Home of Mickey Minner

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

CHAPTER ONE

1683 – Maplewood Settlement, Colonial New Hampshire

“It’s time.”

Sarah nodded but remained seated on the hard cot that had served as her bed for the past several weeks. With sad, tearless eyes, she watched the guard kneel and insert a key into the lock that secured thick chain to the heavy shackles to her ankles, the skin worn raw by the rough metal. The chain clanked loudly as its links was pulled free of the iron ring bolted to the log floor.

“Stand.”

Sarah obeyed the order. She didn’t feel like refusing this morning. After all, it would do nothing but momentarily delay the inevitable. Shuffling as best she could on painful legs, Sarah moved toward the door where two more guards waited, one holding a twisted piece of cloth in his beefy hand. She didn’t have to question why it was necessary to silence her for she knew her enemies in the village were determined that she not have any opportunity to speak the truth that she knew. Sarah stopped before the two men and waited for them to perform their ugly duty.

“This will make it easy on everyone. No one wants to hear any more of your lies.”

She felt muscular fingers clamp onto her arms and tightened until she felt like screaming. The gag was forced into her mouth and tied tightly at the back of her head. Then the men stepped back away from her.

“Let’s go.”

She didn’t move. Her head slowly rotated as her she looked into the face of each of her tormentors, her eyes conveying her thoughts of pain, anger and frustration. Why would no one listen to her? Why was she being made to suffer for the crimes of another? These were men she had known all her life. They had played together as children. They had worked side-by-side in the fields tending to the village’s crops. One had even courted her. Yet here they were about to lead her to her death and not one of them dared to even speak her name. Her eyes met theirs and saw nothing but hate and disgust reflected back at her. Her shoulders slumped.

But Sarah was determined to face her imminent demise displaying the dignity, confidence and self-respect she had shown her whole life. She straightened her frail body, squaring her shoulders and lifting her head high. The fire returned to her eyes and she took a strong stride forward. Then another. And another. Without looking back to see if her guards were following, Sarah marched out into the morning sunlight where a crowd of villagers waited.

Sarah lay in the bottom of a shallow pit, the cold from the exposed soil seeped into her back but she didn’t notice. It wouldn’t have mattered if she had. Waiting for her punishment to be delivered, she looked skyward wanting that vision to remind her of the beauty she had experienced during her shortened life. Her view was abruptly and permanently blocked when a board four feet wide and six feet long was placed on top of her.

“Who will be first?”

Sarah heard the words and knew it had begun. At first, she only heard the sounds of stones being placed on the board. But as stone after stone was added, their combined weight began to press down forcing the rough wood into her soft skin. In a futile attempt to keep her mind from focusing on the pain that was increasing with each passing moment, she tried to withdraw memories of happier times from her frightened mind. But each added stone made thinking more difficult and it wasn’t long before it was all she could do to force much needed air into her compressed lungs. She needed to scream but her attempts were foiled. The gag, still in her mouth, made both breathing and screaming impossible.

It seemed like an eternity before Sarah’s world went black. And still stones were piled on top of her until finally…

“It is done.”

“Now what?”

“Leave her for sunset. Any who might care can bury her under cover of the dark so her evil need not be seen again. None are to speak her name again.”

“As you wish.”

2006 - Northbrook, New Hampshire

“Damn.” Sitting at her desk in her cramped office, Bridget Donovan finished reading the crisp sheets of paper held in the thin binder. The sheets were scanned pages from a late 17^th century diary.

“What?”

“I can’t believe they did that to her.”

“Did what to who? Or is that whom?”

“Not funny, Ted.” She glared at the occupant of the second desk crammed into the small office.

“Was to me. What are you so upset about?”

“Did you or did you not give me this diary to read?”

“What diary? Oh, you mean that one the main office sent us.”

“Yes.”

“What about it?”

“Did you read it?”

“No. That’s what I have you for.”

“You should.”

“Should what?”

“Read it. Damn it, aren’t you listening to me?”

“I’m listening. I just can’t figure out what the hell you’re talking about. Is there something in that diary worth us spending time on?”

“I don’t know. Do you think a woman being pressed to death is something our readers might be interested in?”

“Depends. What does ‘being pressed to death’ mean?”

“You are forced to lie on the ground, a board is placed on top of you and rocks are piled on top of the board until you suffocate or your internal organs are crushed and you bleed to death. Did anyone ever tell you that for an editor of a history magazine, you have a real limited knowledge?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, you do quite frequently.”

“Doesn’t seem to have much effect.”

“Sure doesn’t. My specialty is military history, remember? You’re the expert on the more domestic stuff. And I’m only a feature editor, I’m not the big Kahoona, you know.” Ted smirked but he could see his office mate was in no mood for his normal facetious attitude. “Okay, who was the woman and why was she pressed to death? And why should History of Colonial America care?”

“Sarah Goodson. She lived in the settlement of Maplewood and it seems she had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, the diary is a little short of facts. In some ways, it almost seems as if it was started by one person and finished by another.” Bridget had noticed that the early entries were written in a delicate script and contained lengthy descriptions of village occupants and daily life. While the entries made after Sarah’s arrest and captivity were written in a bolder script and described events with little additional comment. The final entry had been exceptionally short: She is passed Her name is no more.

“Isn’t there a Maplewood Village north of here?”

“Yes. Quaint little town not far from the Mohawk River.”

“Any chance it could be the same place?”

“Possibly. The description of the area is a good fit. I could check and see if the Village records go back to the 1600s.”

“If they do, is there enough of a story to interest our readers?”

“Sarah was pressed to death. Don’t you think that, in and of itself, would interest them?” The magazine she wrote for, History of Colonial America, provided glimpses into the life of the founders of present day New England cities and towns.

“Not really.”

“She was innocent. She had done nothing wrong. Ted, we have to tell her story.”

