Tuesday, September 16, 1930
Crow’s Nest, Wisconsin

Silas Ward hefted the newly built end table from the bed of his pickup. The solid piece of furniture had turned out well. Hopefully, Rose Wittlebush, the town’s honorary grandmother, would like it, .

Thick heat pressed on his shoulders, causing sweat to trickle down his back. Though he was dressed in a simple cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his suspenders created wet strips down his torso. Even the lake breeze was absent today.

Setting the end table down on the porch, he propped open the screen door with his hip and rapped on the wooden frame. The outgoing octogenarian lived in a farmhouse overlooking Lake Michigan. White railings, which could use a fresh coat of paint, surrounded the deep, wrap-around front porch. He mentally added it to his list of things to do before another Wisconsin winter chipped them even more.

Imagining the older lady’s surprise, he pulled off the Stetson he wore despite the rolling farmland surrounding his hometown, not the rugged ranch land out west. Rose Wittlebush deserved every ounce of gallantry his father taught him, especially after losing both her seamstress shop and her assistant earlier this year. Widowed now for a decade, she had no family left, and he couldn’t help but look out for her, same as his own mom. It’s what neighbors did here in Crow’s Nest.

He knocked again, and scuffling sounds came from behind the closed door, as if people were scrambling. Not the image that came to mind when he considered the white-haired lady who lived alone. Concern nipped at him like a cattle dog. He rapped harder.

More scrambling sounds, then a thump and a cry.

“Mrs. Wittlebush!” He jiggled the doorknob. Locked. She never locked it. “It’s Silas Ward. Can you answer the door?”

He put his ear to the smooth plane of wood. He could barely hear through it and didn’t like the hushed, hurried voices coming from inside. Rose had company. Not the good kind, considering she hadn’t yet come to the door or assured him she was fine.

“Rose Wittlebush!” Another thirty seconds and he’d find an alternate entry point.

The door disappeared from in front of his face.

“Thank heavens.” Mrs. Wittlebush grabbed his wrist with strong fingers and dragged him inside. A vinegary smell wrapped around him. Was she pickling vegetables today? “We need your help.”

“I really don’t.” This frustrated statement came from a woman sitting on her haunches in the middle of Mrs. Whittlebush’s front room. She had black curly hair—not tight corkscrews, but close—and the mass hung around her down-turned face like lamb’s wool. From what he could tell from her hunched position, she was tall and slender. The deep olive brown of her arms stark against her white blouse, yet blending with her serviceable forest-green skirt.

He tossed his Stetson on the coat rack and bumped the front door closed with the heel of his boot. “What can I do?”

“Lift Cora to the couch.” Mrs. Whittlebush gave his shoulder a firm shove.

The other woman—Cora—sighed as she grabbed a mass of curls away from her face, turning toward him. Her eyes were as blue as a mountain lake. He instinctively moved a step in front of Mrs. Whittlebush. Until he knew who this Cora was, he wouldn’t let the older woman out of his sight. The danger she’d faced early this summer was enough for a lifetime. He wouldn’t let Mrs. Whittlebush get caught up in any more.

“I just need a minute, and I’ll be fine.” Cora gave a smile, but her eyes seemed unfocused. It was a look he’d occasionally encountered from the ranch hands he used to work with—especially after they’d been thrown from a horse—but never in a lady.

Not that he’d ever seen this Cora around Crow’s Nest before—and in such a small town, identifying strangers was easy—but Mrs. Whittlebush was known for her hospitality regardless of a person’s background. What was it about the older women in this town taking in strays? He didn’t know, but the last stranger to make herself at home in Crow’s Nest nearly got herself killed, along with Silas’s friend, David Martins. Speaking of Martins, Silas made a second mental note to mention Cora’s arrival to David’s uncle, Detective O’Connor.

“Water. That will help.” Mrs. Whittlebush patted Silas’s arm, then dashed for the kitchen as fast as her Mary Janes could carry her.

Time for answers.

