Page 37 of Clearly Charmed

‘But you kept her out of jail.’

He gave a sad nod, a reddish-gold lock of hair falling onto his forehead. ‘But I also blew apart what she believed was real.’

He went silent, rubbing the edges of the worn paper between his strong fingers. ‘That’s enough of a downer for today. Have you found anything?’

There was a hitch to his shoulders. A sharp cadence to his breath. He was holding something back, but I’d learned from Lia that when you pushed people for answers they weren’t ready to give, they shut down. ‘No. Nothing yet.’

He grabbed another book and went back to studying the pages.

I forced my attention back to my own reading about the town in 1873. It provided a few interesting details about Harvest Moon. How it was first incorporated by Norton Rothwell, a pioneer who wanted to settle the land for himself and his family. Other pioneers quickly followed, believing the area was lucrative for mining. Eventually Rothwell became a leader, being elected the town’s first mayor. From what I’d gleaned from Grandpa Beau before he’d passed, the McGuires came to town ten years later, escaping a challenging life in the Scottish Highlands.

Over the next years, the town swelled as silver was discovered in places like Leadville, Silverton and Aspen.

As we read, the stairs to the second floor creaked. Ruthie’s scrutinizing stare appeared at the top of the landing like she was expecting Bryce to have me spread out on the table naked. The thought alone had me fanning myself.

‘Are you warm?’ He started to move from window to window. ‘I can crack one of these open if you need it.’

‘Bryce, I’m fine.’

I waved him back to the table, as Ruthie disappeared back down the stairs. He picked up another book, and I focused back on the one in front of me dated 1875. I flipped page after page. When I reached the last entry, I closed the back cover. An odd swell in the center of the leather had me flipping to the inside back page again.

Bryce’s phone rang and he glanced at the screen. ‘It’s my mom. I have to take this.’

I shooed him away like it was fine, and he moved to a quiet back corner of the room. As soon as he was distracted, I ran my hand over the back page. Along the edges, there was an odd, faded yellow stitching. I worked a fingernail under the threads until I had most of it loosened. Sliding my hand into the open pocket, my fingers skidded over rough material. I gently tugged, and a cracked leather journal no bigger than my hand came out.

With Bryce still talking to his mother, I opened the front cover. The scrawled script inside the first page noted the journal had belonged to Roy Naylor, the town’s sheriff. The writing was muted with age but still legible. Most of the entries covered the town’s day-to-day activities.

I continued to skim the pages, until my gaze snagged on an entry that mentioned a small fire at the town’s new mercantile. It was a basic story, but what caught my attention was the name of the owner, Jeremiah Bristow, who had a fiancée named Ambrosia Perkins. I closed my eyes, picturing the sepia-toned photo in Clo’s house. The young woman standing in front of the apothecary. A solid set to her shoulders, and a determined fire in her eyes.

The entry stated that the back half of the building caught fire, and that, luckily, the volunteer fire brigade, along with a horse-drawn water pump, had managed to extinguish the blaze. It was a simple statement of facts until the final line.

When questioned, Mr Bristow swore the stove in the backroom had never been lit. That the last person in the building was his fiancée, Miss Ambrosia Perkins.

My gaze flew to the next part of the entry.

Miss Perkins is the daughter of Sylvia and the late Francis Perkins, known to have been one of the wealthiest miners in town until his passing, leaving several businesses, including the apothecary, to his wife and daughter.

I flipped forward several pages looking for any other mention of Ambrosia, but there was nothing recorded until seven months later.

Mr Jeremiah Bristow spent a night in jail after several witnesses claimed he struck a barmaid at the Harvest Moon saloon. Mr Bristow was released the following day into the care of his wife, Ambrosia, who is carrying their first child.

The following pages outlined more of the town’s history. The continued influx of miners. How a local hotel opened up Harvest Moon’s first restaurant. I continued to leaf through the journal until another entry, dated March 2, 1876, made me grip the pages.

Mr Jeremiah Bristow, aged thirty-three, and owner of the local mercantile, perished in a house fire. The blaze ignited in a bedroom, but no source could be found. I questioned his wife, Ambrosia, who could not explain how the fire broke out. I must indicate his death as an accident, even as people in town state there are other, darker, more sinister, forces at work in the home. That Ambrosia and her mother, Sylvia, were connected to the fire in some way. I questioned both women several times due to the scrutiny and fear running rampant about the town. The two women answered my questions without any hint of emotion, which I found suspicious. Though she tried to hide it with her clothing, bruises were apparent on the young widow’s wrists and neck. The owners of the mines and several local business owners insisted I arrest Ambrosia. Declared that she was the only one with a motive to kill him. The town was eager for blood, convinced Ambrosia and her mother used devilish powers that caused Mr Bristow’s demise, but I’ve found no proof of such a claim and have closed the matter.

I shut the journal as the blood quickened in my veins. Bryce said his goodbyes to his mother, and I scrambled to tuck the journal under my right leg.

‘Find anything?’ He slid onto the seat next to me, my heart thudding so loudly I was convinced he could hear it.

‘No,’ I lied. ‘Just more general details about the town right after its incorporation. How a saloon was built. A mercantile. A few other buildings, including an opera house that was meant to add culture to a town overflowing with dance halls, saloons and gambling dens.’

I yanked another book off the pile, forcing several other archives to crash onto the floor. Bryce scrambled around the table to pick them up. I feigned surprise and bent to my knees, swiping the journal into my bag, before setting a few of the books back on the table.

‘Maybe you shouldn’t stack them so high next time,’ I said as Bryce adjusted the books into smaller piles.

‘You’re right.’ He gave me a smile so genuine that it made guilt twist in my gut for hiding the journal.

He went back to his seat, and I pretended to immerse myself in the next text. Even as I studied the pages, I couldn’t get the images of Ambrosia and her mother out of my head. When I was a child, my grandparents often squabbled behind closed doors about bloodlines and family history. I always thought it was because of Belladonna’s rebellious behavior, but now I wondered if there might be more to it.