“COME ON, TRACEY. Marry me.”

                “Scotty! I’ve only known you for two months!”

                “So? How long does it take for two people to know they’re right for each other?”

                Scotty pulled Tracey into a corner of the Clementine’s stern deck, away from the splash of her bright red paddle wheel. A fresh evening breeze off the Sacramento River brought welcome respite at the end of a hot summer day. Scotty cupped Tracey’s face in his hands, sliding back the lacy dust cap of her living history costume as he brought her face close to his.

            “I’m crazy about you, honey,” he murmured. His lips brushed hers. “Let’s get married now. Tonight. We can be in Reno in two hours, tie the knot—” His thumbs caressed the nape of her neck. “—spend the night...a long night...” His kiss, passionate and demanding, promised all the ecstasy Tracey yearned for.

            “Then tomorrow,” Scotty went on, his warm breath tickling her ear, “we’ll load up your boat and sail around the world.”

            Tracey sighed. To see the lush greenness of Hawaii, the towering glaciers of Alaska—everything she’d ever dreamed of! But the museum, her legacy and her life, was a demanding taskmaster. Besides— “My boat’s not ready for a trip like that.”

            Scotty chuckled. “Always the practical one, aren’t you?” He ran his hands down her back, pressing her body close to his.  Tracey felt the promise of passion he offered. “Okay.” He touched soft kisses across her cheek as he spoke. “So we’ll load up...for that trip...we planned...to Mexico.”

            “That you planned.”

            “Hey! You’ll love it. Jimmy’s got friends in Puerto Vallarta who can show us around. When we come back, you can bury yourself in that museum again, while I see what kind of business I want to get into. Until the next time we sail off to see the world.”

            Oh yes, Tracey longed to agree. But could she do it? Take off and let Marge run the museum for a week? Maybe two?

            “Don’t waste your whole life being practical, Tracey,” Scotty murmured in her ear. “Come on. Marry me. Have all those adventures you want. Days out on the ocean. Nights—” He nibbled on her ear. “—nights for the captain and his lady that can be an even greater adventure.”

            I want that, Tracey thought, melting against him. I want—

            Did she want Scotty? She didn’t really love him. Not yet. But Scotty could pilot the boat she’d inherited from her father. He could lead her to all those adventures she wanted. He could end her life of loneliness. Surely, during those long nights beneath the stars, they’d fall in love.

            “Yes,” she whispered.

            Scotty lifted his head. “Yes?”

            Tracey smiled. “Yes, Scotty. I will marry you.”

            “All right!” Scotty hugged her exuberantly. “I knew you couldn’t say no to me forever. So I came prepared.”

            He pulled a ring box out of his pocket and flipped it open. The last rays of the setting sun flashed through a square-cut ruby, set in gold, and surrounded by tiny, glistening diamonds. “It was my grandmother’s. It’s a family heirloom.”

            “It’s beautiful!” Tracey slid the ring on her finger. “I’ve got to show this to Captain Harry and Edna. Then I’d better get back to work. It’s almost time for our next show.”

            Scotty shrugged. “Go ahead.” He reached for his plastic cup of wine. “Show the old guy the ring I gave you. That ought to frost him, since he never thought I was good enough for you.”

            “Oh, Scotty, Captain Harry is just looking out for me. As if I really am his daughter.” She reached up to kiss the sullen pout off Scotty’s lips. Her fingers touched a silver chain around his neck. “What’s this?” she asked, sliding her finger down to a tiny silver key. “The key to your heart?”

            Scotty laughed. “You could say that.”

            “But what’s it to?”

            A sudden screech of brakes and a crash brought Tracey whirling around—just in time to see a car plunge off the levee road and into the river.

            Five shrill whistle blasts signaled emergency. The paddle wheeler shuddered and slowed, thrown into reverse.

            “Scotty!” Tracey climbed up on a box beside the railing. “I saw people in that car!”

            Scotty grabbed her wrist. “What do you think you’re doing?”

            “I saw two kids! I’ve got to—”

            “In that costume? You’d drown before you got halfway there.” Scotty gulped the rest of his wine, and then kicked off his shoes.

