by Sheryl Lynn
Anger tightened her scalp.
She drew a deep, steadying breath and marched to the desk. She set down the teacup and plopped onto the chair. She opened the file for an Old Colorado City boutique. She stared at the screen and her eyes burned. Fatigue weighted her shoulders as if a heavy blanket had dropped over them.
She closed the file and the program, turned off the printer and moved the cursor over the Internet icon. She’d check her mail then go to bed.
Compulsion gripped her. She needed things to make sense. She brought up the Rocky Mountain Paranormal Research Team Web site.
The Web site was deceptively simple looking. Dallas liked to say, “Any goober can build a Web site, but most shouldn’t. There’s art involved.” All the sites he built and maintained for clients were clean, informative and easy to navigate. The Rampart site received thousands of hits every day, and the forums were always full of comments, criticisms, arguments and pleas for help with pesky spirits.
Desi signed in with her user name and password, which took her to the members-only page. She found the research Tara had done on the Moore house. She skimmed through the info she’d already read and found the newest postings.
The house had been built in 1888 by Charles Josiah Skillihorn, a silver miner. He’d been a friend of Gen. William Jackson Palmer, the railroad baron who had founded the city of Colorado Springs. Palmer had earned a memorial statue that towered over the intersection of Platte and Nevada in the center of downtown, but Skillihorn was mostly forgotten. In 1892 twenty-one-year-old Veronica Eugenia Skillihorn née Shriver, had traveled from Boston to Colorado to marry Skillihorn. Tara had put in a note: “Mail-order bride?”
Seeing Veronica’s name sent a frisson of ice along Desi’s spine. Her neck itched with the urge to look over her shoulder.
Information on the Skillihorns was sketchy until 1898, when Veronica was murdered. Newspaper reports of the crime were florid and sensational. Writers referred to Veronica as a “beautiful and tragic angel on Earth” and Charles as “stoic, taciturn and brave, maintaining a stony facade against grief as great as the majestic Pikes Peak.” The murderer was referred to as that “hulking, beastly Italian gardener.”
“How politically incorrect,” Desi muttered, and waded through the stories where it seemed the reporters collected bonuses for every adjective and adverb.
Skillihorn had returned to his home after a two-week absence. He discovered his wife’s body in the bedroom on the third floor. She’d been beheaded with a scythe.
“Eww.” Desi scrolled down the page.
The scythe belonged to the gardener, an immigrant named Arturio Carpetti, who worked as a gardener for the Skillihorns. According to the newspaper, Skillihorn had discovered “the murderous brute, soaked to the skin with the precious life fluids of his tragic victim,” hiding in the garden shed. “It is testimony to a great man’s noble nature that he refrained from dispatching the Italian monster with the very scythe that had robbed this world of a beautiful Angel.” Apparently Skillihorn had “thrashed” the evil murderer to within an inch of his life. No one would have blamed him if he’d killed the man.
There were several newspaper illustrations of Carpetti’s trial. In every drawing he was depicted as a hunched and hulking brute with beetled brows and a snaggletoothed snarl. The judge and jury were men in starched collars, with perfect posture and solemn expressions. One illustration showed Charles Skillihorn seated in the gallery. The artist had captured the grieving husband in profile and made him look like a tragic Greek god. The trial had taken one day. Carpetti was hanged two weeks later. Over one thousand people had attended the execution to “assure their wounded and fearful minds that the Italian monster was properly dispatched to Hell to meet His Divine Justice.”
Desi scrolled further down and groaned. “Oh, Tara! You didn’t!”
Tara Chase had posted crime scene photographs. Even in grainy, poorly lit black-and-white they were gruesome. Desi recognized an elaborately carved window casing from the Moore house. Veronica’s headless, blood-soaked corpse looked like something from a slasher movie. Another photograph showed her head. Desi thanked God that tangles of matted hair covered Veronica’s face. Seeing the victim’s wide terrified eyes and soundless scream would have insured Desi never got to sleep this night.
Desi logged off.
