Caroline Burnes - Babe in the Woods

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“May I offer some advice?” Dru asked.

“I’d love it, though I can’t promise to take it.” She would be glad to hear advice from an unbiased party, especially one as level-headed as Dru.

“I wouldn’t keep the artifacts on Blackthorn property no matter who ultimately has control of them. You’ve been having trouble. It would be a crying shame if someone came in and destroyed these artifacts in some act of vengeance or revenge.”

Rebecca took a deep breath. “Thanks, Dru. That’s the best reasoning I’ve heard. You make perfect sense, and I’ll make sure the artifacts are put somewhere safe. Like a bank vault or something, first thing in the morning.”

“How valuable are these things?” Dru asked.

“Depends on who you ask. So little is known about the Mound Builders that this may be the definitive site. They lived along the Mississippi River, and there were more burial mounds until the river broke the levee in 1927 and flooded most of the delta. A lot of history, both Native American and early settler, was lost then. If this is the most preserved site, then the artifacts are quite valuable from a historical perspective.”

“What about jewels and gold and things like that?”

“Not really a part of the Mound Builders’ interest. The Aztecs and Toltecs in South America actually made gold jewelry and adorned themselves with silver and gold. Around here there weren’t a lot of precious metals or jewels.”

“So what’s the monetary value of this site?”

“I’m not sure that’s easy to explain. Most people think only of jewels and precious metals when it comes to tombs. The pyramids in Egypt were filled with material wealth. This site is different. Brett has schooled me well,” she said, giving an apologetic grin. “This site is about information, history, preservation of a site sacred to Native American Indians. And,” she got a teasing look in her eyes, “Brett says there’s some indication that Ponce de Leon had begun to believe that the fountain of youth was somewhere along the great Mississippi River.”

“Ah, the old fountain-of-youth lure.”

“Now to find evidence of that would be valuable information. Monetarily valuable information.”

“Even more valuable would be to find the fountain of youth,” Dru teased. “Can you imagine? You could charge five dollars an ounce and become a gazillionaire overnight.”

“Not me. Aurelia and Marcus,” Rebecca reminded him. “I’m just the hired help and I’m the one who’s going to have to deal with Brett about that artifact.”

Joey touched Rebecca’s arm. “Brett said it was wrong to give the old bowl to the Indian,” Joey said. “He said he wasn’t going to do it.”

Rebecca felt a flush touch her cheeks. Brett talked big, but when it came time to yield up the artifacts, he would do so. He was a troublemaker, but he wasn’t an idiot. Still, she didn’t like the fact that he made her look foolish in front of people. He constantly challenged her authority and her decisions.

“I wouldn’t put a lot of stock in what Brett says,” Rebecca said easily. “All talk, no action.”

She cleared the table and then served the orange sherbet she’d bought.

“Cool,” Joey said, grinning. “Maybe I could grow some oranges.”

“Maybe,” she said because she didn’t know if he could or not. The Natchez winters could get pretty cold.

“Strawberries might be better,” Dru suggested.

“Yeah, strawberries.” Joey stood up, his bowl empty. “I’m going to draw out some beds for strawberries. I know just where to put them.”

He hurried out of the kitchen, leaving Dru and Rebecca alone. Together they cleaned up, working as a team as though they’d been doing it for years.

“Shall I walk you home?” Dru asked once they’d finished. His question sounded as if he was about fourteen years old.

“Only if you carry my books,” Rebecca replied.

Chuckling softly, they left the apartment and started walking down the drive to the old caretaker’s cottage. Rebecca was hyperaware of Dru. Though he didn’t touch her, she felt electric.

The night was magnificent. Pale moonlight filtered through the old oaks draped with Spanish moss. There was a soft murmur, which Rebecca took to be the river. Around them the night had fallen silent, peaceful, serene.

They were almost at the caretaker’s cottage, both still silent, when the sound of a crying baby seemed to come from nowhere—and everywhere.

“Go inside,” Dru said softly, indicating the caretaker’s cottage. “Lock the door, Rebecca.”

“But—”

“No buts. Someone’s out here.”

“I’ll come with you,” she said, suddenly aware of the gun that had materialized in his hand.

“No, stay inside and lock the door. Don’t come out.”

He wasn’t asking her, he was telling her. She slipped away from his side, over the porch and into the cottage. She knew enough not to flip on the light as she watched Dru disappear into the shadows of the trees, a shadow himself, but one moving fast and holding a deadly weapon.

MORE THAN DANGER, Dru felt total aggravation. He had no doubt that Randall Levert was behind all of this. Randall. A total idiot. The man had skated out of prison because of his willingness to rat out his partner. Now that he’d gained his freedom, he should be smart enough to stay away from Blackthorn and his foolish pranks.

Dru slipped into the woods. It was almost impossible to tell what direction the crying was coming from. Sound echoed and reverberated against the huge old trees. Pausing to listen, he thought he heard someone running fast through the underbrush.

He gave chase, ignoring the tiny limbs that whipped against his arms and face. He kept his attention focused solely on the sounds of the running person.

He thought he’d lost the runner, but then he heard a twig snap to his right. The intruder was much closer than Dru had thought. He bolted right just as someone ran out from beneath a huge wild magnolia. The bright moonlight came through a hole in the canopy of tree limbs, illuminating the runner’s pale shirt.

“Police!” Dru called. “Halt! Police! Stop, or I’ll shoot.”

Damn! The guy took off sprinting again.

Dru turned on the speed, his own body skimming over the fallen limbs and trees and tangle of briars. He’d been a long-distance track runner in high school, and he’d kept up his running habits as part of his regimen. Although the woods were an aggravation, he could see that he was gaining on the man.

“Halt!” he called again. “I’m going to shoot.”

When the man gave no indication of slacking his pace, Dru shot. There was an explosion of bark just above the runner’s head and the man came to a screeching halt. By the time Dru got to him, he was standing with his hands over his head, his chest heaving.

The crying of the baby had ceased.

“You’re under arrest for trespassing, among other things,” Dru said as he walked up and patted the man down.

“I’m not trespassing,” the man said. “Who the hell are you?”

“Sheriff Dru Colson, and you’re under arrest. These woods are private property. They’re also not the place for foolish practical jokes involving crying babies.”

“I know, man, that nearly freaked me out. But I’m not trespassing. I work for Brett Gibson. I’m his dig coordinator.”

Dru frowned and stepped back. “You’re what?”

“The dig coordinator. At a dig, a lot of different sites get going sometimes. Someone has to coordinate all the levels, mark all the artifacts that are dug up and generally make sure the different strata of the dig are marked and examined. You know, it’s happened before that someone planted valuable artifacts in a mound, hoping to claim some kind of government benefit. I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”