Love in the Time of Pumpkins, page 1
In Sleepy Hollow, history haunts the present with a truth that’s more dangerous than any legend.
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When historian Iris Drake leaves her academic life behind for the quaint charm of Sleepy Hollow, she expects a peaceful job guiding tours through the town’s legendary past. But everything changes when she meets Jackson Wilde—a brilliant and ruggedly charming professor with a sharp mind and a talent for uncovering secrets.
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Jackson isn’t just a skeptic with a mysterious past; he’s about to pull Iris into a centuries-old conspiracy that could rewrite history. Together, they discover coded messages, Revolutionary War artifacts, and a secret society determined to protect its legacy—at any cost.
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As they race to unravel the clues before someone—or something—catches up with them, Jackson’s steady confidence becomes Iris’s anchor, and his magnetic intensity is impossible to resist. But in a place where the line between history and legend blurs, their growing connection might be the most dangerous discovery of all.
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Step into Sleepy Hollow, where history, romance, and mystery collide in a thrilling adventure.
Also by J.L. Jarvis
Standalones
Once Upon a Winter
The Red Rose
Highland Vow
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Short Stories
Love in the Time of Pumpkins
The Farmer and the Belle
Work-Crush Balance
* * *
Cedar Creek
Christmas at Cedar Creek
Snowstorm at Cedar Creek
Sunlight on Cedar Creek
* * *
Pine Harbor
Allison’s Pine Harbor Summer
Evelyn’s Pine Harbor Autumn
Lydia’s Pine Harbor Christmas
* * *
Holiday House
The Christmas Cabin
The Winter Lodge
The Lighthouse
The Christmas Castle
The Beach House
The Christmas Tree Inn
The Holiday Hideaway
* * *
Highland Passage
Highland Passage
Knight Errant
Lost Bride
* * *
Highland Soldiers
The Enemy
The Betrayal
The Return
The Wanderer
* * *
American Hearts
Secret Hearts
Forbidden Hearts
Runaway Hearts
* * *
For more information, visit jljarvis.com.
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Get monthly book news at news.jljarvis.com.
Love in the Time of Pumpkins
A Short Story
J.L. Jarvis
LOVE IN THE TIME OF PUMPKINS
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Copyright © 2024 J.L. Jarvis
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published by Bookbinder Press
bookbinderpress.com
Contents
Love in the Time of Pumpkins
Thank You!
Reading Order
About the Author
Love in the Time of Pumpkins
Iris Drake adjusted the collar of her 18th-century costume, studying her reflection in the small antique mirror of the Heritage Center’s staff bathroom. The high-necked blouse and long skirt were a far cry from the smart blazers and tailored pants she once wore as a university researcher. But then again, everything about Sleepy Hollow was a marked departure from her old life.
“You’ve got this,” she muttered, tucking a loose auburn curl back into her bonnet. “It’s just history. Your history.”
As she smoothed her skirt, her fingers brushed the silver Ph.D. charm on a key ring tucked deep in her pocket—a talisman she couldn’t part with. It reminded her of all she had worked so hard for and all she had left behind. The memory of her dissertation defense flooded back: the panel’s approving nods, their pens poised mid-note, Professor Winter’s broad smile, and the thrill of knowing she stood on the precipice of something important.
Until everything unraveled.
Shaking off the thought, Iris forced herself back to the present. That part of her life was over now. Here in Sleepy Hollow, she had a chance to start fresh. Here, her passion for history would be appreciated, not appropriated.
As she approached the entrance to the Heritage Center that morning, Iris nearly bumped into Dr. Arthur Grice, the center’s director. He was a tall man in his late fifties, with silver hair and an intense, hawk-like gaze. His sharp features and impeccable suits made him appear more like a stern academic than a friendly museum curator. “Ah, Ms. Drake,” he greeted her with a curt nod. “I trust you’re ready for your debut as our new guide.” His tone was polite but distant, as always. Iris had never shaken the feeling that he watched her too closely, as if he had some hidden agenda behind his formal demeanor. Still, she offered a professional smile in return, pushing aside the unease.
She stepped out into the crisp October air, the autumn sunlight glinting off rooftops. Six months ago, she had been defending her thesis on the intersection of folklore and historical events in colonial America. Today, she was about to lead her first historical tour as Sleepy Hollow’s newest guide.
The town square lay ahead, awash in autumn colors and Halloween decorations. Jack-o’-lanterns grinned from every porch, their flickering candlelight casting whimsical shadows as the late afternoon deepened. A group of tourists gathered near the statue of Ichabod Crane, smartphones raised, capturing the quaint colonial architecture and vibrant fall foliage.