            “Here.” He pulled the silver chain over his head. “Hold this. Don’t lose it!” He climbed onto the Clementine’s railing, glanced at the now quiet paddle wheel, and dove into the water.

            Tracey peered through the fading light as Scotty swam toward the sinking car. He dove, pulled out one child and swam with her to the river’s edge, then turned and dove again.

            “Scotty!” Tracey screamed. Hadn’t he seen the mother and second child surface on the other side?

            Tracey waited long, agonizing moments before she screamed his name again. Two men waded out and dove into the murky water. When they surfaced, shaking their heads, others brought flashlights and searched the water and shore—but to no avail.

            Scotty had disappeared.

Chapter One

“I CANNOT ABIDE HERE without him. My heart aches with emptiness. I must flee to the man I love, or I shall die.”

            Tracey stared at the elegant black handwriting on the journal’s fragile yellowing pages. Even now, almost one hundred-and-fifty years later, she felt the writer’s anguish—an anguish that she too should be feeling at the loss of Scotty. But she didn’t. She just felt numb.

            Like Tracey, this woman—her many-times-great-grandmother—had loved a man and lost him. But unlike Tracey, she’d found her love again and married him.

            Tracey closed the leather-bound diary and returned it to the old-fashioned, curved-top trunk beside her. She slipped off thin white cotton gloves and buried her face in her hands.

            “Why did you have to die, Scotty?” she whispered. “You promised me a lifetime of love and adventure.” And passion to fill the long, lonely nights. Would she ever know passion? Or love?

            An island of light surrounded Tracey and her worktable in the silent museum warehouse. Shelves to the ceiling, filled with archive boxes, stretched into the darkness. An air conditioner’s hum muffled any sounds from outside.

            For two weeks, she’d waited for news about Scotty. D.A.R.T., the sheriff’s Diving And Rescue Team, still hadn’t found his body. Don, his roommate, had heard nothing. Though Tracey wanted to hope, she knew Scotty must be dead.

            She rubbed the small silver key she wore on a chain around her neck—the only memento she’d kept of the man she’d promised to marry. If he’d lived, would she have fallen in love with him during those long nights on the high seas?

            A click startled her and she turned. Marge Jefferson, her deputy director, stood in the doorway from the office area.

            “Tracey? Are you all right, honey?”

            “I’m fine,” she replied automatically.

            She didn’t sound fine and she knew it.

            Marge’s dark eyes were compassionate in her round, brown face. “You ought to take a couple of days off, honey. Go somewhere, or stay home and—”

            “No!” Not meaning to sound so harsh, Tracey softened her voice. “No. We have too much to do. And I need to work. I don’t want to sit home and...”

            And what? Listen to the silence? Drown in the loneliness? Go crazy thinking about what might have been? Tracey shook her head.

            Marge was not only her assistant, but also her friend. After Scotty’s death, she’d taken over all the meet-the-public duties so Tracey could bury herself in her work out in the warehouse. But Marge shouldn’t have to run the whole museum by herself.

            “I did not come back here to sit around and mope.” Tracey picked up her white cotton gloves. “I intend to get everything in this trunk sorted tonight, and be back to my office tomorrow.”

            Marge jammed her fists against ample hips. “Tracey, you push yourself too hard. That trunk’s been in your grandmother’s house for over fifty years. It can wait another few days.”

            Tracey smiled. “You’re right. But this job is good for me right now.” She straightened the stack of letters she’d already enclosed in Mylar. “I can’t imagine why Grandma didn’t bring these things down to the museum before. Unless she forgot she’d stashed this trunk up in the attic.”

            “Or saved it for you to work on after you graduated and took over as director here.”

            That would’ve been just like her grandmother—keeping a few exciting jobs to intersperse with the boring ones. She’d always done anything she could to keep Tracey interested in her studies, and in the museum that was to be her life’s work.

            This find had been exciting—letters, diaries, and newspaper clippings that were a record of the part Tracey’s family had played in over a hundred years of California’s history. And when she lost herself in the past, she didn’t have to feel the loneliness of her life today.

            “The rest of us are going to the spaghetti place for lunch.” Marge interrupted her thoughts. “How about coming with us?”

            Tracey shook her head. She wasn’t ready for the sympathetic but pitying looks of her co-workers; of their uneasiness around her grief; of her own sense of unworthiness because she knew that grief was a fraud.