He looked across their desks. Pulling his thick glasses off his face, he rubbed the bridge of his nose that always seemed to have a sore spot no matter how light the frames he purchased. “Am I missing something?” He asked as he replaced the bifocals. “Why are you so… I don’t know, so distressed over this?”

“It’s not right what was done to her. She did nothing wrong.” Bridget said as she looked at the book still held in her hands. “And after she was executed, her name was forbidden to be spoken ever again.”

“That happened to a lot of people. Look at the Salem Witch trials.”

“But the wrongs committed against those innocent have been righted. We know they were wrongly accused and put to death. Sarah deserves the same. And the one who committed the murder should be named. And the others that allowed an innocent woman to die like that. It’s has to be done.”

“Bridget, let’s get real here. All these people died four hundred years ago. It’s not like we have a murderer running loose. There probably aren’t any of their descendents around either or very few of them. Who’s going to care?”

Carefully, almost reverently, Bridget placed the notebook on the top of her desk then she pushed her chair back. Standing, she walked the two steps to the windowed wall of the office.

The office was on the third floor of a five story building located in the downtown area of Northbrook. The one good feature of the magazine’s branch office was the view. Bridget had an unobstructed view of Simms Stream flowing into the Connecticut River. She stood looking out the window for several minutes.

Ted waited patiently. He knew his friend’s habits and knew she was sifting through her thoughts, picking out just the right ones that would convince him the story was worth pursuing.

“Have you ever been asleep?” Bridget finally spoke in a soft voice. “Deep asleep. But for some unknown reason you wake up. You try to move but your arms and legs refuse to follow your commands. It’s almost as if something very heavy is pressing down against you, preventing you from moving. From breathing.” She turned away from the window but leaned back against it. “Have you ever felt that?”

Ted sat quietly, trying to imagine what Bridget was describing.

“I have. And I can tell you, it’s one of the worst feelings I’ve ever had. But, as I became more fully awake, I realized it wasn’t real. I could move my legs and arms. I could breath. But imagine what it must have been like for Sarah.”

Ted shuddered at the thought. It wasn’t a voluntary reaction and it sent chills down his spine.

“Imagine hearing the sound of rocks being placed on the board. Imagine the weight increasing and the board pressing down on her body. Imagine the pain. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even scream. She could do nothing but wait until death finally claimed her.”

“It must have been awful.” Ted felt his stomach roiled as he imagined the agony of Sarah’s last minutes of life.

“It must have been more than awful. And to know that she had done nothing to deserve such an horrendous death.” Bridget stepped away from the window. Placing her hands, palms down, on her desk, she looked straight into her editor’s eyes. “I have to write her story, Ted. I have to.”

Ted’s head was nodding in agreement even before Bridget finished. “See what you can find out. You said the diary was a little short of facts. You’ll need to find enough to flesh out the story.”

“I’ll find it. Sarah deserves no less.”

Bridget took her usual route, turning right out of the office parking lot and driving toward Highway 3 and north of town where she lived in a two hundred year old house on five acres of wooded land. She had spent the past several hours searching the internet for everything she could find on colonial settlements in the Great North Woods region of New Hampshire.

By the time Bridget shut off her desk lamp and prepared to call it a day, her back was stiff and her eyes burned but she had found little on Maplewood Village and nothing on Sarah Goodson. The woman’s name did not appear on any of the population lists of colonial villages. Nor did she appear in any of the state’s birth and death records dating back to the late 15^th century. It was as if Sarah had never existed. But the diary was proof of the opposite.

As she drove, Bridget could not get the image of Sarah’s final moments of life out of her head. She ran through the events described in the diary hoping she could fill in some of the missing pieces.

The first part of the diary had been written in first person and had begun when Sarah celebrated her fourteenth birthday and received the diary as a gift from her mother. It told of long days toiling in the settlement’s fields tending to the crops with the other young boys and girls her age. Of carrying buckets of water from the nearby river to fill the large kettles used to wash the family’s clothes; of rising before daylight to help her mother prepare the morning meal and of spending the last hours of daylight cleaning up after the evening meal. In the Puritan village, hard work took up most of Sarah’s day leaving little time for her to play with the other children. She would write in the diary just before going to bed and only until her father commanded that the candle flame be blown out to save the wax for the next dark night.

It was in the summer of Sarah’s nineteenth year that the “misfortune” began. That was how Sarah described the events leading to her imprisonment. And it was when Sarah’s entries became less frequent and less informative. It started less than a year after one of her childhood friend’s was married to a farmer in a nearby village. The man owned several parcels of land, many of which shared a common boundary with a farmer in Sarah’s village. The men did not get along but Sarah never wrote as to the cause of their animosity. Then one night, the husband of Sarah’s friend was murdered.

That is when the handwriting of the entries changed from Sarah’s delicate script to that written by a heavier hand. And that is when the diary entries become shorter and much less informative.

Bridget’s focus returned to the road and she realized she had driven right past the long dirt driveway to her house. She had no trouble getting her bearings as this was a road she drove often, taking many weekend trips to the area to enjoy the fall colors. She looked up ahead and recognized the sign announcing the turnoff to the meandering secondary highway that led to Maplewood Village.

She thought of turning around. After all, by the time she reached Maplewood it would be too late to do anything. The courthouse would be locked tight for the night and few, if any, of the unique shops and antique stores would be open along the town’s main street. But then, tucked in the car’s trunk was the packed overnight bag she always carried. She had her laptop in her briefcase and, resting beside it, the diary. And Maplewood had its share of bed and breakfast establishments.

Bridget made up her mind as the highway crossed the Mohawk River. She would drive into Maplewood Village and look for a place to spend the night. If she found one, she could start her search first thing in the morning. If not, she would drive back home and try again the next day.

