Buried Sins. Marta Perry
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somebody had to be.” Smiling back, Rachel began unwrapping the sheet.
The urge to confide in Rachel swept over her, so strong it startled her. She could tell Rachel, because Rachel had always been the understanding one.
But it wasn’t fair to ask Rachel to keep her secrets. And she wasn’t ready to risk trusting anyone with her troubles and mistakes.
“There.” Rachel unrolled the quilt, exposing the vibrant colors of the design. “It’s a Log Cabin quilt, one of the ones Emma’s mother made, I think.”
“It’s beautiful.” She touched the edge carefully, aware of the damage skin oils could do to aged fabric. “If you’re sure you don’t mind—”
“It’s as much yours as mine,” Rachel said. “There might be something you’d like better, though.” She pulled out the next bundle, this one wrapped in a yellowing linen sheet. “Goodness, this is really an old one.” She squinted at a faded note pinned to the fabric. “According to this, it was made by Grandfather’s grandmother in 1856.”
“It should be on display, not stored away.” The sheet fell back, exposing the quilt. She frowned. “That’s an unusual design, isn’t it?”
Rachel pointed to the triangles that soared up the fabric. “Flying geese, combined with a star. I don’t know enough about antique quilts to have any idea.” She folded the sheet back over it.
Caro felt an almost physical pang as the quilt disappeared from view. To actually hold something that had been made by an ancestress almost 150 years ago—had she been as captivated by color and pattern as Caro was? Had she lost herself in her work, too?
“Well, it certainly needs to be better preserved than it is. If you don’t mind, I’ll see if I can find out how it should be kept.”
“Be my guest. That’s more your domain than mine.” Rachel laid the bundle gently back in the trunk.
Taking the Log Cabin quilt, Caroline stood, stretching. “I’ll run this down first and then come back and help carry the—”
Her words died as she passed the attic window. She hadn’t realized that from this height she could see over the outbuildings to the barn, even to the walk that curved around to the door of her apartment. And to the flash of movement on that walk.
“Someone’s out there.” She grabbed Rachel’s arm, her heart thudding. He was back. The person who’d been in the apartment was back.
“Who? What?” Rachel followed her gaze. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Someone was there, by the apartment. I’m not imagining things, and I’ll prove it.” She thrust the quilt into Rachel’s arms and rushed toward the stairs.
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