            Though she was sorry Scotty was dead and she missed his outrageous jokes and soft, sexy voice, she didn’t feel the overwhelming sense of loss that had devastated her when her father died last year. Or have to fight off tears every day, as she’d had to do when her grandmother died the year before. For a woman who’d just lost her fiancé, Tracey felt strangely calm. But she couldn’t explain that to the people she worked with. Not yet.

            “I don’t feel like going out today,” Tracey said. “Maybe next week. “

            Marge nodded. “Okay. Just don’t forget to eat, honey.” She stepped back and closed the warehouse door with a quiet click.

            Alone again in the silence, Tracey smoothed out the yellowed newspaper clippings in front of her. Obituaries. Records of the lives and deaths of her ancestors. Like the records she’d cut out from the newspaper telling of the life and death of Scotty.

            Steven Clay Tockterman, of Potter’s Landing, Rhode Island, the newspaper had called him in front page accounts of his heroic death. She must have told them his real name. But Tracey remembered how, on the day she’d first met him, he’d told her to call him Scotty, the nickname he’d acquired from his initials.

            Scotty, so full of life and laughter. Scotty, who’d told her to quit worrying about tomorrow and live for today. How could Scotty possibly be dead?

            The sheriff’s deputy had told her the coroner would notify Scotty’s parents of his death, but not until after his body was found and identified.

            “But Scotty’s been gone almost a week!” Tracey had told his roommate, Don Baker, when he came to pick up Scotty’s car. “His parents ought to know their son is missing now.”

            “Don’t you worry,” Don had reassured her. “I’ll take care of telling the Tocktermans.”

            Tracey had quickly agreed, glad she didn’t have to be the bearer of such horrible news. Still, she’d wanted Scotty’s parents to know their son had died a hero. She’d cut out two copies of every newspaper article she could find about the accident—one for herself, and one for Scotty’s parents.

            She’d also wanted to return the ring Scotty gave her. He’d told her it was a family heirloom. Obviously, she couldn’t keep it when their engagement had lasted less than fifteen minutes.

            But she hadn’t known his family’s address. It was her stepmother, Miriam, who suggested she send it to Scotty’s father at the Tockterman Shipping Company in Potter’s Landing. Tracey had followed her advice, mailing the ring, the newspaper clippings, and a letter of condolence to his family last week.

            The phone on the wall behind Tracey rang, yanking her back to the present.

            “Hello, beautiful,” a deep, sexy voice caressed her ear.

            Tracey sighed. “Hello, Don.”

            “How’re you doing?”

            “Fine.”

            “You sure?”

            “Really. I’m okay.”

            “Any news about Scotty? I’ve been out of town all week, so I haven’t heard—”

            “No. Nothing.”

            “Look, Tracey, Scotty was my best friend. He’d have wanted me to take care of you. How about having dinner with me tonight?”

            “No, thank you.” Tracey tried to sound polite but firm.

            “Why not? I clean up nice. I don’t eat peas with a knife. Why won’t you go out with me?”

            Tracey gave an exasperated laugh. “Don, I’ve already told you. I’m not ready to go out with anybody yet.”

            “Okay, hon. I understand. But if there’s anything I can do for you...if there’s any of Scotty’s stuff at your house you’d like me to get rid of—”

            “He didn’t leave anything at my house.”

            “You’re sure?”

            “Positive.”

            “Okay. But remember if there’s anything you need—anything—you call me. Okay?”

            “Thanks, Don,” she said, trying to keep her voice friendly, but not encouraging. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now I really do have to get back to work.”

            Tracey hung up the phone. It was sweet of Don to be so concerned, but the last thing she needed in her life right now was another man.

            What she needed was work, and she had lots of that. The familiar, musty smell of old paper comforted her as she lifted a stack of beautifully hand-written letters from the trunk beside her. Soon, she was lost in a world of long ago.

            In the silence of the cool warehouse, time passed unnoticed. When she looked up, startled by a sound, she again saw Marge standing in the doorway.

            Tracey glanced at the clock. “Already?”

