Fallen

His uncertainty confounded her, especially considering his good looks. She figured good-looking men had plenty of opportunity to hone their charm. It was just a fact of life. Why hadn’t he? She glanced at his ring finger, noting he was unmarried.

“It’s okay,” she murmured. “I don’t mind the question. Haddie’s father and I were never married. He’s not in the picture.”

He studied her for a moment and then his gaze moved back to Haddie, an expression she didn’t know him well enough to read crossing his features and then disappearing. He held up the chocolate chip cookie. “These are really good.”

“Thanks. They’re Haddie’s favorite.”

For a moment they were both silent as he finished the cookie and took a long sip of lemonade, and she stared off in the distance, watching him from her peripheral vision. He was so close and she was so keenly aware of his presence. It made her feel twitchy, exposed somehow. She hadn’t found herself attracted to a man in a very long time. “So um, can I ask you something, Deputy?” She turned to face him.

“Sure,” he said, setting his glass down and leaning over to pluck a long blade of grass growing through the slats in the gazebo floor. “But call me Camden.”

Camden. “Okay. As long as you call me Scarlett.” She paused. “You said kids use the house for entertainment. What exactly did you mean by that?”

The deputy—Camden—glanced at the house and then away. He used both hands to fiddle with the blade of grass in his fingers, pausing for longer than felt comfortable as though he was taking the time to choose his words carefully. Was he worried about scaring her? Making her feel unsettled in her new home? He’d already done that by showing up and installing security . . . “There are stories about the house. You might already know some of them given that you can find them online.”

“Yeah,” she confirmed. “I looked up the house’s history. Spooky stuff.”

“The kids think so too. They set up dares . . . you know, ‘spend the night in the scary house and I’ll pay you a hundred bucks,’ that kind of thing.”

“Ah. The old sleep in the abandoned haunted mansion dare. A classic.”

His lip quirked. “I guess it’s a classic for a reason.”

“True.” She paused. “I read up on the Bancroft family. Tragic ending to that story.”

“Tragic beginning too, depending on whose point of view you’re telling it from.”

Tragic beginning? She hadn’t read about that. “What do you mean? I thought Hubert Bancroft made a fortune in fur trading and built this grand house.”

He shook his head, appearing suddenly regretful that he’d brought it up. “I’m not much of a storyteller,” he said haltingly, bending and twisting that blade of grass. “There’s probably . . . something online.” He slid his eyes away and his cheekbones tinged pink like a child who was telling a falsehood. But why would he?

She cocked her head. “If there is, I didn’t come across it. I read about his son and the loss of the family fortune that his great-grandfather made from the fur trade.”

He looked down at the blade of grass again, now looped and twisted into some sort of shape. He was quiet for several awkward beats. “He wasn’t only a fur trader, he was also an evangelist.”

“Oh,” Scarlett said. “I didn’t read about that.”

Camden’s brows knit as he stared off behind her. “His mission was to convert all the savages who lived in these parts to Christianity.”

“The . . . savages?” She frowned. “You mean the Native Americans who lived here?”

Camden nodded. “The Serralinos. They were considered heathens, evil-doers, and Hubert Bancroft thought it his Godly duty to save their fallen souls.” He looked at her, his expression grave as though he was recounting something that had happened to people he knew personally. “If they cooperated, they were spared, though enslaved, used as trappers for the furs he sold to enrich himself. If they didn’t, the men were pushed into the canyon and if the fall itself didn’t kill them, the elements or wild animals would. If it was a woman who refused, she was made a whore for Hubert and the other male leaders in his ministry.”

“No,” Scarlett breathed, swallowing thickly. “That’s awful. God, the things people do in the so-called name of religion.”

Camden’s gaze speared her, and something that looked like deep sorrow moved through his eyes. “Yes,” he said. He was quiet for several long moments, his fingers still now, and Scarlett wondered if he’d go on or if that was the end to the tale, so when he began speaking again, it startled her. His fingers began twisting the blade of grass once more.

“One such indigenous woman was named Taluta.” He gave her the ghost of a smile. “The name means red, like yours, but she was named for the color of her hair,” he said glancing at Scarlett’s light brown ponytail. “Anyway, Taluta refused to convert, and apparently violently rejected the advances of one of Hubert’s men. They were able to restrain her, however, and threw her over the canyon cliff, but not before raping and brutalizing her.”