Seeing Spike calmly asleep in his basket soothed her tattered nerves. Desi got sick and tired of people claiming their pets saw ghosts. It’s true! Fluffy stares at the corner. I know she’s seeing something! At this moment, though, Desi was willing to accept that Spike’s stillness meant she was alone.
DESI ENTERED the warmth and noise of Chico’s restaurant. The smell of green chilies and roasting pork made her mouth water. In the hub of downtown the restaurant had been a fixture for over thirty years. It was always crowded with students from the university, tourists and regulars who knew where to find the best margaritas.
When Gwen called to say she and the girls were at Chico’s and Desi should join them, Desi jumped on it.
She spotted Gwen waving at her from a table near the door leading to the patio and next to the tiny dance floor and stage. It was the only table in the place away from the main dining area. Amber and Pam, Gwen’s friends, laughed it up with two men. One of the men was Buck Walker.
A setup.
What the hell. With a choice between suffering her sister’s matchmaking or returning home where every little noise made her jump, she chose her sister. Besides, at Chico’s she got guacamole.
Buck stood as she approached and pulled out the chair next to his. How convenient that Gwen and the girls surrounded the other man at the opposite end of the table, leaving plenty of room for Desi to get cozy with Buck.
Gwen did that hand-waving so-happy-to-see-you thing she did. “Hi, sweetie! Sit down! More margaritas are on the way.” She draped an arm over the man’s shoulders. “Will, this is my big sister, Desi. Desi, Will.”
Eyes overly bright and smiling crookedly, Will slurred, “Pleased to meetcha, big sister.”
“Hi.” She peeled out of her coat and Buck hung it on a wall hook. She settled on the wooden chair and asked, “Did you know she called me?”
“Maybe. What would you like to drink?”
“Come to the dark side,” Gwen said. “Where the Mighty Margarita River flows.”
Gwen lived three blocks away. She could crawl home if she had to. Desi had to drive. “Hot coffee.”
Buck signaled a server. “Hungry?” When she said she’d like chips and guacamole, Buck ordered for her. He asked for another Coke.
“No Margarita River for you?” Desi asked him.
Buck shook his head. “I have to work tomorrow.” He grinned at his friend, who sprawled on his chair while three gorgeous blondes fed him from a plate of enchiladas. “I’m DD. Designated Driver.”
Desi covered her mouth with a hand to keep from laughing at the goofiness going on at the other end of the table. Another pitcher of margaritas would make them obnoxious, but right now they were funny. The three women practically draped themselves over Will who had closely cropped brown hair and the clean-cut features of a 1960s teen idol. “Is your friend a policeman, too?”
“Yeah. We went through the academy together.” He leaned his forearms on the table and held his head low. His sweater sleeves were pushed up, revealing muscular arms. She wondered if he worked out or if he’d been born gorgeous.
“How’s it going with you?”
“Okay.”
He gave her a sideways look. “Anything going on at your house?”
She aimed for a flip answer, to tell him that everything was absolutely fine and she must have imagined that harsh voice after all. His solemn demeanor and palpable concern quelled flippancy.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t know if I’m hearing things because I’m hearing things or because I’m scared I’m hearing things. I’m a little jumpy these day
s.”
“I actually understand that.”
The server set drinks and guacamole in front of her and Buck, and a fresh pitcher of margaritas at the other end of the table. Behind them, two men set up the tiny stage for a live performance. Fridays and Saturdays rocked at Chico’s. When the music started it would be impossible to hear herself think, much less hold a conversation.
Buck scooped guacamole onto a handpressed and flash-fried tortilla chip. “May I?” he asked.
“Sure.”
Instead of eating it, he guided it to her mouth. Surprised, she bit it. The pepper bite filled her mouth with fire. She chewed, swallowed then ate the rest from his hand.
“Whew! I should have ordered water. That’s good!”
“Like it hot, eh?” He offered her a drink of his Coke.
Desi glimpsed her sister grinning at her. Gwen mugged, rolling her eyes and pursing her lips and pretending to swoon as if Desi were the only person who could see her. Desi turned on the chair, putting the Blonde-keteers and their happy victim out of her line of vision.
