Birthright

lips.
    “You can barely choke out that you love me. I’m afraid to love you. What the hell are we supposed to do?”
    “Sounds like a match made in heaven to me.”
    She pressed her face to his back and laughed. “God, you’re probably right.”
    L et the dead stay dead, Callie thought as she gently brushed soil from the finger bones of a woman who’d stayed dead for thousands of years. Would this woman, one Callie judged to have been at least sixty when she died, agree? Would she be angry, horrified, baffled at having her bones disturbed by a stranger who lived in another time, in another world?
    Or would she understand, be pleased that these strangers cared enough to want to learn from her? Learn about her.
    Would she be willing, Callie wondered as she paused to write another quick series of notes, to allow herself to be unearthed, removed, studied, tested, recorded, so that knowledge about who she was, why she was, could be expanded?
    And still, so many questions could never be answered. They could speculate how long she’d lived, what had caused her death, her diet, her habits, her health.
    But they would never know who her parents had been, her lovers and friends. Her children. They would never know what made her laugh or cry, what frightened her or angered her. They would never know, truly, what it was that made her a person.
    Wasn’t that what she was trying to find out about herself, somehow? What made Callie Dunbrook who she was beyond the facts she had at her disposal. Beyond what she knew.
    What was she made of? Was it strong enough, tough enough, to pursue answers for the sake of knowledge? Because if she wasn’t, her entire life had been misdirected. She had no business being here, uncovering the bones of this long-dead woman if she backed away from uncovering the bones of her own past.
    “You and I are in the same boat.” She sighed as she set her clipboard aside. “And the trouble is, I’m the one at the oars. My head’s in it. Too much training for it not to be. But I don’t know if my heart’s in it anymore. I just don’t know if my heart’s in any of it.”
    She wanted to walk away. Wanted to pack up her loose and walk away from the digs, from the deaths, from the Cullens, from the layers of questions. She wanted to forget she’d ever heard the names Marcus Carlyle or Henry and Barbara Simpson.
    She even thought she could live with it. Wouldn’t her parents be less traumatized if she just stopped? Put this all aside. Buried it, forgot it.
    And there were other archaeologists who could competently head the Antietam Project. Others who hadn’t known Dolan or Bill and wouldn’t be reminded of them every time they looked at the sun-spangled water of the pond.
    If she walked away, she could start to pick up her life again—the part of it that had been on hold for a year. There was no point in denying that now, at least to herself. Part of her had just stopped when Jake had walked away.
    If they had a second chance, shouldn’t they take it? Away from here. Away where they could finally start learning each other—those layers again. Layers they’d simply bored through the first time around without taking the time to study or analyze in their rush to simply have each other.
    What the hell was her responsibility anyway—here, or to somewhere she’d been for barely two months of her life? Why should she risk herself, her happiness, maybe even the lives of others just to know all the facts about something that could never be changed?
    Deliberately, she turned away from the remains she’d so carefully excavated. She boosted herself out of her section, wiped at the soil that clung to her pants.
    “Take five.” Jake put a hand on her arm, tugged her away from the boundary of her section. He’d been watching her for several minutes, measuring the weariness and the despair that had played over her face.
    “I’m done. I’m just done.”
    “You need to take a minute. Get out of the sun. Better yet, take an hour in the trailer and get some sleep.”
    “Don’t tell me what I need. I don’t care about her.” She gestured toward the remains behind her. “If I don’t care, I don’t belong here.”
    “Callie, you’re tired. Physically, emotionally. You’re pissed off, and now you’re beating yourself up because there’s nobody else to kick.”
    “I’m resigning from the project. I’m going back to Philadelphia. There’s nothing here for me, and I’ve got nothing to give