Harriet barely heard them, as she was already walking toward the graveyard. “Gracias, señores,” she called over her shoulder.
Just past the bombed shell of the church, farther up the road, the graveyard stretched for several acres, row after row of headstones in varying degrees of succumbing to the elements and the occasional cannonball crater.
Jonesy looked out over the rolling field in dismay. “How are we going to figure out which headstone the padre carved last?”
“Someone already did.” Harriet marched directly to a grave three rows up, four stones over from the edge, her heart pounding, her fists clenching and unclenching in a very unladylike show of anger. She could not have come this far, endured almost drowning in a storm at sea, only for someone else to have taken the treasure be