Iris inhaled deeply, the comforting scent of wood smoke and pumpkin spice filling the air. It transported her to childhood visits at her grandparents’ log cabin, where her love for old stories and local history had taken root. That passion had driven her academic career.
Her footsteps slowed as she passed Patriot’s Park, where children played tag around the André Captors’ Monument, marking the spot where British spy John André was hanged. Standing amid bright autumn leaves and children’s laughter, the solemn statue captured what had always fascinated Iris: the blending of past and present.
As she approached the Old Dutch Church, a vendor’s cart caught her eye. The sweet scent of caramel apples and hot cider wafted through the cool air. Her stomach growled—she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, too jittery about the tour.
“First tour?” the vendor asked, smiling kindly as he handed her a cup of steaming cider before she could ask.
“Is it that obvious?” Iris smiled back, reaching for a few dollars.
The old man chuckled, waving away her money. “You’ll be fine, miss. Folks come to Sleepy Hollow for the stories. And this town? It’s got stories to spare.”
Iris took a sip of the cider, its warmth soothing her nerves. Encouraged, she continued toward the waiting group of tourists. The golden afternoon light bathed the historic buildings, creating a dreamlike scene. It was easy to imagine Washington Irving himself wandering these streets, gathering inspiration for his tales.
As she surveyed the crowd, Iris noted the mix of eager faces: history buffs with notebooks ready, couples on romantic getaways, families herding excited children. Her gaze lingered on a tall man in a leather jacket hurrying toward the group—a stranger with tousled dark hair and an intensity in his eyes that gave her pause.
Shaking off the distraction, Iris plastered on her best tour guide smile. “Good evening, everyone! Welcome to Sleepy Hollow. I’m Iris Drake, and I’ll be your guide through the history—and mystery—of America’s most haunted village.”
She let her eyes sweep over each member of the group, feeling a familiar excitement settle in. This was her chance to bring history alive in a way her research papers never could.
“Before we begin,” Iris said, her voice taking on the rhythm of a storyteller. “I want you all to close your eyes for a moment and imagine. We’re walking these streets over two hundred years ago, just after the Revolutionary War has ended. The air is thick with possibility… and perhaps something a little more sinister.”
As the group followed her instructions, Iris indulged in a moment of satisfaction. Yes, this was where she belonged.
“Now, open your eyes,” she continued softly. “Look around. Every building and every stone has a story to tell. By the end of this tour, I promise you’ll never see Sleepy Hollow the same way again. Shall we begin?”
With a graceful gesture toward the Old Dutch Church, Iris led the group forward into the gathering twilight, blissfully unaware that her own story was about to take an unexpected turn.
As Iris led the group through the historic heart of Sleepy Hollow, her earlier nerves faded, replaced by the familiar rhythm of storytelling. The tourists followed her through narrow streets and shaded paths, past colonial-era homes with weathered facades. Village buildings, brimming with centuries-old charm and eerie legends, provided the perfect backdrop for her
They arrived at the Old Dutch Church and Burying Ground, where rows of weathered tombstones leaned precariously under the weight of years.
Iris lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper. “See that worn headstone there?” She gestured toward a tilted slab. “That belongs to Catriena Van Tessel, rumored to have inspired Katrina Van Tassel from Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Local lore says that on quiet, moonlit nights, you might still hear her laughter in the wind.”
A hush fell over the group, and Iris smiled to herself, pleased with their response. There was a thrill in watching people react to history brought to life. It was this magic she had craved back in academia but had rarely found.
As they left the graveyard, Iris wove facts and folklore together, guiding them toward Philipsburg Manor. The grand estate loomed ahead, its whitewashed stone exterior stark against the deepening twilight.
“The Philips family,” Iris explained, “was one of the wealthiest in colonial New York. But wealth often came at a price. This estate was worked by enslaved Africans, and some say the restless spirits of those who toiled here still wander the grounds.”
She was about to elaborate when a rustling in the bushes startled the group. A raccoon darted out, followed by a ripple of nervous laughter. Iris couldn’t resist stealing a glance at the tall man who had arrived late—Jackson Wilde, a professor at Columbia. Unlike the others, he hadn’t been startled, just amused. His dark eyes, however, held a skeptical look that made her brace for more.
They moved on toward the old mill, where the steady hum of the Pocantico River filled the air. Iris continued, “This mill played a crucial role in the local economy. But during the Revolutionary War, it served another purpose—patriots ground gunpowder here for the colonial forces.”
Just as Iris was about to delve into more details, Jackson interrupted, his voice low but deliberate. “Assuming, of course, Washington Irving’s accounts are more than cleverly disguised fiction.”