CHAPTER TWO

Bridget slowly woke, her brain taking its time to register her surroundings as her eyes fluttered open. The bed was not her own and the room was unknown to her. She groaned, rolling onto her side to get her face out of the morning sunlight beaming through an uncovered window.

The night before, Bridget had driven into Maplewood Village to discover most of the shops and cafes had already closed. Seeing a man walking along the sidewalk in the direction of one of the village’s bed and breakfasts, she had taken the chance that it was the proprietor returning from an evening walk. Happily, she had been correct and quickly arranged for a room.

The smell of fresh coffee and grilling bacon set Bridget’s stomach rumbling and she tossed the quilt covering her to the side. Swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress, she sat up rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Yawning, she looked around the room, something she had not taken the time to do before preferring to just crawl into bed and allow her tired body and exhausted mind to rest.

The bedroom was simply furnished with the double bed in the center of the room. On each side of the head of the bed a night stand was placed with a lamp within easy reach. Tucked into a corner at the front of the room, a short chest provided three drawers for guests to place their clothing. A bowl and water pitcher was placed on top of the chest and hand towels had been laid out beside them. Except for a single straight back chair, the room held no other furnishings, not even a television or phone. Not that she was expecting them but she did wonder how many guests would be disappointed by their absence.

Standing, Bridget padded over to the chest where she had left her overnight bag. She retrieved her shirt and pants from the chair, pulling them back on then snatching up her bag she headed for the bathroom at the end of the hall hoping she would find it empty.

“Good morning, Ms. Donovan,” a women in her mid-forties greeted Bridget cheerfully when she entered the dining room. She had spoken briefly to the wife of the proprietor when she had filled out the registration card for her room.

“Good morning, Mrs. Nolen.” Bridget sat in the first available chair. “Please, call me Bridget.”

“Coffee?” The woman nodded in agreement to the request while asking her own question.

“Please.”

“You’re an early riser. Our other guests won’t be up for at least another hour.”

“I don’t like sleeping in,” Bridge said while she added a spoonful of sugar to her coffee cup. “Especially when I have work to do.”

“Oh. And what would that be, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all. May I?” Bridget reached for the platter of scrambled eggs and bacon. “This all smells so good, I’m afraid if I don’t feed my stomach soon you’ll be able to hear it rumbling all the way to Boston.”

“Please,” the woman laughed. “Help yourself. It tastes a lot better when it’s hot. Something the others rarely enjoy.”

“They’re loss,” Bridget placed a large helping of the eggs and several slices of bacon on her plate. She added two slices of raisin toast and a piece of ham then settled back to enjoy the breakfast.

“I see you have a healthy appetite.”

“Sorry, I didn’t eat very much yesterday and I’m suddenly very hungry. If there’s a limit…”

“Heavens no. Eat all you want. I can always make more. It’s nice to have someone who enjoys my cooking.”

“It’s very good,” Bridget said after swallowing a mouthful of eggs. “Very good.”

“Thank you,” the woman smiled. “We don’t usually get too many visitors who come to the Village to work.”

“I suppose not.” Bridget was aware of Maplewood Village’s reputation as a tourist destination and most of the community’s commerce was based on seeing to the needs of the tourists. “I’m a reporter.”

“A reporter,” the woman gasped in surprise. “Oh my, there hasn’t been any serious crime in these parts in I can’t remember how long.”

Bridget laughed. “Not that kind of reporter. I write for a history magazine, History of Colonial America, I doubt you’ve heard of it.”

“On the contrary, I’m a subscriber. Wait a minute, Bridget Donovan? I knew I had seen that name before. I’ve read many of your stories; you’re a very good writer.”

“Thank you.” Bridget smiled. She didn’t meet too many people that actually knew of the magazine and even fewer that had read it. “I’m hoping to find some information in the Village records about a young woman who may have lived around here in the 1680s. Sarah Goodson.”

“Oh.” The woman sat and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Any particular reason?”

Bridget grinned at the woman’s rather obvious attempt to find out the details of her research. “The magazine has found a journal she may have written. I’m hoping to find information to prove the validity of the journal.” She saw no need to tell the woman the real reason she was looking for Sarah. “I’m hoping the Village records can help. What time does the town hall open?”

“Nine. But you won’t find anything there. All the records prior to 1900 have been moved to the historical museum. It opens at ten.”

Bridget looked at her watch. “Darn,” she said seeing it was not yet eight-thirty. “Leaves me with a lot of time to kill.” She winced at the unintentional use of the word. Ignoring the woman’s quizzical look, she asked “you wouldn’t happen to know if there is a cemetery around here that dates back to that time, do you?”

“There’s the church cemetery. I’ve seen stones there dating back to the early 1700’s.”

“Any older?”

“Well, I haven’t looked at all the headstones so I can’t answer that.”

Bridget chewed on her last bite of toast as she weighed her options. She could wander around the shops that lined the Village main street until the museum opened or she could take a chance and visit the graveyard. It wasn’t much of a decision. “I guess I’ll check out the cemetery for myself. Where will I find it?”

“That’s easy. Walk to the end of town, you can’t miss the church. Don’t let the caretaker scare you away. He’s a little protective of the graves. The museum is at the other end of town. Luckily the Village isn’t too big,” the woman laughed. “It’s next to the town hall. Ask to talk to Riley, he is the curator.”

“Thanks. And thanks for breakfast, it was delicious.”

“Hope you left some for the rest of us,” a man strode into the room followed by his wife and three teenage sons. They took seats at the table and immediately began filling their plates. “This coffee is cold,” the man complained.

“I have a fresh pot warming in the kitchen. I’ll just be a minute.” Turning to Bridget, the woman added, “thank you. It’s always nice to start the day with a pleasant conversation.”

“You’d think for these prices, I could start the day with a cup of hot coffee,” the man repeated his complaint.

Bridget smiled in sympathy; she was sure pleasant conversation was the last thing to be expected from the rude man. She left the family to their morning meal and walked to the front door and outside. Retrieving her laptop and camera from her car, she headed down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace.