As soon as Mrs. Whittlebush’s steps faded, Silas crouched in front of Cora, one arm on his knee. “She can’t hear you, so tell me the truth. Who are you really and what’s going on?”

Her eyes narrowed at his command, then she cocked her head. “You said your name was Silas? You help her a lot, don’t you?”

Not what he expected her to say, nor had he expected the gentle tone with which she spoke, as if Rose Wittlebush was this stranger’s closest friend and simply saying her name required careful handling.

Cora squeezed his worked-roughened hand with fingers just as callused, and it touched something deep inside. “Thank you.”

Two words that held a world of meaning he’d need a week to decipher. It set him off-kilter.

She offered a tired smile and clamped a hand on his shoulder, sending a protective streak shooting through him, then pushed to her feet. “Best not worry her more if I can help it.” But she swayed as she stood upright.

Silas caught her elbow and led her straight to the couch. “Maybe I should take you to a doctor.”

She waved him away as she sank to the sturdy cushions. “You’re as bad as Tante.” Another faded smile. “I’ll be fine. And here she comes with water. Just what I need.”

Tante? He squeezed his hand into a fist. Tante meant aunt and Mrs. Whittlebush had no family. What was this Cora woman up to? He refused to let the widow get taken advantage of—not on his watch. She’d lost too much already, and Silas owed her for taking care of his own family while he was out West.

“You need more than water, child.” Mrs. Whittlebush handed the glass to Cora, then wiped her hands on the blue apron that covered her yellow house dress. As a seamstress, vibrant color always surrounded her. “Now put your feet up, and I’ll tuck this blanket around you.”

Silas leaned against the bookcase set against the north wall as Cora’s cheeks grew a shade darker. Mrs. Whittlebush could be a fussbudget, but not a soul in Crow’s Nest minded because she was always the one who turned up when a person needed help the most. But who helped her—besides David Martins and himself? Martins’s grandmother and Silas’s mother were Mrs. Whittlebush’s closest friends. Could they know this Cora?

“Silas, dear.” The older woman turned a cheery smile on him. “What brought you to my home today?”

The end table! “I brought you that furniture piece you commissioned last week.”

“It’s ready?” She followed him to the front door.

“Of course.” It was the least he could do after the June tornado destroyed her business. He lifted the end table and carried it inside, only to catch Cora watching him before she glanced away. He had the strangest urge to show her just how strong he could be. Ridiculous. He had nothing to prove.

Mrs. Whittlebush squealed as if she were a little girl and he had brought her penny candy. “Silas, it’s just what I imagined.” She ran her hand over the piece. “Dark wood. Smooth lines. Oh Silas, you do wonderful work.”

His turn to feel heat rising in his face. He shot a look at Cora. She was watching Mrs. Whittlebush with an expression of pure pleasure. Mrs. Whittlebush. Not him. Embarrassment turned the heat rising on his neck into a furnace. Thankfully, Mrs. Whittlebush waved him into motion.

“Carry it to the studio, would you?” She led the way through double doors to what used to be an unused formal room of sorts. Over the past few months, he’d helped her recreate a seamstress showroom with cushioned chairs for guests, a grand mirror, and a clean fireplace for winter. He set the table between the chairs, where he knew she intended it to go.

“Looks about finished.” He looped his thumbs in his suspenders before remembering how damp his shirt had become. He quickly removed them, subtly wiping his hands down his pant legs. “We’re going to be hard pressed to get customers to leave.”

Instead of replying, she looked toward the stranger they’d left in the other room.

“Who is she, Mrs. Whittlebush?” He lowered his voice so it wouldn’t carry.

“Cora Davis, a skilled archaeologist.” Pride rang through her words.

“And?” Silas pressed. “Who is she to you?”

Her fingers wrapped themselves in her apron, and she bit her bottom lip as if fighting the urge to say more.

Silas wrapped an arm around Mrs. Whittlebush’s well-cushioned shoulders, her gray hair barely reaching him mid-chest. “You can tell me.”

“I have never wanted to tell someone the truth more than I do right now.” She looked up at him, tears shimmering in her brown eyes. “But it is not my secret to tell.”