Free Barefoot in Pearls (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 3) by Roxanne St. Claire

finding nothing, simply dug his fingers under one side and gave it a pull. The wood snapped up and popped off. Ari came even closer, pointing the flashlight into the box, which was full to capacity with cream and brown—
    “Looks like a bunch of seashells,” Luke said.
    “Are you kidding?” Mesmerized, Ari dropped to her knees, her hand almost shaking as she reached out. “These are not seashells. This is art. This is history. This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”

Chapter Six

    She was freaking nuts. There was no other explanation for this woman with the overactive imagination who saw things that weren’t there. Art? History?
    They were sticks, rocks, stones, and, mostly, seashells.
    He reached toward the box, but she grabbed his hand.
    “Don’t touch anything!” Arielle ordered. “You could break one.”
    Half of them were already broken, by the looks of it. “It’s just a bunch of seashells, Arielle, which are in fairly plentiful supply around here.”
    “Can you carry it out? Very, very carefully?” she asked, either ignoring him or not hearing what he’d just said. She aimed his flashlight on the shells, her other hand hovering over the crate like she was instinctively protecting the contents.
    “Getting a vibe?”
    She shot him a vile look. “That you’re being a jerk?”
    The accusation hit, and he gave his head an apologetic shake. “I’ll drag it to the truck if you want to keep it.”
    “No, that could damage…” She widened her eyes as though she just realized what he said. “If I want to keep it? Luke, this belongs in a museum.”
    He looked from her, back to the shells, and to her again, trying hard as hell to take this as seriously as she did. “I’m definitely not seeing what you are.”
    Her lids shuttered as she let out a sigh and gingerly—as if she were plucking a diamond from ashes—lifted one of the smooth, creamy shell stones.
    “My guess is this is an arrowhead,” she said, reverence in her voice.
    “Really.” He worked to sound like it was remotely feasible, when inside, he guessed he was looking at a shell worn into a triangular shape. Obviously, she knew more than he did about this.
    She carefully set it down and pointed to another. “And this is likely a knife. That one”—she indicated a round shell with sharp edges—“was probably used to skin fish.”
    Not very neatly.
    She leaned back on her heels. “These are tools , Luke. Ancient tools that might date back two or three or four thousand years. They belong in the Smithsonian, not the kitchen of a house that’s going to be torn down.” She gave a little shudder as if the idea physically hurt her.
    Four-thousand-year-old tools? He honestly couldn’t see one thing in the crate that didn’t look like someone simply picked it up during a walk on the beach and stuck it in an old box.
    “You were so right,” she continued. “Up on that hill today, you said, ‘It’s history,’ and you were so, so right. It is beautiful, glorious, magical history.” Sighing again, she actually sat on the floor, clearly no longer skittish about the critters they’d seen and heard. “God, I miss my grandma. She’d know exactly what everything in this box is.” She tenderly touched another shell. “Other than spectacular.”
    But he couldn’t share her rapture. Instead, he closed the box as if tamping down his frustration. Why had she come up here and found that necklace and started all this?
    He didn’t dare ask. He knew her answer would be kismet or destiny or some great act of ancient gods.
    “Okay,” he said, fighting to keep any emotion out of his voice. “I’ll put them in the truck. And when we demolish this structure, I’ll be sure to look for any other boxes of similar buried treasure. I’ll double-check the paperwork and assure you that every necessary inspection and survey are complete before we level the hill and landscape the sweeping grounds the owner wants out to the sea.” Just