            Marge chuckled. “Yes, already. Now go home! You’ll have plenty of time to finish that list of documents on Monday. We have docents trained and raring to go—more than enough to cover all shifts this weekend. You go home and rest. Don’t even think about this place until Monday.”

            Tracey stretched her head to one side, then the other, suddenly aware of how tired she was. But it was a good kind of tired. She’d lost herself in her work and accomplished a lot. Tonight, for the first time in weeks, she knew she’d sleep well.

            “Monday,” she agreed.

            She placed the papers she’d enclosed in Mylar in an archives box, then returned the rest to the trunk, along with her ancestor’s diary. She’d finish reading it next week.

            “Have a nice weekend, Marge,” she called as she strode down the hall to the museum’s back door.

            When she reached her own shady driveway, she turned off the motor of her blue Volkswagen Bug and climbed out. Closing her eyes, she stopped a moment to savor the hot, sweet, summer air.

            Honeysuckle bushes in a nearby yard had attracted a buzzing gang of energetic bees. Tiny pink roses cascaded over a split-rail fence on the corner. The sound of children’s laughter echoed through the old, tree-shaded neighborhood.

            The small, white, Victorian house she’d inherited from her grandmother had gingerbread trim along the roof and eaves that made the house look like something out of a fairy tale. It was the home she’d always dreamed of. Why had she ever thought she needed excitement and adventure? She never wanted to leave the peace and beauty of this place.

            She’d curl up tonight with a good historical romance, living her adventures vicariously. And remind herself to be grateful for the security she’d finally found in her real life.

            Tracey frowned as she pulled the screen door open and saw the inner door ajar. She was sure she’d heard it click when she’d locked it this morning. She walked inside, stubbed her foot on a lamp on the floor, and then stepped back with a gasp.

            Her house, her own private world, had been ransacked. Books and broken picture frames littered her living room floor. Cupboards stood open and empty in her kitchen. Even her table and chairs had been dumped on their sides, the needlepoint cushions she’d designed and made herself slashed and ruined.

            Tracey gasped, and gasped again, then clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from hyperventilating. She would not let herself lose control like that.

            Pressing her back against the doorway to stop her trembling, she held her breath, listening. Was anybody there?

            No. At least she heard nothing. Cautiously, she crept through her house.

            Her TV, VCR and stereo had been yanked out and tossed on the floor. Why? Why had they been tossed and not taken? Her jewelry box, too, had been emptied and shattered, but, as far as she could see, nothing was missing.

            Tracey clenched her fists in sudden overwhelming fury. Who had done this to her, and why? If she ever caught whoever had done this to her...

            First she had to catch them. She strode across the room to find the phone and call the police.

            After her call, she glanced around, unsure of what to do next. Maybe she’d better leave everything just as she’d found it until the police got there. In the meantime, she’d fix herself a glass of iced tea and try to calm down.

            Tears of frustration filled her eyes as she stared at the mess in her kitchen. Broken glasses and dishes littered the floor, along with pieces of the pastel drawings her mother had done during the last summer of her life.

            Such wanton destruction! Why? What had they been looking for? Why? And why couldn’t she stop this abominable shaking?

            She picked up a plastic cup from the floor, and a tray of melting ice cubes. She’d barely stirred in the instant iced tea when a pounding on her front door startled her so much she dropped her cup on the floor. The police had responded much more quickly than they’d promised.

            She opened the door to see a tall man, wearing a white pullover shirt and faded Levis, holding the screen door open and glaring at her. She looked up, and up, into steely blue eyes beneath frowning dark brows, short, dark brown hair in a military cut, and a generous mouth now drawn into a hard, angry line.

            “Tracey Gordon?”

            “Yes.”

            “What kind of a scam were you trying to pull?” The tall man’s harsh voice startled her as he shoved a fistful of papers through the doorway.

            Tracey’s heart lurched, then sputtered to trip-hammer speed as she recognized the papers in his hand: the newspaper clippings she’d cut out, the condolence letter she’d agonized over.

            “Where did you get those?” she demanded. “That’s the letter I wrote to—to the parents of the man I was going to marry.”

            “I don’t know who you thought you were going to marry, lady, or just what you thought you could gain by all this, but I am Steven Clay Tockterman of Potters Landing, Rhode Island, and I am very much alive!”