With plenty of time and not much distance to cover, Bridget walked unhurried along the brick sidewalk. The fronts of the centuries old buildings were gaily decorated with flags and banners announcing the locations of the antique and curio shops, cafes, bookstores and clothing boutiques that now occupied them. Most shop owners were just getting around to unlocking their doors for the day’s anticipated customers and she enjoyed the opportunity to walk without the jumble of tourists that would soon crowd the sidewalk.

Bridget glanced into the windows of the shops she passed seeing nothing to hold her interest for more than a moment. Her pace never faltered and she quickly found herself walking past the last of the shops. The wide brick sidewalk gave way to a narrow strip of concrete that fronted a tree lined stretch of residential street. She could see a church’s steeple at the end of the block, the morning sun reflecting off its bright white paint.

Bridget took notice of the tidy yards and neat houses as she walked. She estimated that most of the homes dated back at least two hundred years and all showed the obvious signs of being lovingly cared for. As she walked, she let her mind wander back to a time when the houses would have been new and imagined what life for the original owners would have been like. She was so lost in her thoughts that she almost walked into the wrought-iron gate of the church graveyard.

“Watch out.”

The stern voice brought Bridget back to the present. “Damn,” she muttered as she stopped within inches of the twisted and bent gate.

Though it still retained its original design, the old gate had served the graveyard too many years and gaps betrayed where pieces of the metal had rusted away. Behind the gate, wooden and stone tombstones stood in clusters of varying numbers. Some were enclosed by decorative fences while others stood alone serving as private guards over the resting place of some long forgotten member of the community. Many of the headstones were tilting to one side or the other, some leaning on their neighbors for support.

“What you be wanting?”

Bridget scanned the graveyard, seeking the owner of the voice. “I was told these stones date back to the founding of the village,” she answered.

“And what if they do?”

Bridget was startled when a man rose from behind a tombstone not too far from where she was standing. “Shit. You might want to give a little warning before doing that.” She blew out several short breaths to help calm her racing heart.

“I’ve been talking to you.” The man pulled a rag from his back pocket. “How much more warning would you be needing? You didn’t think I was a ghost rising from my grave, did you?” He laughed as he wiped his dirt covered hands.

“As a matter of fact….” Bridget was embarrassed that she had thought just that.

“In broad daylight?”

“Graveyards spook me out. You popping up like that didn’t help any,” Bridget told him. “I’m Bridget Donovan. I write for History of Colonial America magazine.”

“I’ve read it a time or two.” The man nodded as he shoved the rag back into his pocket. “Are you looking for anyone special?”

“Not really. Just want to see if any of these graves date back to the sixteen eighties.”

The man leaned against the tombstone he had been kneeling next to and studied Bridget.

Bridget decided to return the favor. Though she guessed him to be about seventy years old, he appeared in good health and, in fact, quite robust. His skin was deeply tanned and his dark hair showed little evidence of turning gray. He stood close to six feet tall and his movements were free and easy. She could only hope to retain such good health at the same stage of her life.

“Not too many but there’s a few on the other side of the church. Would help if I had a name.”

“You know the names on all these stones?”

“I’ve worked here almost sixty years tending to these graves. There’s not much I don’t know about these stones. Come on through the gate and I’ll take you over. Mind the latch, it’s a bit troublesome,” the man said as he pushed off the tombstone and walked away.

Bridget discovered the gate latch was more than a bit troublesome. The rusty parts refused to budge under the pressure of just one hand and she had to set her laptop and camera down to force the gate open. Once through, she gathered up the items before re-closing the gate. “Dang, he never told me his name,” she muttered as she hurried after the cemetery’s caretaker.

Bridget carefully walked around the oldest area of the churchyard, gingerly stepping between graves to take pictures of any marker dating from the time Sarah had lived. She didn’t recognize any of the names but knowing she was just starting her research she didn’t want to skip any either. “I would have thought there would be more from back then,” she said after taking the last of a dozen pictures.

“Used to be but the wooden markers disappeared long ago. And not everyone was buried in the churchyard. Some were buried in family plots or even shipped back to England after they died, if they were real important. Still say it would be easier to point you in the right direction if I had a name.”

“Goodson,” Bridget said as she placed her camera back into its carrying case hanging from her shoulder. “Sarah Goodson.”

The caretaker started to speak but stopped when Bridget revealed the full name. He had been standing beside the church casually leaning against the wood siding but his back stiffened when Sarah’s name was spoken. He straightened and purposely moved closer to Bridget, his eyes darting from her to the front of the churchyard and back. “You won’t be finding her buried in this hallowed ground,” he said in a voice no more than a whisper.

“You know of Sa…?”

“Hush. It is forbidden to speak her name.”

Bridget studied the caretaker. He seemed to have aged, his face suddenly displaying the burdens of several generations. When he turned to walk toward the gate, she followed.

The caretaker opened the gate and held it for Bridget to pass through. “If you name the one you seek, you will find nothing but trouble.”

Before Bridget could respond, the gate was shut with a loud clang and the caretaker hurried away. “What the hell?” she muttered as she watched the man disappear behind the church. “Why would speaking Sarah’s name still be forbidden?” she asked the old gate, frowning when she received no answer. ‘Strange,’ she thought, ‘Mrs. Nolen didn’t seem to react to Sarah’s name. Come to think of it, she didn’t react at all.’ The inconsistency raised more questions and Bridget hoped she might find some answers in the village’s historical records. As she walked away from the graveyard, she debated if she should take the caretaker at his word about mentioning Sarah’s name. “Well, one thing’s for sure,” she said to herself, “Maplewood Village and Maplewood Settlement must be the same place.”

