Barefoot in Pearls (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 3) (20 page)

His words—and all the sense they made—hung in the truck. But something didn’t feel right to Ari.

“Did you bring the sample that Michelle gave us?”

“I have it in the back and an appointment to take it to another geological firm. Why?”

“Would you be willing to leave a small bit with Dr. Marksman, for his opinion?”

“Of course. Hey, look at that.” As they turned the corner into the acreage that surrounded Mound House, the trees opened up to show sloping grounds, emerald green and lush with palm trees and brightly blooming hibiscus. Atop the hill was the restored mansion, the cream stucco gleaming in the sun with balanced balconies and floor-to-ceiling windows giving the instant air of a Southern plantation house.

It all looked out over a vast view of Estero Bay, an expanse of deep blue under a cloud-scattered sky.

“They call it Case House,” Ari said. “Lots of history, changed family hands, and recently renovated to match what it looked like in 1921.”

“Built on an Indian mound.”

“It was a different century,” she reminded him. “And the estate has given a ton of money to re-create parts of the actual village that was here thousands of years ago.” She gave him a nudge. “Maybe Cutter would go for that.”

“Doubtful.”

“At least the current owners and curators have tried to honor the history and heritage over the years. But back when it was built, they hadn’t had too many concerns about history, which is the way it is all over this country. Oh, and”—she smiled—“they say it’s haunted.”

He snorted softly and pulled into the lot, parking next to a school bus. A group of kids were standing on the lawn, being talked to by a tour guide or teacher, and another group of older tourists piled out of a minivan.

“We’re early for our meeting with Dr. Marksman,” Ari said. “Want to take a tour?”

He eyed the house and students, then shrugged as he came around the truck to join her. “Sure.” He slipped his hand into hers. “If you do.”

Still holding hands, they bought tickets and joined a small group of retirees, listening to a museum docent recite the history that Ari had read about the night before. The house had changed hands, been through hurricanes, undergone multiple restorations, but in the past fifteen years, the focus shifted from the history of the families who lived here to the archaeological treasures below ground.

As the small group rounded the outside of the building and walked down a set of stone steps to the underground exhibit that had been built into the mound, Ari experienced a powerful wave of déjà vu.

She hadn’t been here before, but she’d been to so many similar places with her grandmother, who was often moved to tears before they’d even entered the sacred sites.

“You okay?” Luke whispered as they reached the bottom.

“Yes, why?” Could he tell how this affected her?

“You just shivered, and it’s about a hundred and fifty degrees in the shade.”

She smiled, leaning into him for the sheer pleasure of feeling his muscles. “You know, for a hardheaded realist who doesn’t believe in anything he can’t see or touch, you’re pretty intuitive.”

He gave her hand a squeeze. “Only when someone has my full attention.”

The tour guide cleared her throat and started on the next segment of her speech, but Ari and Luke held each other’s gaze for a long beat. When the doors opened to the exhibit, he slipped his arm around her and kept her tucked into his side as they walked by murals depicting the tribe’s simple, fish-centric life.

Ari tried to think about the Calusa, how they were like and, in some ways, unlike the Miwok blended in her blood. But her body betrayed her and she forgot about everything but the strength and size and heat of Luke, the woodsy, masculine smell, the timbre of his voice when he whispered a comment or laughed.

He might want to “wait” for them to be physical, he might think he was the wrong choice as The One, and he might truly be planning to desecrate land she’d fight to save…but all of that disappeared every time she looked at him and melted a little.

For someone who claimed to be intuitive, she sure was having a hard time figuring out who this man was and what he meant to her.

“…as you can see from the timeline.” The tour guide’s words drifted in and out of Ari’s ears, much of the information lost to far more personal thoughts. She shook those off and stood before a timeline along the wall, trying to follow the history that stretched back thousands and thousands of years.

“The great Calusa disappeared in the late 1700s, after Spanish settlers forced them to spread and, sadly, die off,” the tour guide said, “but not until this glorious tribe left their mark on the land.”

“A mark that needs to be honored,” she whispered to Luke.

He gave her a look she couldn’t quite read and guided her deeper into the exhibit until they reached the archaeological section, which showed the layers of shell, fish bones, earth, and pottery shards that formed the foundations for temples and homes, and, of course, burial sites. In the paintings, she saw some of the very tools she had packed in the crate in Luke’s truck, making her certain that she had found something valuable.

While they were given time to look at things alone, Ari took a moment to admire a mural that showed a Calusa family fishing and cooking while children played and another depicting a man painting a mask probably like the one Lacey’s grandfather had found. Of course these people could have taken a boat down the coast to Mimosa Key and created a settlement there.

Luke stayed close, silent and serious, as they studied the artwork. “A lot of history here,” he said.

She looked up at him. “If my grandmother were here, she’d be crying.”

“Why?”

“She was a big mushball who cried over everything, especially when she discovered something about a new tribe. I don’t ever remember her talking about the Calusa. They weren’t famous like Cherokee and Sioux, but I can feel how much they mattered.” She rubbed her bare arms. “Powerful,” she added softly.

He angled his head, enough uncertainty in his eyes to break her heart. “Arielle, this building was constructed in the year 2000 to replicate something that has been gone for centuries. How can you feel anything?”

“I understand your skepticism, Luke, but the aura is here.” She didn’t want to argue the point, and it was nearing the time for her meeting, so she gave him a soft push toward the door. “Let’s get the crate and take it to Dr. Marksman’s office.”