Iris turned to face him. Up close, she noticed the fine lines around his eyes, the slight stubble on his jaw, and the worn leather satchel slung over his shoulder—a satchel that looked like it had seen as many historical sites as its owner. There was a challenge in his eyes, one she recognized instantly.
“Irving may have taken creative liberties,” Iris replied calmly, “but his stories often had roots in actual events and local eyewitness accounts.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Eyewitness accounts of headless horsemen?”
A few chuckles spread through the group, but Iris wasn’t about to be outdone. “The Headless Horseman may be a legend, but the fear and uncertainty of life in a war-torn colony? That was very real.”
Satisfied with her response, Iris continued leading the group, though she became acutely aware of Jackson’s presence. He lingered at the edge of the tour, always observing, always questioning. His pointed inquiries weren’t meant to disrupt, she realized, but to test her knowledge. And though it was frustrating, it was also intriguing.
At the town square, where an old Revolutionary War cannon stood proudly on display, the man’s voice cut in again. “This cannon looks more ornamental than practical. The real defense would have been closer to the Hudson, no?”
Iris suppressed a smile, impressed despite herself. “Yes. This piece was placed here as a memorial after the war. But during the conflict, Sleepy Hollow saw its share of action. In fact…” She launched into a story about a midnight raid on British troops, the group hanging on every word.
Jackson watched her closely as she spoke, his expression a mix of admiration and something else—something that sent an unexpected thrill through Iris. His challenge had shifted from skepticism to a different kind of tension, one she couldn’t ignore.
The tour culminated at the bridge where, according to Irving, Ichabod Crane’s fateful encounter with the Headless Horseman took place. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in deep purples and oranges as Iris brought the group to a halt.
“Imagine,” Iris began, “a crisp autumn night like this one. A schoolmaster on a weary horse, riding home through the dark, when suddenly—”
She let her voice rise and fall as she painted the scene, drawing the tourists into the eerie world of Sleepy Hollow’s most famous legend. They listened intently, gasping at the right moments, their eyes wide as she described Ichabod’s desperate flight across the bridge.
Even Jackson seemed captivated, though Iris caught the subtle roll of his eyes when she mentioned the pumpkin projectile that supposedly unseated Ichabod Crane.
As the story ended and the group dispersed, chattering excitedly among themselves, Iris watched them as her mind ran through the day’s events. She was turning to leave when a shadow crossed her path. She looked up to find Jackson standing before her, hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets.
“Interesting tour,” he said, his tone unreadable. “I’m Jackson Wilde, by the way.”
“Yes, I remember.” The name clicked. She had read some of his papers back in graduate school—controversial theories on coded messages in colonial-era documents. It wasn’t exactly mainstream scholarship, but it was undeniably intriguing.
“Iris Drake,” she replied, straightening up. “So, Professor Wilde, I take it you’re not a fan of local legends?”
A spark of amusement lit his eyes. “I prefer my history a little less… embellished. But I must admit, you’re an interesting storyteller.”
“History is a story,” Iris countered, sensing the familiar rise of academic debate. “One pieced together from facts, yes, but also from the stories people tell and the traditions they pass down.”
“Facts should stand on their own,” Jackson replied, his voice steady. “Mixing them with unverified folklore only muddies the waters of historical understanding.”
Iris felt her temper rise, though she kept her tone even. “And ignoring cultural context strips history of its humanity. These ‘unverified’ stories often preserve truths that official records overlook.”
The tension between them thickened as the cool night air crackled with unspoken challenge. Iris couldn’t help but notice the way Jackson’s gaze flickered, first to her eyes, then to the determined set of her jaw, as though reassessing her.
After a beat, Jackson chuckled. “Well, Ms. Drake, it seems we have quite different approaches to history. In any event, perhaps our paths will cross again.”
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Iris standing in the cool night air, watching him disappear into the shadows. Don’t be too sure, she thought, a mix of frustration and curiosity swirling in her chest.
A soft clattering sound drew her attention, like the faint clop of hooves on cobblestones. Iris turned sharply, but the street behind her was empty, save for the flickering shadows cast by the town’s streetlamps.
Just the wind, she told herself, ignoring the shiver that ran down her spine. But in a town like Sleepy Hollow, where the line between history and legend blurred so easily, Iris wasn’t sure anymore.
The next morning, Iris arrived at the Heritage Center, her thoughts still swirling from the previous evening. As she stepped into the quiet foyer of the beautifully restored 19th-century mansion, her mind replayed her exchange with Jackson Wilde. His pointed questions and the challenge in his eyes had irritated her yet left her intrigued. She had stayed up late reading one of his papers on Revolutionary War-era codes, begrudgingly impressed by his work.
