. “Quite a few died in that flood. And not just villagers, so I understand. Innocent folk traveling through were caught unawares and swept away. Many were buried in that section over there.”

Wynne put a hand on small of Jo’s back, urging her to follow the curate.

Kealy went down on a knee beside one of the first graves they reached and pushed away old leaves and debris.

Wynne read the inscription aloud. “Here lies the body of John Campfield. Departed this life May 4, 1781.”

The curate moved to the next grave. “The same date. May 1781. That must have been the month and year of the flood. I’m quite sure of it.”

Wynne turned to Jo, whose face had taken on an ashen hue. Both of them well knew the significance of the date.

* * *

In May of 1781, her mother would have been nearing her time. A month later, in the Borders far to the south, she delivered her daughter in the mud beneath a cart.

Jo trailed her fingers down Wynne’s arm and he understood, immediately engaging their guide in a conversation.

Sentiments accompanying the lost and found. A fearful surge of emotions. The beat of Jo’s heart echoed in a hollow space carved in her chest. She walked away. She needed to breathe, to make peace with the information she’d received. There was still no sure connection. Nothing firmer than the cries of Charles Barton.

Jo walked past grave after grave, some bearing names and ages, others adorned with ancient Celtic symbols and crosses. Some were carved with worn shapes her watery gaze could not focus on. The names on the stones meant nothing to her.

She looked up at the village beyond the river and wondered if her mother had lived here. Perhaps these names meant everything to her. A childhood friend. A nursemaid. A clerk in the milliner’s shop. Or perhaps she was only a traveler passing through. She turned around to see the curate hurrying off and Wynne striding toward her through the grass.

Where would she be today without him?

“Kealy is certain we’ll find no record of Charles Barton in the books. From the information we were given when he arrived at the Abbey, I know he was born at Tilmory Castle,” he told her. “The curate claims they have their own parish and church. Still, I asked him if we could take a look in whatever he has of the older ledgers.”

“The coincidence is jarring,” she said. “The date.”

Wynne nodded. “He’s agreed to let us search through the records of births and baptisms and marriages.” He offered her his arm as they walked. “If she came from here, how many people do you think we’ll find with the name Josephine?”

“But we don’t know if she was born in Garloch.” She took a deep breath, trying to remain calm.

“We’re here. We should pursue every possibility.”

He was right. Jo was letting her nerves get the better of her. This church. This might have been her mother’s church.

“You said Lady Millicent always spoke of her as being quite young,” he went on. “I gave the curate a range of about six years or so that we’d like to look at.”

She looked up, feeling admiration for him and gratitude that he was here. “When can we search the records?”

“Mr. Kealy has promised by the time we walk to the inn and have something to eat, he’ll have concluded his business and be ready for us to proceed.”

“Are the records here in the church?” she asked.

“No, he told me since the flood, the books have been kept in the rectory, up the hill, away from the river.”

She followed his gaze to a small stone cottage. The place looked tidy but unoccupied, and she remembered that the curate only came here twice a month. The church itself looked better kept.

After Sir John Melfort purchased Highfield Hall, Jo had often wondered if she would run into Wynne at the church in Melrose Village. She never went without thinking about it. The same fear haunted her at social gatherings at their neighbors. In her imagination he was happily married and would be aghast at seeing her. The incident would be terribly painful and tear at her heart all over again.

How wrong she was.

“I can’t tell you how thankful I am for you,” she said without a tinge of embarrassment. “You’re thoughtful, considerate, dependable, and wise. In short, you’re indispensable, Captain Melfort.”

He smiled, running a thumb caressingly over her hand before bringing the palm to his lips. “I like the last one the best. It gives me great pleasure to think you find me necessary in your life.”

But he was so much more.

“What are you saying?” she dared herself to ask.

“I’m asking if—once we have returned to the Abbey—I may have the honor of calling on you and making my intentions known.”

She studied the smile creasing his handsome face. “Let me see. We have conversed privately many times, have been alone in a room, traveled unchaperoned in a carriage, called one another by our given names, corresponded with one another and exchanged gifts, danced more than two sets on any evening—”

“And touched intimately, if I may be so bold as to recollect.” He lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers, making Jo’s breath hitch, before straightening again.

“You are indeed bold, Captain.”

He bent his head. “I bow to your reprimand, m’lady.”

“And I recollect that we have exchanged a great many smiles and sighs.”

“And becoming blushes,” he said, caressing her cheek. “Pray tell me, though, that you are inclined to accept my proposal.”

Jo felt as if she’d stepped into a dream. Wynne wanted her.

Sixteen years ago, her happiness with him had been destroyed because of her unknown origins. Today, here in Garloch, where she might find the truth of her mother, she was also being given a second chance at happiness.

“I am so inclined, Captain,” she said, slipping her arms around him. “But pray don’t write for my parents’ permission to visit and pay your respects. I have a great deal of explaining that I need to do first.”