It was easy to shut out the noise and gaiety of Chico’s on Friday night with Buck Walker to focus on. They shared the guacamole and small talk, his low voice for her ears only. She liked him, she decided. Maybe, just maybe, there was potential for him be more than a buddy.
When a musician began tuning his guitar and doing sound checks, Desi cringed anticipating the cacophony to come.
“I need to get home,” she told Buck.
He glanced at his wristwatch. “I should go, too.” He pounded the table with the flat of his hand. “Will! Hey! We need to blow out of here, man.”
Will groaned loudly. “Oh, man! Wait awhile, Buck-a-roo. I promised these lovely ladies a dance.” The three Blonde-keteers pouted prettily and begged Buck to let Will play a little bit longer. One dance, they promised. Just one.
“You’ve been outvoted,” Desi whispered in his ear. He smelled of woodsy aftershave and pepper spice. She wondered what he’d do if she licked his ear. “Hand me my coat.”
“Let me buy you an ice cream,” he said. His breath caressed her cheek.
“Ice cream? It’s twenty degrees out there!”
“Then it won’t be crowded at Mitzi’s.”
“They aren’t even open this late.”
“Can’t hurt to check. I’ll get you hot fudge.”
The guitarist hit a loud, drawn-out chord. Desi winced at the reverb. Better to discuss this outside than in here. “Let’s go,” she said.
He helped her into her coat. When he adjusted and smoothed the collar, his thumbs eased along her neck. Her hands tingled. She kissed and hugged Gwen, Amber and Pam. When Will stretched out his arms and pursed his lips for a kiss, she sidestepped and patted his head.
“It was very nice meeting you, Will.”
He grinned up at her. “Ya know, for a big sister you sure are little.”
“Good night,” she said. Buck took her arm and guided her through the rowdy crowd, using his body to prevent any clumsy boots or careless elbows from finding her.
The cold night air actually felt good. She sucked in a big breath to cool her still stinging mouth. Other than people hurrying indoors or toward parked vehicles, Desi and Buck had the sidewalk to themselves.
A recent snowstorm had dumped nearly eight inches of snow on parts of the city. Today the temperature had risen to over forty degrees, so the gutters were filled with sloppy wet snow piles and ice.
At the far corner, she could see the darkened storefront of Mitzi’s Ice Cream and Candy Shoppe, a Tejon Street fixture since the 1950s. “Told you,” she said. “Closed.”
“Worth a shot,” he said. He touched the side of her hand with his, and when she didn’t pull away, he enfolded her hand in his. He turned west, ambling, peering at storefronts and the turn-of-century brick buildings that housed them. “I like this town.”
“Are you from Colorado?”
“Nebraska,” he said. He stopped and studied a display of used books. “Town called Winnow Corners. Heard of it?”
She thought about it then shook her head. She liked holding his hand. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Huh. I’m surprised. It has almost four hundred people.”
A gust of wind curled around the corner, flipping her hair and tearing the warmth from her cheeks. “The wind is too cold. And I really have to get home. I have to meet a client tomorrow morning.”
“Can’t get him to reschedule for midnight?” he teased and turned around. He turned loose her hand. Before she could register the loss, he draped an arm around her shoulders as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He snuggled her against his body.
The art gallery on the corner had a breezeway. An L-shaped, glass-sided display shielded it from the sidewalk. Inside the breezeway, windows held framed art, ceramics, bronze sculptures and exquisitely handcrafted jewelry. An elaborate neck collar in silver set with dark-blue stones caught her eye. It looked more appropriate for hanging on a wall than actually wearing, but it was beautiful.
“You don’t wear jewelry,” Buck said.
“Gwen wears enough for both of us. I like looking at it, though.”
“Who else wears lots of jewelry?”
The question came from so far out of left field, she hadn’t a clue how to answer. He looked beyond her. She followed his gaze and saw their reflection in the glass. A thump hit her belly, rocking her hips and weakening her knees. He was so tall that even in two-inch heels, the top of her head barely reached his shoulder.