“We don’t have much from that far back,” Riley, the museum curator, told Bridget as he led her through the exhibits to the room where the archives were stored. “Maplewood Settlement was founded around sixteen seventy, best we can figure. We have lots of documents beginning about seventeen hundred but not much before then.”

“Isn’t that unusual?” Bridget asked. “I thought the early colonists were known for keeping detailed records so they could report back to England.”

“Some villages were better at that than others,” Riley said. “And a lot of records were lost over the years due to fires, water damage, misplaced, you name it. Three hundred plus years is a long time to keep a piece of paper.”

“Well, whatever you have will be helpful.”

“Are you looking for anyone in particular? Sometimes a name will ring a bell and can save hours of looking.”

The caretaker’s warning flashed across Bridget’s memory. “No, just doing some general research on the Settlement’s beginnings.”

“Okay. Anything we have will be on these shelves.” Riley waved a hand in front of a section of floor to ceiling oversized shelves holding fragile looking documents and books. “Sorry but I haven’t had time to scan everything into our computer database yet. Stepladder is over there if you want to check out the top shelves. You can use the table to spread things out but please be careful. Let me know if you have any questions, I’ll be around.”

“Any luck?” Riley asked as he entered the archive room at the end of the museum’s business day.

“Unfortunately, not as much as I hoped,” Bridget said as she closed a thick ledger full of yellowed papers and stretched her arms over her head to relieve the kinks in her back. “I’m surprised that in all of this there wasn’t a single listing of the settlement’s occupants.” She stood to carry the ledger back to its resting spot.

“Oh, those are still kept at the courthouse.”

Bridget stopped in mid-step. “But Mrs. Nolen said all the records were moved here.”

“All but the census logs and the property records. You’d be surprised how often conflicts over property boundaries still come up between the old families.”

“The ‘old’ families? There are descendents still living here from the original settlers?”

“Yes.”

Bridget returned the ledger to its proper place then rushed back to the table and her laptop. She brought up a blank screen to record the curator’s response. “Which ones? And don’t leave any out.”

“Well, I’m not sure I know all of them. I’ve only lived here myself for a little more than five years.”

“Then tell me the ones you do know.” Bridget was impatient for the man to answer.

“Let’s see,” Riley sat on the edge of the table to think. “The antique store at the end of the street is own by Patrick Dolan. His family was one of the first. And Betty Thomason Bennett at the bakery can trace her family back to the beginnings. The Jeffersons have property north of the village, quite a bit too. Oh, and Justin Calvin. The Calvins have owned a chunk of land to the east from way back. His family also files most of the property challenges, seems it’s been a family tradition for generations.”

“Any others?”

“None that I can think of. But I’m sure there are some.”

Bridget decided to take a chance. “Goodson. Have you ever heard that name?”

Riley thought, scratching the back of his neck as he did. “No. I don’t think I have. Is that who you’re looking for?”

“Just a name I read somewhere. I was hoping you might have heard of it.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Bridget said, disappointed her gamble hadn’t paid off. “I guess I’ll head over to the courthouse.” Bridget turned off her laptop and reached for the bag she carried it in.

“Too late for that. They closed two hours ago.”

“What? What time is it?” Bridget didn’t wear a watch, preferring to rely on the laptop clock to keep her informed of the time. And she had been too engrossed in the old records to even think about the time until now.

“Almost six thirty.”

“Damn. I hope Mrs. Nolen hasn’t given away my room. I didn’t think I’d need it again but it looks like I’ll be staying around for at least one more day.”

“Oh, I completely forgot about her.”

Picking up her bag and camera, Bridget gave Riley a quizzical look.

“Nolen. Now he’s a newcomer, moved here about forty years ago. But Mrs. Nolen, she was born a Wellesly. That family goes back to the original settlers.”

“Are you sure? She seemed so disinterested when I talked to her.”

“Oh, yes. John Carpenter Wellesly was the patriarch of the family. From what I’ve heard, he arrived in the settlement with little more than the clothes on his back. But he married well-- a widower with property. Of course, women weren’t able to own land so she was forced to remarry, almost as soon as she buried her first husband, to keep her land from being taken from her. Things are a lot different now, aren’t they?” he said thoughtfully. “Today, it’s Mr. Nolen that depends on his wife to support him. All the Wellesly property is in her name not his.”

“I wonder why she didn’t say anything?” Bridget mumbled, more to herself than Riley, as she moved toward the door. “She must have recognized the name.”

“She’s a strange one,” Riley said as he slipped off the table, “when it comes to talking about the past. I’ve asked her many times to write down her family history so we’d have it on record. She’s refused every time. Just says, what’s in the past is best left there.”

“That’s odd.”

“I suppose. But when the roots go that deep, you don’t know what they’re wrapped around. So maybe she has her reasons.”

“Maybe. Thank you, Riley. I appreciate you letting me see the records.”

They had reached the front door of the museum and Riley pulled a key from his pocket to unlock it. “That’s what they’re here for. Come back any time.”

“I may take you up on that. Good evening.”

“Good evening.”

Bridget had returned to the bed and breakfast to find her room available for a second night’s stay. She paid Mrs. Nolen the additional amount but, thinking it best to sort out her thoughts first, did not say anything about what she had been told by Riley. After eating a quick dinner she decided to take a stroll around the village, now free of tourists, to think.

Walking down the brick sidewalk toward the opposite end of town from the church, Bridget was lost in thought when she heard her name. She looked around but saw no one.

“Pssstt. Over here.”

Bridget couldn’t be sure but she thought the voice was familiar. “Where?”

“Alley beside the bakery. And be quick.”

“Why should I?”

“You want to see where Sarah is buried, don’t you?”

Bridget didn’t hesitate. She turned and walked back a few steps to the alley and slipped into the shadows. A dark shape was moving away from her and she followed it.

“Where are you taking me?” Bridget asked after she had been led through a seemingly endless maze of streets until they reached an open field behind the last few village homes.

“I told you.”

