Page 5 of This Haunted Heart

His head tipped back, and his laughter was as flavorful and full-bodied as good whisky. A little shiver of pleasure rippled down my spine. His joy had been well worth the effort. It shook through his bulky shoulders and melted away a little of the sorrow I sensed in him.

“I don’t like to tidy up either,” he said amicably. “It’s a time-consuming habit that never ends. One might as well volunteer to help push Sisyphus’s boulder.”

“You’re exactly right.” I made a mental note that he was educated enough to know about Sisyphus. Definitely not acommon farmer or rancher, despite his costume. “I served as a kitchen maid as a youth. The family worked me nearly to death and broke me of the cleaning habit for good.”

Surprised I’d told him all that, I bit my lip. I didn’t ever talk about my disastrous youth. The strange cigarette and too much hard cider were likely to blame for my oversharing.

“Now that you’re here,” he said, gesturing toward my shelves, “you can solve the mystery of your books for me.”

“There’s a mystery?” I moved in beside him until my shoulder brushed against his arm. He had an appealing smell. Like clean linen fresh from the line and a touch of cologne water, something spicy and more complex—black tea brewing near a bed of orchids.

“These here didn’t surprise me,” he said, pointing to the top shelf. “They frequent most libraries: poetry, botany, a book of common French words . . . And yet they seem barely touched. There isn’t a single marker in them.”

“Well, you see,” I said, running a finger along the leather spines, “these books exist for the sole purpose of making me seem sophisticated and smart. I haven’t read them more than the once because they’re painfully dull. Some of them I haven’t finished at all.”

A secret smile tugged at his mouth. “I see.”

“Did it work?”

“Did what work?”

“When you saw them, did you assume I was a sophisticated woman?”

“Yes, well, of course. I assumed you were an advanced intellectual.” His lips quirked. “Though actually, I was more impressed by these down here. They’re Dutch and French. You read in multiple languages. Regretfully, I only speak onefluently.”

“Ah, you’ve picked an excellent novel to browse,” I said of the cloth-covered book in his hand. “De Gevangene Van De Piraatby Vieve Avondrood. I adore her the most.”

“The Pirate’s Captive,” he translated. Many Dutch and German immigrants had settled in the area southeast of Salt Rock. The fact that he was familiar with the language to some degree clued me in further to his origins. “My Dutch is in dull shape. That’s about the only thing I could work out.”

“You’ve gotten it right, though.” I patted his forearm. “Well done.”

“I think you’ve solved the mystery for me. These here by Avondrood have multiple items in them, and some of the markers are quite strange.”

“Oh dear,” I said, covering my mouth to conceal a smirk. “Strange, you say? I don’t recall placing anything strange in my books.”

“Now that we’ve spoken, I hypothesize that the more exceptional and plentiful the markers, the greater your affection is for the story.” He tapped on another novel detailing the exploits of a pirate captain and the maid he’d stolen away to take on adventures. “This one had a feather in it.”

“Useful enough as a bookmark, you must agree.”

“The one beside it has a purchase receipt and a toothpick.” His lopsided smile stretched the broken skin across his battered cheek. It was the kind of smile a person could much too easily fall in love with.

I shrugged. “That’s a little strange, I suppose, but it still gets the job done.”

“This one had a torn piece of mail, a dogeared page, and a nail file.”

“I’ve already confessed that I’m not very tidy without help. There’s really no need to belabor the point,” I said playfully.

“And this one,” he said, displaying the book in his hand with a flourish, “this one has a stocking in it.”

“It does not,” I gasped, grabbing for it.

He lifted the book over his head, out of my reach, and his grin went wicked. “It does so.”

When I didn’t try for it again, he lowered the novel and proved his words, opening it straight away to a balled-up white stocking. The silk marked one of my favorite passages: a stolen kiss between a pirate lord and his lady captive.

“Oh dear,” I said, touching a hand to my heart. “I do hope it’s at least a clean stocking.”

“Given your record, I wouldn’t bet on it,” he said, voice wobbling.

---