He met her gaze in the glass. His smile turned her insides liquid. When he placed a hand along her cheek and turned her face up to his, she couldn’t have protested even if she thought she should.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. He lowered his face slowly, always watching her eyes. When his mouth hovered less than an inch over hers, she closed the gap. His mouth was gentle and tasted spicy. Her chest grew too tight to breathe. When he slid the tip of his tongue slowly along her upper lip, she parted her lips, inviting him in.
He enfolded her, pressing her against his body, shielding her from the wind. He entwined his fingers in her hair and held the back of her head.
He was twice her size and knew the life-saving fighting skills of a street cop, but Desi felt her own power. She soared on it. She pressed her advantage, dueling with his tongue. When he made a tiny, choked noise in his throat, she knew she could take him to his knees.
She pulled slowly away from his kiss. He nibbled the corner of her mouth and pressed hot kisses on her cheek and the line of her jaw. Her knee and hip joints seemed to have wandered to a bench to watch the action. Desi wobbled, resting her weight for a second against his big hand at the small of her back.
“I really need to get home.” She tensed, waiting, hoping, he’d offer to accompany her.
“I guess,” he said, reluctantly. He eased strands of hair off her face.
He released her, and the corners of his mouth curled in a smile. “I’m hitting on you. Do you mind?”
“No.”
His smile widened. Looking so pleased with himself that Desi almost laughed, he walked her to her car. After she slid behind the wheel, he leaned against the open door. “Are you doing anything Tuesday evening?”
“Tuesday?”
“Wednesdays and Thursdays are my days off. If you’re free, how about dinner and a movie?”
She answered, “Sure, I’d love it” before reason huffed in annoyance. She’d never had a one-night stand but plenty of onetime dates. The men who seemed so interesting before she went out with them quickly revealed their flaws and foibles.
“You’re too picky,” Gwen always told her. “Give a guy a chance instead of going over him with a microscope. So what if his car is dirty or he leaves a chintzy tip or forgets to open a door?”
Realization hit her like a rock in the gut. It wasn’t the men. They were human, after all, and nobody was perfect. She was the problem. Her high standards had
n’t led her to Mr. Right. Her supercilious attitude meant any Mr. Right with half a brain would stay far, far away from her. A sick feeling warned her that she was going to blow it with Buck.
“Six?” he asked. “Early dinner, late movie?”
“Sounds great,” she said. He closed the car door and stepped onto the sidewalk, watching her drive away.
She ran her tongue over her lips, still tasting him.
At home, Spike met her at the door. He twined around her legs and complained in squeaky meows. She scooped him up and hugged him tight. He grumbled and slashed his tail, but made no move to escape.
“I think we’re two of a kind. Always acting grouchy and hard to get along with, but we love to be held. Don’t we? We like Buck, too.” She gave the cat a big kiss between the ears and set him on the floor.
“Now if I can figure out a way to not blow this.”
Chapter Seven
Desi dreamed of Buck. He held her wrists, pressing them into the soft mattress, his body superheated along the length of hers. He kissed her senseless, hot, wet, commanding. Touch me. Please touch me, she pleaded, and he trailed his fingers along her arms, slow and teasing, melting her clothing as if parting mist instead of flannel. She struggled to bring her legs around his hips, but he pinned her flat, his hips undulating slowly, tormenting her with heat. He kissed her chin, her throat, the delicate lines of her collarbones. She tried to hold him, but her arms were useless, weighted, helpless. All she could do was moan as he closed his mouth over her breast. Touch me…touch me…touch me.
He stroked her body, and she could see the lines of heat in red and purple and gold making her skin glow as if on fire. He grasped her face in both hands and kissed her mouth, consuming her, melding their bodies. She couldn’t breathe. He was so heavy, so hot. She tried to move, tried to tell him he smothered her, and she yearned to touch him, but she could not move. His hands caressed her neck. His thumbs pressed lightly into her flesh, then he squeezed, his fingers tightening. She gasped for air and her lungs began to scream.
Her eyes flew open. Blackness loomed over her face. Shadow within shadow, blacker than black. Stars danced before her vision and her eardrums pulsed. The fingers at her neck tightened. She tried to scream, tried to fight, but her body felt like lead.