They slipped away from the group and headed back to the truck. Luke also opened the samples from GeoTech, carefully transferred a small amount of the shells into a spare plastic bag that Ari had brought, and carried it all with great gentleness and care to the small office complex.

Doubtful one minute, respectful the next. No wonder she was confused about this man.

* * *

The Wayampi.

Memories swamped Luke as he strode toward the building where the archaeologist worked, vaguely aware that Ari was a few steps behind him. He was surprised by how the murals and museum pieces had affected him, yanking him back to the sights and sounds of Camopi, a village just outside a malaria-infested jungle along the northeast corner of South America.

The Wayampi believed the land, and the gold, belonged to them.

The country of France felt differently, of course, and that’s why they sent platoons of Legionnaires to make sure the Wayampi knew it. But they were people—with feelings and customs, and a deep-seated spirituality not unlike what stirred Arielle’s soul. They were families, just like the one in that mural. They were children who should run and play. But there was one who never would again.

And that’s why he needed to work—here or across the Atlantic. He had to have a constant stream of income.
Had to
. He swallowed hard, sweat stinging his neck.

“You can wait here,” Arielle said, yanking him from his thoughts as they reached a wraparound wooden porch. “I’ll just…” She frowned at him. “Are you okay?”

Shit, was he that transparent or could she really read minds? “I’m fine,” he lied.

“You don’t look fine. You look upset.”

Taking a deep breath, he set the crate on the ground, using as much care as possible. “It’s hot as hell out here, Ari.”

“No, it’s not,” she said. “You’re upset about something. It’s coming off you like bad cologne.”

He couldn’t help smiling. “Bad cologne? Is that how you read people’s thoughts?”

“I’m not reading your thoughts, Luke. I’m watching your expression.”

He shook his head. “I’ll stay here with the crate. You go in and find your doctor. Then come and tell me where he wants me to take this stuff.”

She disappeared inside, and he dropped onto the top step, looking out over the grounds and hills, all the way to the gulf. He closed his eyes for a moment, all the images and stories from the tour they’d just taken playing with his imagination, making him wonder what life was like here fifteen hundred years ago.

God, he was as bad as Arielle now.

He leaned back against the railing post, one hand protectively on the crate, the shade of the overhang welcome. His mind drifted far from Florida, across the world to another swampy, hot place, the smell of the jungle, the distant splash of a pirogue making its way down the river, the realization that he’d been set up, the certainty that the woman he loved was a cold-blooded murderer.

Everyone’s on the take, Ricard! It’s gold! Gold!
He could still hear her screaming in French, using his fake name. He was transported to that moment when he realized she didn’t even know his name, so how could she love him? That moment when it hit him that Cerisse didn’t love him at all…she loved gold more. That moment when he had to make a split decision about who to kill.

Not whether he
should
kill, but who would die? What right did he have to make that decision in the span of a single heartbeat?

He could hear that young boy’s voice, a mix of French and unintelligible ancient Wayampi words. He had to do something. He had to—

“Luke? Luke?”

He shook off her touch, jerking to sit straight.

“Luke, are you all right?” Arielle leaned closer, concern in her eyes but fire in her touch. Always, always warmth from her. “Are you crying?” She whispered the last word, with shock.

He swiped at his cheeks. “Hell no. Sweating my balls off.”

She fought a smile. “Dr. Marksman wants to see the samples,” she said, her hand still on his arm. “He’s right here.”

Luke rose immediately—too fast, actually—but managed to shake off the momentary blackness around his vision. He peered at an older man with a deeply lined face and rimless glasses over kind blue eyes.

“David Marksman,” the man said, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Luke went through the motions of the introduction, still a little stunned at how the memories had crept up and attacked him. Because he’d been thinking about Cerisse last night, remembering why he couldn’t give his heart to this awesome woman. Because he’d done that once, and his bullet had gone right through her heart.

“Why don’t I bring this inside?” Luke suggested.

But the older man had already crouched down and looked at Ari for permission to open the crate. She nodded and got next to him, while Luke accepted the fact that he wasn’t going to get air conditioning any time soon.

“This one on top”—Arielle reached in and lifted the first item, slowly unwrapping the tissue—“I think it’s a gorge.”

She revealed a narrow shell less than two inches long, worn to a point on either end. Luke had probably stepped on a hundred things that looked like that on beaches around the world. What made her see—

The older man’s eyes lit up. “I believe you’re right!”

Whatever it was, the elderly archaeologist saw the same thing. He lifted the shell with care, placing it in his palm as if he’d been given the Hope Diamond. “They’d tie a string around the center and drop it in the water. The points would get trapped in the fish mouth.” He chucked a little. “Turkey bone, I’d say, but we’d need to do more research. What else do you have?” he asked, his voice rising with excitement.

“Wait until you see this.” Arielle chose the next wrapped item, a look of expectation dancing in her eyes as she revealed it. “A hammer stone?”

He took the round rock, rubbing his thumb over an indentation. “Or a mortar. Did you find something that fit inside that could have been a pestle?”

“I did, covered in coral shells.” She lifted a few more packages and produced another with the flair of a magician. “Look at this one.”

Dr. Marksman’s eyes widened, and he actually gasped. He
definitely
saw something a layman would miss. The archaeologist’s hands trembled as he reached for the clump of brown stones that looked like they’d been glued together in the shape of a small ice cream cone. “Where did you get this?”

“I told you, in the house that—”

“This, too?” He looked at her with something close to rapture in his eyes, a touch of a mad-scientist thing going on. “They were all in the crate together? Are there more like this?”

“None exactly like that,” she said. “But plenty of others.”