“If you know where Sarah is buried, why didn’t you just take me there this morning?” Bridget asked the graveyard caretaker. “What is your name anyway?”

“Sam.”

“Sam?”

“You have a problem with Sam?”

“No. I just thought….”

“I would have a more unusual name? Like Morticah? Or Gunther?”

“Well, you have to admit, you are a little creepy. Popping up from behind gravestones; giving me cryptic messages; leading me through town in the dark of night.”

“Can’t be too careful.”

“Careful about what?”

Sam ignored the question. “We’ll be going into the woods. It’s better if we get back a-ways before we use a light. I hope you aren’t too clumsy.”

“I’ll do my best not to trip over my own feet.”

“I’d be more concerned about the tree roots but you do what you need to.”

Just then a light came on at the back of one of the houses they were walking behind.

“Come on,” Sam whispered. “The path is just ahead.”

Bridget had to run to keep up with her guide. Moving as quietly as she could, she turned away from the open field and was swallowed up by the forest.

“This way.”

Sam’s disembodied voice floated back to Bridget who did her best to follow him in the darkness. After several minutes, she saw a beam of light appear in front of her. “Thank goodness,” she said, thankful she had avoided walking into any trees. “How far…”

“Quiet.” Sam hissed back at her. “Never know who might be wandering about these woods.”

Bridget was beginning to think she had somehow morphed into a scene from an old Vincent Price movie, what with all the eerie behavior Sam was displaying and the weird shadows cast by the gnarled trees that surrounded them.

In silence, they walked for another half hour before Sam stopped.

“There.” Sam pointed to an unnatural looking circle of trees in the center of a clearing. “She was laid to rest there.”

“Odd looking trees,” Bridget said as she looked toward the copse. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen trees growing together like that.”

“They were planted to protect her.”

As Bridget studied Sarah Goodson’s final resting place, she wondered if anyone could truly rest after suffering such a horrific death. Slowly, she walked across the clearing to the ring of trees. Even without Sam telling her, she would have known they had to have been planted. Standing trunk to trunk, their protective branches had grown together providing an effective barrier between the clearing and the small patch of ground they surrounded.

“There’s a gap here.”

Bridget turned to see Sam standing beside one of the largest of the trees.

“Watch your head. And you’ll want this.”

Bridget took the flashlight from the man before ducking her head under a thick branch and stepping between two trees. She found herself standing inside a tomb, tree trunks and a canopy of tightly entwined branches serving in place of stone walls. At one end of a carefully tended mound of dirt a stone marker provided the name of the grave’s occupant.

SARAH GOODSON
died for another’s sin
May she rest knowing we believed her
1683

Bridget sucked in a breath, the shock of reading the words almost too much for her to accept as a deep sadness invaded her body.

She had found Sarah.

“I’m so sorry,” Bridget whispered. Sinking to her knees beside the grave, the flashlight fell from her fingers. For several minutes she was unable to do anything but cry. “Why, Sarah? Why did they do that to you?”

“No one knows,” Sam said softly. He had entered the tomb when Bridget failed to return. “But you know, don’t you?”

Bridget nodded.

“How?”

“I’ve read her diary.”

“It was always rumored to exist but no one knew where.”

Bridget picked up the flashlight and directed its bright beam on Sam’s face. “Who are you?” she asked again only this time her voice carried a sharpness that warned the man to tell the truth.

“Samuel Bishop.”

“What’s your relationship to Sarah?” Bridget asked as she stood. She didn’t know why, but she was feeling extremely protective of the woman buried beside her.

“Harriett Bishop was Sarah’s best friend and my great-grandmother several generations over. Harriett’s husband, was murdered just before Sarah died and my family has protected her grave ever sense. For what reason, I don’t know. If we ever knew, it was forgotten long before my time. But it is an obligation we continue to take seriously.”

“Does Mrs. Nolen know who you are?” Sarah was starting to put the pieces of the puzzle together. “Does she know you’re a Bishop?”

“No. People in the village know me as Sam. No last name, just Sam. Why?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Yes, you are. I’ve told you what I know. Now you tell me what you know. What is in Sarah’s diary?”

“Not as much as I’d like,” Bridget lowered the flashlight. “Sarah was pressed to death for killing a man. But she didn’t do it.”

“What man? What was his name?”

“Until tonight, I didn’t know. But with what you just told me…”

“Bishop.”

“Yes. There were no names given in the diary but the man was the husband of Sarah’s friend.”

“How do you know she didn’t do it?”

“Why did your family protect her grave all these years?”

“We just have.”

“The grave of the woman accused of killing your great-great-great-, whatever, grandfather? That doesn’t make much sense.”

“Family legend says she was innocent.”

“And?”

“And one day someone would come who would prove it.”

“Why would you believe that?”

“Harriett foretold it. The night she buried Sarah, she said someone would come. Are you that someone?”

“I don’t know what Harriett Bishop foretold but I do know that I plan to prove Sarah was innocent. And I plan to uncover who the real murderer was. But first, I need some sleep. It’s been a long day and it seems to be catching up with me. And fast.” Bridget yawned. Surprisingly, after a day being too involved in her research to feel fatigue she was now having trouble keeping her eyes open.

Sam led the way back out between the trees.

Bridget turned back to the grave before following. Kneeling, she placed a hand on the mound, the soil warm against her cooled skin. “I promise, Sarah,” she whispered. “I will find out the truth. I know it’s too late for you but I will find it. I will.”

CHAPTER THREE

Bridget woke in the same frame of mind she been in when she’d finally fallen asleep.

Troubled.

Not yet ready to face the new day, she kept her eyes closed as the events of the prior day kept repeating in her tired mind. A loud knock on the room’s door startled her from her thoughts.

“Are ye dressed?”

“What?” Bridget’s eyes popped open at the odd question.

“Are ye dressed? ‘Tis wrong to keep the others waiting.”

