a swinging bridge stretched across a deep canyon, a popular tourist destination.”
“Sounds treacherous.”
“You strike me as the type of guy who might like an adrenaline rush.”
His lips twitched. “Just might.”
They crossed another street and passed the coffee shop. She waved at a couple of women drinking on the patio. “Church friends.”
“Where do you attend?”
Gracie pointed up the street at the white structure with the traditional steeple. “Right there. First Community Church.”
“Ah. The famous church of Church Street.”
“The very one. Do you attend anywhere?”
“Not for a while.” His tone said subject closed.
She sensed his silence held a story, and she’d love to know it. But he was a stranger, only passing through, and she was just the innkeeper.
The library was just ahead, and Grace found herself reluctant to part ways.
“You’ll have to stop in at the coffee shop sometime. It’s really good. Their frappés are amazing. I know, I hate to be a cliché—that’s such a basic girl drink. But my opinion stands.”
“You’re not a basic anything, Grace.”
Oh really? She arched a brow his direction.
His lips curled in an almost smile, and she wondered what he looked like when he really went all out and showed his teeth and everything. She hoped to put a real smile on his face before he left town. She had a feeling he could use a little levity in his life.
Her footsteps slowed as they reached the Bluebell Public Library.
He glanced up at the old brick building, at the American flag fluttering in the breeze.
“Well, here we are. Thanks for the escort. And good luck on the retail space.”
“Thanks.”
He treated her to one of those intense looks before he headed up the sidewalk with that purposeful stride that was already becoming familiar.
* * *
Wyatt settled at the microfilm machine, armed with the appropriate slides. The librarian had helped him find what he was searching for and instructed him on the machine. He found himself reluctant to dive into the old newspaper articles.
He’d rather think about Grace. He’d enjoyed talking with her; the walk went too quickly. She’d been open enough, a little feisty even, but she didn’t push him when they’d touched on topics he preferred to avoid. He didn’t expect good intuition and restraint in a woman so young, so innocent. A small-town girl.
Twenty-one. He shook his head. He’d been a numbskull at twenty-one and wasn’t sure he’d advanced much beyond that. But twenty-one seemed like a long time ago. He felt older than his age—always had—and given his job, he’d lived a comparatively worldly life. He’d parted with his innocence a long time ago.
Someone across the room sneezed, drawing his attention back to the machine. Enough stalling. He needed direction, or he’d spend the next few weeks trudging aimlessly around the mountains. He wasn’t sure why he needed to go there for closure. Instinct just told him he did, and he’d learned long ago to trust that inner voice.
He placed the slide, adjusted the view, and scanned the local newspaper. It didn’t take long to find the right issue—it was the day after it had happened.
The headline read “Governor’s Wife Murdered on Camping Trip.”
Wyatt swallowed hard and forced himself to review the article as if he were a subjective reader. He scanned the bits he knew all too well, searching for the exact location of the crime. But the journalist only named the Blue Ridge Mountains as the police hadn’t released many details at that point. He moved on to the article in the next day’s paper.
A fist tightened around his chest at the sight of his mother’s beautiful picture.
It was a full five seconds before he could tear his gaze away long enough to read the article. It contained a few more details. The suspect was still at large. More background about his mother. Wyatt was also mentioned, but not by name, as he’d been a minor at the time.
Finally, in an edition a couple weeks out from the crime, an article declared that the culprit had been apprehended in Florida. A regurgitation of the crime turned up a few new details, but nothing regarding its location.
He kept going, searching for other articles, but the subsequent ones focused on the trial and prosecution of Gordon Kimball.
Wyatt turned off the machine. He’d learned nothing helpful, and the search had come at a cost. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his palms were cold and clammy. But the worst of it was the memories that had been stirred up. A necessary evil, he knew. He