Haunted

“I’d expected to find you exploring the house.”

“I did explore the house.” The green of her eyes rested contemptuously on him.

“And you haven’t found my malignant ghost as yet?”

She replied in an even, dismissive tone, eyes steady on him. “I explored the house, and then the grounds, and now, I’m exploring the area.”

“Ah.” He took a seat on the log beside her. He stared through the trees towards the water, caught now in the sunlight, dazzling like a thousand gems. Then he looked back to her. “The woods are supposed to be haunted, too, you know. And not because of Melody House.”

“That’s good to hear,” she said strangely. “Just what is the legend associated with the forest here?”

“Ah, well, long ago—as far back as the late seventeen-hundreds, I believe, there was a family with a small farm a little closer toward the mountains. A father and mother, and a bucketful of kids. The oldest sister was plain, the youngest beautiful. The oldest sister’s suitor fell madly in love with the younger sister. The fellow had to head back east to take care of business, and when he left, he kissed his dearly beloved, the younger sister, goodbye, and they were both deeply happy, because they would be wed as soon as he returned. Little did they know that the oldest sister was a total psychotic—a scorned one, at that. She lured her younger sister into the woods, pretending they were walking to a neighbor’s. She got her to lean down by the stream…and whap!”

“She killed her with a hatchet, nearly decapitating her. And now, the younger sister’s ghost has been seen running through the forest, blood oozing from the gash in her throat, screaming in terror,” Darcy finished for him.

Matt lifted his hands. “Someone told you the legend!”

She didn’t reply for a moment, then asked him, “What happened to the older sister?”

“Well, the young man came back and hanged himself in misery, thwarting the hopes of the young murderess. I guess they didn’t have much evidence they could use at the time, so no one went to trial. But the older sister went completely insane. She was locked up in the family barn until she died, an old woman of eighty, confessing in her later years, and spending many a day screaming that her sister was coming after her in vengeance.”

“Well, there you have what one might call a truly dysfunctional family,” Darcy said pragmatically.

“Yes, I guess you could say that.” He looked at her. The lines of her face were truly classical, yet her sculpted, porcelain beauty seemed unique as well. She’d been a makeup model, he reminded himself, and she must have made some good money. Why give it all up for this—especially if she was really so heavily laden with academic degrees?

“The body of the younger sister was uncovered by a local dog that had been digging,” Darcy said. “But they didn’t find the skull, and it didn’t receive a decent burial with the body. If someone finds the skull and buries it with the rest of the bones, the haunting in the forest will stop.”

“How simple. How cut-and-dried and simple. Hell, we should all start digging up the place to find a skull that may or may not be there. Hm. Then again—where, oh where, do we start? If there were such a relic of humanity remaining from way back when, animals might have carted in anywhere. The stream might have washed it down to Florida by now. But what the hell—people love the ghost stories. So what if the poor ghost goes racing through the trees, screaming and bleeding?”

“Because it’s pretty damned sad,” Darcy told him.

“Well, when you have time, you feel free to dig around in the forest. It’s county land, but we’ll try to ignore the fact that you’re bound and determined to dig it all up. Just don’t leave any potholes—lots of people use this area for riding, and we wouldn’t want a new ghost running around with its head dangling from a broken neck.”

He stood impatiently.

He must have roused her somewhat from her continual, stiff poise, because she leapt up immediately after him. “What is the matter with you? Why on earth do you have to be so hostile?”

“Because all you’re going to do is feed into the idiots and drunks who should behave intelligently but go all ga-ga over a ghost story! History can be tragic. Tragic—but past. Let the dead lie, Darcy.”

“You brought me here!”

“No. I told Adam Harrison that he could come here.”

She planted her hands on her hips, head cast back, green eyes as dark and dangerous as the embers of a fire. “No—you signed a contract that allowed Harrison Investigations into your house. I am as much a part of Harrison Investigations as Adam.”

He arched a brow slowly and was pleased to see the slightest sign of a flush entering her cheeks.

“Almost as much a part of the company as Adam is himself. And very good at what I do. So—since you hired me to do it, perhaps, just for a while, you could quit being such a macho jerk?”

He wanted to shout back, to put her in her place. He didn’t have the words, or the intelligent argument he needed. He threw up his hands. “We need to get back. Dinner will be ready.”

He turned away, starting for his horse.

“You know, every redhead isn’t a total bitch.”

Startled, he turned back. His voice was far rougher than he intended. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Your ex-wife Lavinia Harper,” she said simply.

“I see. You know this because you’re psychic?”

“You dislike redheads. One doesn’t need to be a psychic to see that. Penny told me about Lavinia.”

“Red hair can be bought in boxes for right around ten bucks. I would never dislike anyone for the color of their hair, skin, eyes, or anything else,” he informed her, meaning to sound as calm and staid as a schoolmaster, displaying his anger nevertheless.

She gave a stiff smile as she walked by him. “Sure. Sorry, then. Excuse me.”

He let her pass him while he fought his simmering temper, wondering why the hell she could get such a rise out of him, when he was usually level, sane, and careful in any judgment or assumption. Tension rippled through his muscles; he got a handle on it and turned, determined that he would politely help her mount back up on Nellie.

But before he could do so, she was already in the process of easily swinging up on the mare.

By the time he mounted Vernon, she was headed back through the forest trail.

He followed her, staying slightly behind and noticing, just as they left the forest trail, that dusk was falling at last.

Across the field, Melody House stood on its little hillock, bathed in a strange and eerie glow of crimson and gold.

The brilliance of light lasted only a few seconds; the sun dipped.

Night was coming in earnest, wrapped in shadow.

Despite Matt Stone, or maybe even because of him, dinner at Melody House was an entertaining affair, and Darcy found herself laughing a lot throughout the meal.

Matt and Penny didn’t seem to agree on anything, but the affection between them was visible and real. Penny wanted to tell legends. Matt wanted to correct her when her legends became too lurid, romantic, or too anything.

“It was as if the entire Southern army was taking refuge at Melody House!” Penny said.

“The entire Southern army!” Matt snorted. “A company at best. Twenty men, Penny.”

Penny waved a hand in the air. “They were exquisite soldiers,” she said, shaking her head and dismissing Matt’s correction. “They might as well have numbered thousands. They beat back the Yankees—”

“What? The entire Northern force?” Matt queried, a sparkling light in his eyes.

“There were at least one hundred!” Penny said, glaring back at her employer. “The point is, our boys wouldn’t give up, and they saved the day, but their leader, a young captain, was killed. Shot in the heart by a minnie ball that whizzed right through the parlor windows. Now, he is said to be here, still guarding Melody House.”

Matt leaned low across the table, amusement in his eyes as they met Darcy’s. “And no one seems to have told him that the war is over, that the South lost. He’s not at all fond of Yankee accents—so they say.”

“Thank God, then, that I don’t have one,” Darcy told him sweetly. “All those years watching late-night shows seems to have paid off.”