Haunted

Page 13

“I’m sure you intend to have her looking for ghosts,” Matt said, shaking his head. “For the moment, just let me go make sure she’s not lying on a trail somewhere with a broken leg. Whatever possessed you to let her just ride out alone?”
“Let’s see—maybe the fact that she said she didn’t want company?”
“She doesn’t own the place,” Matt reminded him.
Carter shrugged, stroking his beard. “Hell. I don’t own it either, do I now?”
Matt urged Vernon on out of the stable. “Hey—don’t be late for dinner!” Carter called. “Seems like Penny’s got Joe cooking up something good.”
Matt felt his resentment grow, and put a check on it. Adam Harrison had paid a fair price for coming in to do what he was referring to as “research.” And so, hell, they had to feed the woman. Joe would be in again tomorrow night to prepare a meal for those attending the seance. It wasn’t all that big a deal. And as to the horse…
He could just see lawsuits all over the place. She’d ridden out alone. What if she couldn’t really ride? She’d be suing over her injuries.
The logical course was across the vast field to the south of the property, leading into trails that veered to the west. Matt could see that his chosen trail had recently been traveled; hoof-marks dotted the dirt and as he reached the field, flattened grasses assured him his instincts had been right.
Matt crossed the field, and entered into the broad riding trail that led westward, sloping upward from the valley toward the mountains.
Another twenty minutes worth of riding and he came to the narrow little rivulet that meandered its way through the woods. The area was much as it had been for hundreds of years—only the continual use of the trails kept them in such sustained and clear condition. The air was cool, the scent of pine sweet.
When he saw Nellie, riderless, drinking by the stream, he felt a twinge of fear, wondering where the mare might have thrown her rider.
But even as he dismounted, a quick search of the area showed him that he needn’t have been so concerned—nor so certain that his visitor couldn’t ride. Darcy was seated calmly on a fallen log, idly doodling in the dirt with a bonelike length of a broken branch. She watched him without welcome or rejection as he left Vernon to join Nellie, drinking from the crisp, cool water.
“Hello,” he said, striding toward her.
There was still plenty of daylight, but in the forest, the thick canopy of trees created strange slashes of darkness, shadow, and eerie green light. Her hair seemed to shine with an exceptional depth of red, while her eyes appeared a deeper forest shade than the trees themselves. Her complexion appeared paler here, and in her jeans and sweater, she might have been something of an elegant woods nymph. Except, of course, if she were to stand, he knew she would be far too tall to be any elfin creature. It struck him again that what most irritated him about her was that tall, sinewy elegance of hers, the poise and calm that seemed to sit about her shoulders like a cloak.
She clasped her hands around her knees, eyeing him with a certain dry hostility. “Hello, Sheriff. As you can see, I’ve not broken my fool neck, raced your horse into the ground, or gotten lost in the depth of the forest.”
“Did I ever suggest that such things might happen?”
“Only because you had no idea I might ask to ride about the area.”
“You might have mentioned your intentions.”
“When? As you pushed me out of your car at the entrance to Melody House?”
“I did no such thing.”
She shrugged, not deigning to reply. He felt the itch of irritation again. He understood some of what he was feeling. She wasn’t just tall and elegant, but almost absently sensual, her movements smooth and sleek and feline. She seemed to hint of something that smouldered, richly carnal, and yet on top, she was all wrapped up like an ice princess, lips far too often drawn tight and prudish.
“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.