Chloe sneezed for the third time in as many minutes, then laughed at herself. “Sorry, baby. Your mama chose this.”
The basement room holding the archives had been much larger than she expected—rows of metal shelving stuffed with boxes, loose papers bundled with twine, ledgers stacked in precarious towers. She’d barely made a start on it the previous day, only enough to discover that, judging by the faded labels, someone had made a halfhearted attempt at organization decades ago, but time and neglect had undone whatever system once existed.
Probably for the best. A blank slate was easier to deal with than someone else’s confusion.
She’d dressed for warmth this morning—soft navy maternity overalls over a cream sweater, her hair twisted up in a floral scarf, and comfortable flats that wouldn’t protest hours of standing. The baby had been restless all night, rolling andstretching, and she had given up on sleep around five to bake muffins and plan her attack on the chaos.
Although she’d expected to wake up stiff and sore, Victor’s gentle massage seemed to have done the trick. Other than the faint ache under her ribs where the baby liked to kick, she felt surprisingly well.
I need a massage like that every night, she thought, then blushed as she immediately imagined those big firm hands on other parts of her body.Stop it.It wasn’t as if a devastatingly handsome man like Victor would be interested in an ungainly pregnant woman—except she was quite sure that his hands had wanted to linger.
She was equally sure that he wasn’t human. His eyes had flashed a bright, unnatural green when she refused to give up her job, and the ease with which he’d carried her up the stairs argued a strength far beyond most human males. The knowledge didn’t bother her. He’d already shown more concern for her—in his arrogant, overbearing way—than Travis ever had.
She sighed and forced her thoughts back to the task in front of her, organizing her notebook and pens on the massive desk that had been waiting for her that morning, along with a comfortable rolling chair and an antique desk lamp. Houston must have arranged for them to be delivered overnight. Eventually she would set up a database to store the information, but for the initial phase, she liked the flexibility of pen and paper.
“Chronological makes sense,” she murmured, crossing over to one of the shelves and running her fingers along the variety of haphazardly labeled boxes. “Town founding to present. Cross-reference by subject and family name.”
Her organizational brain hummed with pleasure. She loved a project with clear parameters, visible progress, and tangible results. No disappointing ex-boyfriends. No judgmental family asking when she’d get her life together. No pitying looks. Just her, the baby, and a century of Fairhaven Falls history.
She pulled down the nearest box and settled it carefully onto a long folding work table. The cardboard lid released a fresh cloud of dust before revealing a jumble of papers—receipts, correspondence, what looked like meeting minutes from 1923.
“We’ll create order from this,” she promised the baby. “Just like we’re creating order with everything else.”
The first hour passed in pleasant absorption. She created rough sorting piles on the table: official documents, personal correspondence, business records, miscellaneous. Her back ached a little, so she stood and stretched, one hand supporting her lower spine, the other resting on her bump.
The baby kicked. Hard.
“I know, I know. You want to move.” She walked between the shelves, studying the labels. “How about we explore while we work?”
A box near the back caught her eye. The label had faded to illegibility, but something about it pulled at her. She walked past it, then turned around and walked back. Unable to resist, she reached up, misjudged the weight, and nearly dropped it before getting it secured against her chest.
“Careful,” she scolded herself. “Victor would probably have opinions about pregnant women lifting things.”
Victor.
Her cheeks warmed again at the thought of him. Those careful hands on her skin. The way his eyes had gone soft at the sound of the baby’s heartbeat. The way he’d cradled her against his chest as he carried her up the stairs. And that flash of green—unmistakable proof he was Other, though she couldn’t guess what kind.
Stop it.She wasn’t here for romance. She was here for a fresh start that didn’t include complications. Even ridiculously handsome complications who growled orders at her but touched her like she was precious.
She opened the box and froze. A well-worn leather-bound journal
The journal sat on top, leather-bound and well-worn, with the name Dr. Thaddeus Jackson embossed on the cover in gold leaf. The date beneath it read 1891. One of Victor’s ancestors? The name Jackson was common enough, but she was convinced there was a connection. Her fingers hovered uncertainly over the cover for a moment—it was clearly a personal document, and she had plenty of official records to sort through—but she couldn’t resist opening it.
The handwriting was precise and controlled, almost mechanical. She could easily imagine Victor writing the same way. Clinical notes filled the first pages— treatments and diagnoses, births and deaths, all recorded with careful detail.
But then another entry caught her eye, the writing less controlled.I fear I do not have the strength my father possessed. The discipline required to control the guardian grows more demanding with each passing year.
Guardian?
She frowned, flipping forward through the journal. A section of medical notes was followed by another personal entry.Thomas came to town to visit and I found myself jealous. His burden seems lighter than mine. Perhaps his bloodline breeds stronger vessels. I pray young Robert inherits his grandfather’s control rather than my weakness.
There was that word again—control. Was that why Victor seemed so disciplined? Did the Other in his family line require it?
She hesitated, unsure if she should continue reading, but then another line jumped out at her.
Miss Bennington attended the Miller birth. Her skill continues to impress. She has a gift for easing difficult labors, though some whisper it is more than mere skill. The old knowledge, perhaps, passed through her line. I am grateful for her presence in our community.
Her hand froze on the page. Miss Bennington, a midwife. In Fairhaven Falls. In 1891. Was that where her family connection with the town had begun? She carefully set the journal aside carefully and dug through the rest of the box. Birth records, death certificates, correspondence between Dr. Jackson and various patients, and at the bottom of the box, a letter addressed to Miss Clara Bennington, Midwife.
