Page 15 of Buried Roots

I nod, but don’t have the strength for words.

Together, we use the mid-level nozzle to clean our arms and faces with one of the many liquid soaps there. It seems like it should feel like too intimate an activity to do with someone I just met, but it’s not. Maybe because I’m too out of it to care.

Owen puts a hand on my back. “We should get you inside to rest. I’ve got it from here.”

I nod, and he puts his arm around me as he walks me back to the house. By the time we arrive, I feel better. Maybe it was the cold water on my face. Maybe it was the fresh air. Maybe it’s the gorgeous man holding me up. Maybe it’s all the above.

We make our way inside the castle where he fetches me a glass of water as I go and brush my teeth with my fingers and use mouthwash. When I return and start to sit on the couch, I decide against it because my shirt is filthy. It reminds me of what just happened, and it’s surreal.

Owen puts the glass on the end table. “Here—my shirt is clean. Why don’t you take it for now?”

“That’d be great.”

He unbuttons his short-sleeved pocketed flannel before slipping it off. Through the slits in my tired eyes, I take in his magnificent chest—carved, tan, so touchable. There’s a scar just under his pec that runs under his arm, and my fingers itch to travel along the trail of mottled skin. I want to ask what happened, but Owen says, “Willow?”

I blink, finally noticing that he’s holding out his shirt. “Oh, thank you.” I take it before turning around to slide off my blouse. When I put on his flannel, I love being surrounded by his smell of cedar, soap, and warm skin.

When I’m done, Owen hands me the glass. “You’ve got two hours to sleep before the farmhands arrive.”

“Two hours.” That sounds like a dream. I take a swig of water, then lie down on the couch.

Owen carefully puts a throw blanket over me, then brushes a wisp of hair off my face. He’s sonota B film creeper, and if I wasn’t falling asleep, I’d be dying to kiss him. Which is my last thought before I drift away.

I wake to my phone alarm chirping, and I sit up straight, wondering, again, where I am. When I remember, I get up and head to the coffeemaker.

It’s five a.m., and I have thirty minutes to get my brain functioning. I manage to find all the supplies for coffee, then make myself a cup before heading into Bo’s office. I walk inside, inhaling the smell of old books and leather. Bo’s laptop sits neatly on the desk, and I eye it nervously. That thing might give me the answers I so desperately need.

A glorious and terrifying thing.

I sit at the desk and power up the laptop, running my hand over the copper cap rivets of the arms of the leather chair. I stare at the blank screen, fear tempting me to walk away. But I know I can’t do that.

I remind myself that I always push forward, even when it’s hard. That’s what I do.

When the welcome screen appears, a prompt for a password shows up along with it.

Ugh. Of course, it’s asking for a password!

I groan as I check under the keyboard before shuffling through the drawers of Bo’s desk. Office supplies sit neatly in trays—pens, pencils, Post-its, a stapler, and paper-clips, like most offices. But unlike most offices, there is no paperwork, no files, no notebooks. Only a stack of plain white paper that goes into the printer.

How did Bo get by with no filing? And why? The more I search, the more desperate I get, but I find nothing. And I don’t have the first clue on how to break into a computer. Regardless, I try, “password123,” Bo’s birthday, then Lily’s birthday. But I stop because I don’t want to get locked out.

I sigh, scrubbing my head. I know I must want answers, despite my earlier hesitation, as my cheeks burn with growing frustration that I can’t log in.

I stare at the password prompt as though Bo will whisper it to me from the grave.

But I don’t dare another attempt, and I have only twelve minutes left before I have to meet Frankie. I grit my teeth, desperation blooming inside me. I leap up, finding myself in a frenzied search through the rows of Bo’s aging books. The only thing I come across of interest is an album, placed between the other books, like it’s nothing special. The first picture is that same wedding photo of Bo and Lily, so I continue to flip through the pages, seeing the couple on a tropical beach vacation, probably for their honeymoon. I keep going until I find something that makes my heart stop beating entirely.

One of the sleeves contains a ring.

Maybe the one Roy couldn’t find?

With unsteady fingers, I shake it out before running my fingers over the many tiny diamonds, set in platinum—and arranged in the shape of a willow tree.

7

The Helper

Theringfitsperfectlyon my right-hand ring finger, and I absolutely love it. Soon, I’m going to find out if this ring belonged to my aunt. Or maybe she’s a cousin?

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