Page 9 of Kissing My Mountain Man

So much for working to keep this place preserved as we found it.

“Nope.” I pull it out of the hole I’ve made. “Just my pride.”

Landry chuckles and rests her hand on my arm. The simple touch sends a jolt of electricity through my body. But if she felt it too, she’s hiding it better than me as she bends down to look into the hole.

“I think there’s something in there.” She points.

We both lean down for a closer look. I reach in and pull at the remainder of the broken floorboard. It creaks from the force before the rusty old nail gives way, and I set the broken floorboard piece to the side. Landry reaches into the hole.

“There’s definitely something in here,” she confirms, but whatever it is, it’s too big to come out.

I grab the next floorboard and yank hard. This one comes up much easier. I set it down with the other piece as Landry pulls out the metal tin. She pushes to her feet and rushes over to the door for better light. I follow her out.

Landry tries to open the tin box, but the metal has oxidized a bit, sealing it shut.

“It won’t open.” She looks up at me, her eyes searching for me to give her some sort of answer.

I pull my arms out of my hiking pack and pull out the knife I keep inside. Landry hands me the box, and I use the tip to pry it open. It takes a few minutes but eventually, the lid gives way, but I don’t open it.

“Here,” I say, handing the box back to her.

This is Landry’s discovery and history, not mine.

“You do the honors.” I nod to the box.

She bites down on her lower lip, and my cock twitches with excitement, but this isn’t the time or place for any thoughts about what it would be like to bite on that lip myself.

Tentatively Landry lifts the lid, and we both see a yellowing piece of fabric folded inside.

Landry’s hand holding the box begins to shake, maybe from adrenaline or perhaps something else. But I reach up and steady it with mine.

“Clara was probably the last person to have seen what’s inside,” Landry whispers.

“Then I guess it’s good that someone from her family is the one to open it.”

Tears brim in Landry’s eyes, but they don’t fall until she blinks. I reach up and use my thumb to wipe them away. The corners of her mouth lift, but there is still sadness in her eyes.

I take the box from Landry’s hand and hold it for her. She lifts out the cloth and peels back one corner. It appears to be a handkerchief with the letters “JM” embroidered into the corner. As she pulls back the other side, we find a tintype photo of a man and woman inside.

Landry gasps. “That’s Clara Bishop.”

We both lean closer to get a better look. The familiar heart-shaped face and dark eyes in the tintype match the woman standing next to me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that this was Landry.

“She’s beautiful,” Landry says.

I look over at her, watching her as she studies the image of her ancestor. “Yes, she is.”

Pride beams in the smile she flashes up at me, but I want to say that it’s really her that I’m talking about, not Clara.

“I wonder who the man is?” she asks. “Clara was never married.”

She hands me the tintype to look closer. The two are standing back-to-back with their faces turned toward the camera. It’s an unusual pose for the time it was taken, but then again, Clara Bishop was often one to buck traditions.

“Maybe this will give you some answers,” I say, holding up the box to show Landry the leather-bound journal inside. She strokes her fingers over the worn, cracking cover and lifts it out of the tin.

Ever the careful historian, she slowly unbinds the journal strap with the leather strap wrapped around it several times. She takes a deep breath before opening the cover.

I watch as elation rushes out of her when she flips open the journal. The pure excitement she’s experiencing is infectious, as her lips move as she reads to herself.

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