Christmas in Hawthorn Bay. Kathleen O'Brien

like an old married couple, Sean and Stacy came back into the gun room, still grinning. He high-fived Jack, then went over to the game table and flicked the first stack of chips. It fell sideways, knocking down the next stack, then the next, like dominos. Apparently Sean had won often enough to have perfected his technique.

      “Okay, I’m impressed,” Jack said. “What’s your secret? Marked cards?”

      “Hell, no.” Sean tilted his head back and finished off his tea in a long swig. “Why would I need to cheat? Poker’s not exactly rocket science. I just have three unbreakable rules.”

      “Yeah? What are they?”

      Jack noticed that Stacy was already smiling. She knew the rules, obviously. She knew a lot, for someone who supposedly was only interested in dead Killians.

      “One, I never bet big when I’m broke, tired, pissed off or in love. Two, I never bet big unless I’m holding something better than a pair of tens. Three, I never bet big, period.”

      He held up four five-dollar bills. “My total winnings tonight.”

      Jack laughed. “In other words, you’re the anti-Kelly.”

      “Pretty much.” Sean put his hand out and stopped Stacy, who had begun to clear away the beer bottles and peanuts. “Leave this stuff. I’ll get it in the morning. I want you to show Jack the letter.”

      She hesitated, but then, with one last look at Sean, she went over to the mantel, an ornate marble affair carved with a hunting scene, and picked up a plastic sleeve into which a yellowed document had been slipped.

      She brought it over to where Jack had been reading. She twisted the knob on the desk lamp, increasing the wattage.

      “It’s from 1864,” she said, holding it out for him to take. She looked uncertain, as if she thought he might reject it. He wondered what she’d heard about him—from Sean, and from everyone else in Hawthorn Bay. Probably the attempted-murder story had grown claws and fangs over the past twelve years.

      “Who wrote it?” He took the letter, even though he still believed the whole thing was a wild goose chase. Every now and then, someone would heat up the search for the gold. Sometimes it was greedy treasure-hunters. More often it was someone young and naive, like this woman. Either way, it always ended in disappointment.

      Because there was no gold. There was only a harvest of dreams, lying tender on the ground, ready to be stomped flat by reality.

      Even worse, he had a feeling that finding the gold wasn’t Stacy Holtsinger’s only dream. If he were a betting man, he’d bet that she had a thing for Sean.

      Jack felt vaguely sorry for the woman, who seemed very nice but innocent, younger than the thirty or so Sean had said she was. And needy. Definitely needy.

      He wondered if he should give her a heads-up.

      Her boyish figure, her tortoiseshell glasses and her baggy jeans and sweater were the wrong recipe for snagging Sean’s attention. Sean had no interest in settling down with a refined, well-educated woman. He liked his females lusty, busty and loud.

      Or at least he used to. Of course, he also used to say he had no interest in following their dad down the poker trail, too, so maybe Jack didn’t know as much as he thought he did.

      He turned his attention to the letter, deciding it would be premature to nudge poor Stacy Holtsinger toward contact lenses and implants just yet.

      “It was written by Joe Killian,” Stacy said. She cleared her throat. “It was written to his wife, Julia. She seems to have left him, a year or two before, ostensibly to wait out the war with her family back in Philadelphia. But this letter makes it sound as if she left because of a quarrel.”