“What?” Bridget stared at the door. The voice was male and sounded strangely familiar. “Who are you and what do you want?”

The door creaked open just enough for someone to peer inside the room but not enough for Bridget to see who it was.

“Ye are not dressed yet ‘tis almost the break of day. Are ye ill?”

Bridget started to sit up. Maybe that would help clear her muddled brain.

“Ye mustn’t,” the voice sounded panicked. “’Tis not proper for me to see ye as such. Dress quickly.”

The door was pulled shut.

Bridget pushed herself up to a sitting position, briskly scrubbing her hands though her tousled hair. The room was dark, lit only by the dawn’s faint light peaking through an uncovered window. She reached for the lamp on the nightstand. “Damn, I’m sure it was on that side.” She muttered as she reversed direction and reached to the other side of the bed. “What the hell?” Her hand again found only empty space. Throwing back the covers, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “What?” She grunted when someone rapped on the room’s door.

Bridget watched as the door again creaked open a few inches and a hand wrapped around a lit candle slipped through the gap. She sat mesmerized as the hand placed the candle on a holder driven into the wood planked wall. Then the hand was retrieved and the door pulled shut.

Bridget’s eyes grew wide as she took in her surroundings. She was no longer resting on a thick feather mattress in the cozy, well appointed room of the bed and breakfast. Somehow her accommodations had changed during the night and she was now sitting on a hard cot covered by a thin straw mattress with her bare feet firmly placed on a dirt floor. The room’s only other furnishing was a straight back chair over which a gray piece of cloth was draped.

Slowly, Bridget pushed herself off the cot to stand. “What the fu..?” She had gone to bed dressed in a pair of old but comfortable cotton shorts and matching t-shirt. She now wore a linen nightdress that covered all but her head, hands and feet. “What the fu..?” She repeated reaching up to slap the side of her head a couple of times. “Whatever freakin’ nightmare you’re having, wake the fuck up.”

The room’s door creaked and Bridget looked over her shoulder to see a young girl enter the room.

“I am to help ye dress if ye are not sick and in need of the village healer,” the girl told Bridget, walking across the dirt floor to the chair and lifting the cloth from it.

Bridget watched as the gray cloth was held up revealing it to be a dress of similar length as the nightdress she wore.

“Please remove thy nightdress. The men are anxious to leave.”

“What men? Who are you?” Bridget gave her head a few more slaps.

“There is not time.” The girl glanced nervously toward the door.

Confused and bewildered, Bridget did as she was told for no other reason than she was sure she was dreaming and didn’t know what else to do. With the girl’s help, she soon found herself covered from neck to feet in a heavy, long sleeve wool dress. A wide, white linen collar was fastened around her neck and a matching head covering was placed over her hair.

“Quickly, ye shoes.” The girl handed Bridget a pair of leather shoes.

Bridget sat on the cot and tried to force the stiff shoes onto her feet. It didn’t take long for her to figure out it wasn’t going to happen. “These are too small,” she said, holding the shoes out to the girl. “I need some at least a size bigger.”

The girl shook her head, confused. “’Tis ye shoes?”

“No.”

“No?”

“None of this is mine.” Bridget frowned as she looked around the room. What she was looking for she had no idea. “Look I’ll just go barefoot.”

“’Tis not allowed.” The girl gasped.

“Well, I can’t get my feet into these,” Bridget said, dropping the useless shoes to the floor and raising a miniature dust cloud. “So unless you have another pair of shoes handy, I don’t see much choice.”

“Tis time.” The male voice called into the room.

“Make sure none see ye feet if ye do not wish to suffer the whip,” the girl whispered just before she scurried out of the room.

“Oh, crap.” Bridget muttered. “What the hell did that mean?”

“Ye would do well to mind ye tongue.”

Bridget’s head snapped up to see a man standing in the doorway. “I don’t suppose you’re here to fill me in on what the heck is going on?”

“Ye words are strange,” the man replied. “Tis better ye speak little. Come with me.” He turned and walked out of Bridget’s sight.

“If this is Ted’s idea of a joke, I’ll kill the little bastard when I get my hands on him.” Bridget muttered as she pushed up off the cot and followed the man.

“Ye did not mention another?” A man turned to question Bridget’s escort as they approached a pair of pushcarts.

“I have promised a friend to see to her needs.”

“For what purpose?”

“He must sail to England.”

“She will be a hardship.”

“We did well at the market yesterday. The carts carry little but empty baskets. We will manage.”

“Tis not right. A chaperone must be named.”

“My wife will be look over her. She will be a welcome pair of hands in the fields until her father gathers her on his return. Shall we proceed?”

“Tis ye risk.”

Two men pushed each of the carts over a rutted path.

Bridget sat in the back of one cart wedged between empty baskets and the cart’s unyielding side. She was confused and her stomach was growling. As she squirmed about on the hard wood surface trying to find some relief for her backside her elbow knocked against a basket tipping it onto its side and spilling out a half dozen carrots. She picked one up, brushing off the loose soil that still stuck to its skin before taking a bite. As she chewed, Bridget stared at the passing country. It was both unknown to her and yet strangely familiar.

What had happened? Where was she? And why?

“We’re not in Kansas any more, Toto,” Bridget muttered as she cleaned off another carrot.

Bridget saw a few thatch roofs peeking into sight about a mile further down the path. By now she had seen and heard enough to know that somehow it was no longer the year 2007 and she was no longer in the New Hampshire she knew. She didn’t know how it had happened but Bridget knew she had somehow been transported back in time.

The man who had awakened her several hours earlier had said little as the carts bounced along the rutted path and the other men spoke even less. The few times they had stopped to rest, Bridget had been allowed little freedom to move about so she had spent the time observing her escorts who appeared to have come to life by stepping out of a painting depicting a Puritan village.

