Page 16 of Cheyenne

Then Micah reached out and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. “You can trust me.”

She looked at his hand, then pulled hers back. “For the week? You won’t report that I’m looking for gold?”

He nodded. “I won’t. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

His lip tugged up. “I want to be part of it. Complete transparency.”

Cheyenne sighed. “Okay, but you gave me a spit handshake. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t.”

Opening her father’s journal, she pointed to a hand-drawn picture of the church. “Holy Trinity Church,” she said, her voicesoft. “My dad drew this, and at the bottom, he included these little skulls.”

Micah took the journal gingerly, studying the sketch. “Okay … I don’t recognize the skulls, though.”

Cheyenne took the notebook back and gazed at the church. “I did some research. This church is one of several in South Carolina built with catacombs underneath. Slave-owning families buried their loved ones in tidy coffins down there, but the enslaved people were often buried in unmarked graves alongside them.”

Micah grimaced. “That’s awful.”

She nodded. “Look at the crest my dad drew here—the eagle surrounded by palm trees. That same crest was on the painting recovered in Kentucky.”

Micah studied the notebook again, frowning. “You’re right. I see that crest on the wall every day back at the inn where all the treasure-hunting stuff is displayed. I never thought much of it.”

Cheyenne’s heart raced. “What if there’s something beneath this church? Something connected to the gold?”

Micah shook his head; she could see he was still processing this. “We’ve always assumed we know where the gold went—through my family to yours, then out into the market through people like Ms. Connie and Kelly Hamilton’s parents. But you’re saying there might be more?”

Cheyenne waved her hands. “Exactly. We know my dad and your grandfather melted down twenty bars of gold and laundered the coins, but what if there’s more? What if they purposely hid some of it?”

Micah tugged at a piece of his hair, a habit that made him look unexpectedly boyish. His sparkling brown eyes met hers, and he smiled. “So you think they left a bigger cache of gold hidden somewhere—possibly here?”

Cheyenne felt a thrill at being taken seriously for once. “Yes! I’ve tried telling my brothers my theories, but they’ve always been too focused on the missile silos or Ed Peters or Mr. Banks. I don’t think anyone’s ever truly pieced together what my father and your grandfather were doing. Sure, they melted down twenty bars of gold, but that doesn’t mean that was all of it. What if they wanted to keep the rest hidden, safe?”

Micah was running a hand over his chin now, deep in thought. “It would make sense. Everyone assumes the gold was always together—this massive treasure hoard. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe there was more, and they intentionally kept it small, splitting it up to avoid detection.”

Cheyenne couldn’t help but laugh, a mix of nerves and excitement. She gestured toward the church. “So … want to figure out how to get into the catacombs?”

Micah let out a long breath, then grinned. “I’m guessing you have a plan?”

Her mouth was dry, but she nodded. “Most churches have stairs beneath the altar leading to the crypts. It probably hasn’t been opened in years, though. We’ll have to be careful. If anyone asks what we’re doing …”

Micah smirked, holding out his hand. “Stick with me. I’ve got an idea.”

Cheyenne placed her hand in his, feeling a strange sense of comfort. Their eyes met, and she knew she was in trouble. Big trouble. Because falling for Micah Jamison was the last thing she needed.

CHAPTER 8

Micah

Micah wasn’t sure how he’d ended up chasing rumors of conquistador gold, but here he was, stepping into an old church with Cheyenne’s hand in his. For the first time in a long time, he felt a thrill—not just for the treasure hunt, but for her. He wasn’t about to admit it, but the way her fingers intertwined with his made the whole crazy endeavor worth it.

The church was dim, lit only by flickering candles. His eyes adjusted to the shadowy interior, and he let out a low whistle at the sheer history steeped into every corner.

“This place is ancient,” he muttered, his voice echoing in the cavernous building.

Cheyenne leaned close, pointing toward the massive cross at the center. “That’s the slaves’ cross,” she whispered, as though speaking louder might disturb the sanctity of the place.

---