Free Nocturne by Syrie James Page A

it included more rare, old books than he’d led her to believe.
    One bookcase housed two rows of tall, slender, notebook-size volumes with unmarked spines in a variety of colors. There were dozens of them. Curious, Nicole pulled out one of the volumes. It was an old journal, bound in cracked burgundy leather,
September 17, 1928

Sun again, third day in a row. Worked in the shop. Looking for rain tomorrow. 30 head of horses ready to fill the army contract. Training Midnight for Mrs. Andrews in New York; she’s a beauty and I’m going to miss her.
    Whose journal was this? Nicole wondered. Michael’s great grandfather? The reference to “the shop” was vague and curious. How incredible to have inherited such a precious document—this record of the past. For some reason the handwriting looked familiar, but Nicole couldn’t figure out why. Were the other volumes also journals? Would Michael consider this snooping?
    Unable to resist, she took a similar book from the shelf above—this one bound in dark green leather—and opened it. The script inside was similar to the other one but more antiquated, as if written with a quill or nib pen instead of a fountain pen, and the ink was a faded brown.
    When she noticed the date, Nicole stared in amazement. This must be the journal Michael’s great-great-great grandfather kept when he first homesteaded this land!
June 12, 1867,
Fish Creek, Colorado

Still cloudy and overcast. Caught two wild horses yesterday, a stallion and a mare, which I hope to train and breed. Will keep them in the round pen until I build a barn. This valley is the ideal spot for them to
    Her reading was interrupted by the sound of a truck approaching and the automatic garage door opening. Nicole quickly replaced the journals on the shelves, heat rising to her face; she doubted Michael would approve of her reading these private documents. She hurried out of the room and down the stairs.
    A door slammed on the lower level. Nicole found Michael in the mud room, hanging up his black parka by the back door. He was wearing a long-sleeve blue work shirt, his usual jeans, and a pair of square-toed, dirt-encrusted black leather boots with scarred heels and toes.
    At the sight of him, Nicole felt all lit up inside—ridiculously happy—as if it had been days since she’d last seen him instead of just overnight. She hadn’t forgotten how good-looking he was, or the effect he had on her.
    Her intended bright greeting, however, died on her lips when she saw the look on his face. It was remote, withdrawn, impassive.
    “How’s the head?” He pronounced the greeting with such indifferent politeness, she sensed he didn’t really care about the answer.
    “Better. Thanks,” she replied uncertainly.
    “Good.”
    He didn’t say another word, just sat down on the bench and removed his dirty boots, exchanging them for sneakers, without even glancing in her direction.
    Nicole’s heart lurched with disappointment. She felt as awkward again as she had when she first arrived. The man who’d talked with her so congenially for hours last night, and had later looked at her with such intensity in his eyes, had once again disappeared behind his stony, breathtakingly handsome exterior.
    Why? she wondered. What had she done? Or did it have nothing to do with her at all? Could it be that this brilliant, highly successful author was just an eccentric and socially un-graceful hermit? She suddenly became determined to break through that icy shell. Somehow, she’d keep a conversation going, even if it killed her.
    “So,” she said, “were you out clearing your roads again?”
    “That, and taking care of the horses.”
    “Horses?” She should have guessed that Michael would have horses. The main characters in his books often loved the horses they owned or cared for, and even great-great-great grandpa what’s-his-name had apparently raised and trained them.
    “I just keep two,” he said matter-of-factly. “They live in the barn