Page 8 of How to Annoy a Mountain Man

She was surrounded by random notes and photocopies, flipping through the book in front of her as she spoke.

Now that I was paying attention, the mystery of the nameless grave was pulling me in.

I’d always liked history, well everyone’s history but my own.

Briar had already piqued my interest with one thing she’d said last night at the cemetery. About how a person’s name is part of who they are. About how if it wasn’t important someone wouldn’t have taken it away.

I understood that in a way. I’d been running from my own name, or fighting against it, for most of my life.

In the small town I grew up in, my last name meant something.

And not in the way that the last names Carnegie or Rockefeller meant something.

My last name meant trouble.

So I had moved somewhere that it didn’t mean anything, and started over. Effectively erasing my own past in order to build the future I wanted. Briar was fighting to give this person their past back. Her goal hit some place deep inside and made me more invested in this whole thing than I should have been.

My job was to keep people out of the cemetery. Instead, I was sitting here watching this strange woman get more and more passionate about the mystery.

“Interesting speculation, but that’s all this is. How are you going to find out who this person was and why this happened?”

She sighed, and thought for a moment, the sound of the fluorescent light burning overhead.

“Marriage, birth, and death records for the people who I know are buried there. If I find that a family had five children and only four are in the cemetery, maybe the nameless grave belongs to number five. Then I can investigate their life.”

I nodded.

It made sense.

What didn’t make sense was why I was still sitting here, legs crammed under an old wooden table surrounded by the smell of books.

I needed to know what she was up to in order to do my job.

I didn’t need to sit here and watch her chew her bottom lip while she researched witchcraft of all things.

Yet here I was, pissed at myself for caring, but not able to stop.

The person buried six feet under wasn’t me or anyone I knew, and it wasn’t relevant to my assignment. My desire to be around Briar when I should be keeping a professional distance was very relevant and a damn problem.

“You have names and dates?”

Briar glanced up from the book in front of her. She moved things around on the table before pushing a dirt streaked piece of paper across the table towards me. “They’re in order from left to right starting in the corner closest to the trail leading in.”

I scanned the list. “Pen?”

She pushed a notebook and pen across the scared table, the sound it made loud in the quiet library. I may not be a historian, but I spent eight hours last night scanning every inch of the place. I could map out the stones and maybe the visual, rather than a long list, would tell us something about who was likely in the unnamed grave.

Briar dragged her chair closer to mine until our knees bumped under the table as I sketched the site from memory.

The smell of her perfume surrounded me and the heat of her shoulder bled into mine. Her smell reminded me of roses and vanilla. The classic combination fit her perfectly.

“So?” She said, and I realized I was sitting there sniffing her like a weirdo and refocused on what was in front of me.

“Looks like families were buried together. Assuming this person wasn’t accused of brewing up potions until after death, they are likely buried next to family.”

Briar snatched the paper from my hand and compared it to her list of names. “Makes it pretty clear who we’re looking for. Someone from the Smith family.”

She tapped her fingers against her chin.