The men wore suits of gray wool pants and jackets. Under the jacket, they wore linen shirts and some wore sleeveless vests button in the front. Three of the men wore a hat with a wide brim and high crest made from a some sort of animal hide while her benefactor’s head was bare. Their feet were covered with leather boots showing the wear of hard and constant use.

Although her benefactor appeared to pay Bridget little mind, she sensed his eyes on her constantly. She had made a few attempts to ask him questions but he refused to reply, instead quietly warning her to not speak when the others could hear. She had eventually given up. But she was nagged by the feeling that she somehow knew her benefactor.

The rooftops grew larger as they came closer and Bridget watched the walls supporting them slowly take shape. From what she could see, the cluster of buildings wasn’t much bigger than a normal city block in Northbrook. As the carts drew closer to the village, she saw women wearing the same style dress as she wore working in a field divided into neat rows. Younger children worked with the women or sat quietly near them while the older children sat in a group paying close attention to a man speaking to them. Men worked about the village performing various chores.

“Tis welcome to be home,” one of her escorts said.

“Our brothers will be glad of our success at market,” another said.

As the men talked, Bridget saw a woman at the far side of the cultivated fields push herself up from where she had been kneeling. She was puzzled that the woman appeared to be working a large portion of the rows by herself.

The woman wiped at her forehead under the wide brim of a straw hat, a smile spreading across her face as she watch the carts enter the village. She dropped something into a basket at her feet then turned to walk across the field being careful to step over the tended rows.

Bridget glimpsed her benefactor’s reaction when he spotted the woman and she speculated about their relationship.

The cart in which Bridget rode was directed away from the other which was being pushed to the front of a large hut in the center of the village. Bridget waited quietly as her cart continued through the village in the direction of a hut at the end of the cultivated fields. She noticed that the woman was also walking toward the hut.

“I thank thee,” Bridget’s benefactor told the man who had helped him push the cart.

“Tis good for thee village. And for our Lord. I shall bid thee good day as thy wife approaches.”

“And thy wife awaits thee. Good day to thee.”

Unsure whether to move or not, Bridget stayed in the cart waiting to be told what to do.

“Husband,” the woman said as she walked up to the cart. “I have missed thee. Did market go well?”

“Very well.”

“Thee has brought another?” the woman asked even as she studied Bridget.

“Her father was summoned to London on the King’s business. She will help in thy fields until his return.”

“I will not say nay to such.” The woman smiled.

“Shall we enter?” the man asked both his wife and Bridget. “We have much to thank our Lord.”

Bridget climbed down from the cart.

“Thee has no covering on thy feet.” The woman was shocked at the sight of Bridget’s bare feet.

“The shoes I was given didn’t fit. Guess someone didn’t do their homework.” Bridget frowned. She still wasn’t completely convinced that her predicament wasn’t someone’s idea of a practical joke.

“I understand not thy words.” The woman looked bewildered.

“Enter thee home, wife.” The man instructed. He gently grasped his wife’s elbow and guided her toward the hut’s door. “Please follow,” he told Bridget.

“Why do I think I know you?” Bridget asked. She was sitting on a straight back chair. Her benefactor sat in a matching chair on the opposite side of a plain wooden table while waiting for his wife to finish filling wooden bowl with the contents of a pot hanging in the fireplace.

“I know not.”

“What is your name?”

“Tis not proper to question my husband thus,” the woman said as she placed a bowl of stew in front of her husband and a second bowl in front of Bridget.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on or why,” Bridget glared at the woman, “but when I went to bed last night it was the year two thousand seven. Somehow I get the distinct feeling it isn’t any more. So whether it’s proper or not, I want some answers. And you can start with your names.”

“What is thy’s name?” the man asked.

“Bridget Donovan.” Bridget hoped by answering it would encourage the others to do the same. She picked up the spoon next to the bowl to taste the food. She was hungry, having only eaten the few carrots she’d found in the cart all day.

“Put down thy spoon,” the man said. “We must give thanks for thy meal before we partake.”

Bridget was quickly loosing her sense of humor and her patience. “I’m starving, I wearing clothes I wouldn’t let me worst enemy see me in and I don’t know where the hell I am or why. So let’s cut the bull.”

The woman gasped, almost dropping the bowl she was carrying to the table.

“Sit, wife. We shall give thanks to our Lord. Then we will respond to thy questions.”

The man pulled the spoon from his mouth and chewed a piece of meat while he thoughtfully studied Bridget. “For what purpose has thee come?

“Excuse me?” Bridget looked up. She had been soaking a piece of bread in the gravy at the bottom of her otherwise empty bowl.

“As thee said, thee is not from this time.”

“You know, all these thee’s and thy’s are starting to make my head spin.” Bridget popped the piece of bread into her mouth. “Is it allowed to asked for seconds?”

“Seconds?”

“A refill. More.” Bridget lifted her bowl showing its lack of contents to the others.

The man nodded to his wife, who took the bowl from Bridget. “Yes, it is allowed. Thee has not answered me.”

“I guess I could say the same to you. You haven’t told me your names.”

“Tis name is Samuel Bishop. And thy wife is Harriett.”

Bridget frowned as a newly filled bowl of stew was placed in front of her.

“Does thee not like thy meal?” Harriett asked.

“Uh? Oh, no… I mean yes, I like it very much. It’s very good.” Bridget smiled at the concerned woman. “It’s just that I seem to remember meeting someone named Samuel Bishop. But I can’t quite remember where or when.”

“Tis a common name.” Samuel said.

“That may be....” Bridget let the thought go unfinished. “And where am I? What is the name of this village?”

“Tis the settlement of Maplewood.”

“And the year?”

“Tis the year of our Lord, sixteen eighty three.”

“Oh, boy, Toto. We definitely aren’t in Kansas anymore.” Bridget muttered as she dipped her spoon into the bowl of stew.

Continued in Chapter Four