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fifty-two. They arrived shortly after Hawkins, about three months after from what I've dug up."

"Is there a connection?" Cal asked.

"They both came over from England. Fletcher Ellsworth. Ann named one of her sons Fletcher. And Ellsworth's wife, Honor, was third cousin to Hawkins's wife."

"I define that as connection," Quinn stated.

"Have you pinpointed the location?"

"Working on it," Cybil told Cal. "I got as much as I got because one of Ellsworth's descendents was at Valley Forge with George, and one of his descendents wrote a book about the family. I got in touch-chatty guy."

"They always talk to Cyb." Quinn took another bite of celery.

"Yes, they do. He was able to verify that the Ellsworths we're interested in had a farm west of town, in a place that was called Hollow Creek."

"So we just have to-" Quinn broke off, catching Cal's expression. "What?" Because he was staring at Fox, she turned, repeated. "What?"

"Some of the locals still call it that," Fox explained. "Or did, when my parents bought the land thirty-three years ago. That's my family's farm."

Chapter Six

IT WAS FULL DARK BY THE TIME FOX PULLED UP behind his father's truck. The lateness of the hour had been one of the reasons his parents weren't going to be invaded by six people on a kind of scavenger hunt.

They'd have handled it, he knew. The house had always been open to anyone, anytime. Relatives, old friends, new friends, the occasional stranger could count on a bed, a meal, a refuge at the Barry-O'Dells. Payment for the hospitality might be feeding chickens, milking goats, weeding a garden, splitting wood.

Throughout his childhood the house had been noisy, busy, and often still was. It was a house where those who lived in it were encouraged to pursue and explore their own paths, where the rules were flexible and individualized, and where everyone had been expected to contribute to the whole.

It was still home, he thought, the rambling house of stone and wood with its wide front porch, its interesting juts and painted shutters (currently a sassy red). He supposed even if he ever got the chance to make his own, to build his own family, this farm, this house, this place would always be home.

There was music when he stepped into the big living room with its eccentric mix of art, its bold use of color and texture. Every piece of furniture was handcrafted, most by his father. Lamps, paintings, vases, bowls, throws, pillows, candles, all original work-family or friends.

Had he appreciated that as a child? he wondered. Probably not. It was just home.

A pair of dogs rushed from the rear of the house to greet him with welcoming barks and swinging tails. There'd always been dogs here. These, Mick and Dylan, were mutts-as they always were-rescued from the pound. Fox crouched to give them both a rub when his father followed them out.

"Hey." Brian's grin flashed, that instant sign of pleasure. "How's it going? You eat?"

"Yeah."

"Come on back. We're still at it, and there's a rumor about apple cobbler." Brian swung an arm over Fox's shoulders as they walked back to the kitchen.

"I was going to drop by today while I was working in town," Brian continued, "but I got hung up. Look what I found," he said to Jo. "He must've heard about the cobbler."

"It's all over town." Fox went around the big butcher-block table to kiss his mother. The kitchen smelled of his mother's herbs and candles, and the thick soup from the pot on the stove. "And before you ask, I've had dinner."

He sat in a chair he helped make when he'd been thirteen. "I came by to talk to you guys about the house-the farm."

"Moving back in?" Brian asked and picked up his spoon to dig back into what Fox recognized as his mother's lentil and brown rice soup.

"No." Though that door would always be open, he knew. "The main part of the house is pre-Civil War, right?"

"Eighteen fifties," Jo confirmed. "You know that."

"Yeah, but I wondered if you knew if it was built on any earlier structure."

"Possible," his father answered. "The stone shed out back's earlier. It stands to reason there was more here at one time."

"Right. You looked into the history. I remember."

"That's right." Jo studied his face. "There were people farming here before the white man came over to run them out."

"I'm not talking about the indigenous, or their exploitation by invaders." He did not want to get her started on that one. "I'm more interested in