Page 18 of The Library of Borrowed Hearts

I’d be happy to take her out again, sir. Shall we discuss it over my next promotion?

“He’s besotted with the idea of becoming a first lieutenant,” Catherine said. She grabbed the returned copy ofA Farewell to Armsshe was supposed to be shelving and sighed. “Unfortunately for him, I’m not stupid enough to fall for it.”

She wasn’t sure what caused her to flip through the pages of the book in her hand, but she suspected it was partly due to the googly-eyed attentions of William McBride, and partly due to the tidy square of a handkerchief she carried tucked into her favorite bullet bra. It had taken her mother three washings to get the blood out, but Catherine had wanted to return it to her bicycle savior in good condition. After the initial shock of her accident had worn off and she’d settled her nerves inside the library, she’d realized how unpleasant she’d been to the poor guy. Giving him his handkerchief back was secondary only to the apology she owed him.

But first a week had gone by without seeing him. Then another. Nowshe was on a third. If it weren’t for the light pink scars on the palms of her hands, she might have even suspected she’d imagined the whole thing.

“Except I was right,” she breathed as her gaze landed on the quote she was looking for. “Itisfrom Hemingway.”

“What is?” Lonnie popped up to read over Catherine’s shoulder. The girl’s light lavender scent tickled her nose; yesterday’s perfume had been more like an overdose of orange peel. Apparently, Lonnie had ambitions to sell Avon products, and this was her testing phase. “Why did someone underline the words, ‘Your blood coagulates beautifully’? And what does it say in the margin next to it?”

Catherine’s heart gave a small stutter as she glanced at the message. The words were written in a scratchy hand, but she could still make each one out.

I didn’t mean to scare you. I hope there was no lasting damage.

“Uh-oh,” Lonnie said. “Don’t let Mrs. Peters see that. One time, a kid practiced his letters inside a copy ofCharlotte’s Web, and she made us track down the culprit and force his mom to pay for the damages.”

Catherine flipped through a few more pages, searching for another message, but there was none to be found. Just those two sentences sent off into the void—two sentences meant for her and her alone.

“Do you know what it means?” Lonnie asked. “The message?”

“Oddly enough, yes. I do.” Catherine grabbed the yellow borrowing card from the front and read it. “The last person to check this book out is someone named Jasper Holmes. Do you know who that is?”

Lonnie’s eyebrows flew up. “Jasper? Sure. Everyone knows him. He works for the logging company.”

“Youngish guy?” Catherine prodded. “Tall and loose-limbed, a little rough around the edges?”

“Alittlerough?” Lonnie shook her head with a laugh. “Jasper Holmes looks like a nineteenth-century fur trapper who accidentally stepped into a time machine. My grandparents say this place used to be lousy with them.”

Based on Lonnie’s description, Catherine felt pretty certain this Jasper Holmes was her bicycle savior. What shedidn’tknow was why he’d left her a message. Had he known she’d recognize the quote? And that curiosity would compel her to eventually seek it out?

“Wait. Do you thinkhe’sthe one who wrote that message?” Lonnie asked. “Because to be honest, I never took him as the writing type. Or the reading type. We get his kind on the reservation all the time. All they want is to hide off in the woods somewhere, alone with their bad attitudes and fishing poles.”

“You remember how my hands were all scuffed up the day I put in my application?” Catherine asked.

Lonnie nodded, her dark eyes rapt as Catherine pulled the handkerchief out.

“Someone sideswiped my bike with their car, and he sort of came to my rescue. He gave me this to stanch the bleeding, quoted that line at me, and then left.”

“He complimented yourcoagulation?” Lonnie held up a hand, laughter shaking her body. “I take it back. That sounds exactly like something Jasper Holmes would do. Most of the kids in town run to the other side of the street when they see him coming. They think he’s some combination of Bigfoot, the bogeyman, and Jack the Ripper. He’s not exactly known for his charming personality.”

“Poor guy,” Catherine murmured. “He was nice enough to me.”

Lonnie swept an obvious gaze up and down Catherine’s body. Since she was once again dressed in one of her mother’s hand-me-downs, her silhouette a perfectly commercial feminine shape, she interpreted this as it was intended. A hot flush touched her cheeks.

“It wasn’t like that,” she protested. “It’s what anyone who witnessed the accident would have done. My bike was all bent out of shape.”

Lonnie grinned. “And I’ll bet he straightened it right out.” She must have sensed Catherine’s growing sense of discomfort because she dropped the grin and nodded down at the book in her hands. “Are you going to write him back?”

Catherine took her lower lip between her teeth. “Do you think I should?”

“Why not? What’s the worst that could happen?”

Mrs. Peters walked by at that exact moment, her stern face set in a frown. She was a small woman—both of stature and of mind—her beady eyes magnified behind a pair of glasses so thick they outstripped the bottom of Coke bottles everywhere. She liked decorum and dictatorship in equal proportions, and if it weren’t for the fact that she’d given Catherine a job without even bothering to check her references, she’d have found her intolerable.

“Chitchat on your dime, ladies, not the library’s,” she chided in a singsong voice that fooled neither of them. “Time to lean means time to clean.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Peters,” Lonnie said, her eyes brimming with mischief. “We were just discussing whether or not it’s appropriate for William McBride to spend all his time lurking in the back and catcalling the librarians when we walk by.”