A few followed his lead, picking up rocks and flinging them at Elizabeth, who kept her eyes firmly closed. “Witch!” they cried. “Kill the witch!”
Sarah struggled to speak—Stop. No. Leave her alone—but only guttural squeaks emerged from her throat.
The cart traveled slowly up a rocky incline. At the top, a hangman’s noose hung from a birch tree. The family of each condemned woman were forced to pay a fee to the executioner. A final injustice.
Again, she mewled and tried to scream, until at last she awoke and took several deep, calming breaths.
Only a dream. It meant nothing. She sank into the mattress and took note of the feel of soft cotton on her skin, the chill crispness of the air, a moonbeam glowing against the frozen windowpane. Sarah grounded her body in the sensory details. She lived, she observed, she would overcome.
Maybe coming to WCS had been a mistake. Much as she loved it, the historical atmosphere wasn’t her ally in the fight for peace and happiness. A person who dreamed of witch trials asked for trouble coming to Salem.
Then again, she’d always been one to put up a good fight.
3
A shiver of awareness prickled his scalp.
Not now! Tanner tried to block the tingling in his mind, concentrating instead on the image of Sarah framed in the library window. After weeks of seeing her from afar, tonight was their first date. And he wasn’t about to start hunting down . . .
. . . it was no use.
Experience had taught him that the harder he fought the impulse, the stronger it grew, until it became an all-consuming obsession.
Tanner scanned Clara Hall’s waiting parlor, an old-fashioned place where gentleman callers waited for their dates to appear from the forbidden sanctity of the dorm rooms. WCS was no liberal bastion of coed dorms or condoms passed out like candy.
That was okay. Tanner grinned, patting the foil package in his back pocket. Sarah probably wasn’t the kind of girl who had sex on the first date—but a man could hope.
His momentary amusement vanished as he casually walked the room, seeking the lost object. It would probably turn out to be something useless like a lost earring, a few coins, or an umbrella. Other guys drifted in and out of the room with their dates, paying him no mind. Over the years, he’d learned to search with cunning and efficiency.
For such an old-fashioned room, it was surprisingly sparse. No frilly Victorian accessories, floral sofas, or Tiffany lamps softened the dorm ambiance. Cheap vinyl couches and chairs were scattered over a concrete floor, and a small television set was mounted on the wall.
Fine by him. The less clutter, the easier his search. Discreetly, he picked up a few discarded paperbacks and examined the nooks and crannies of the room. Meanwhile, his brain played its own internal version of Marco Polo. Warmer, it signaled by a tingling in his fingertips. Colder, it signaled by a chill down his spine.
Gradually, the mental gymnastics led him to a weathered credenza shoved in the far corner. No doubt a reject some professor had donated to rid his office of the ugly piece of furniture. Tanner slid open a wooden panel and ran a finger over the yellowed periodicals. Fascinating stuff about the history of the college and its former presidents. Stuff nobody even bothered throwing in the trash.
His hand pulsed with heat as he reached the end of the row, and his brow furrowed. These old papers obviously weren’t of interest to anyone, and for his mind to pick up an object’s sensation, it had to be missed by its owner. Tanner shoved dozens of them to the side, revealing a new-looking leather journal hidden behind them. Curious, he opened it.
The scent of roses wafted from the cream-colored pages. The journal was halfway filled with penned entries, and he flipped to the front to see if the owner’s name might be there.
Sarah Welch. What the hell was this doing here?
Hot and cold waves simultaneously rushed through his body. He read the first entry, dated August 29:
I’m really here! I can’t believe my luck. I keep expecting the dean to call me to his office and tell me it’s all been a mistake, that I’m not a fit candidate for their fine institution. He interviewed me before I was accepted and showed obvious reluctance. He pulled out a thick file and surveyed it through bifocals. I knew what he read. Foster child. Always a loner. Grades decidedly average. Not a club or athletics team or an activity joiner. Too many schools in four years, although I probably wouldn’t have participated anyway. I reminded myself that my ACT scores were through the roof, proof I was smart enough to get by at WCS, but it was a close call.
Foster child. Poor Sarah, that must have been tough. How easily he took his own family for granted. Sure, they were heavily into the woo-woo stuff, but it was kind of cute. And they went to every football game he ever played, cheering him on. Their love and support were unconditional. What would it have been like to have had that jerked from beneath him at a young age?
Pretty devastating.
Tanner stared at the journal. What was he supposed to do with this? He couldn’t stuff it back in the credenza where it didn’t belong, and Sarah probably wondered where it was. Maybe he could put it back for now and find a way to sneak it into her dorm later. His hands reached toward the credenza, and then seemed to pull back through their own volition. Reading the first page had been accidental—he couldn’t help glancing over the name and first paragraph to discover the owner. If he read any more, it was a violation of Sarah’s privacy.
Yeah, he was going to be That Guy. It would be a shortcut to understanding the mysterious woman who drew him to her like a candle in the dark. He rifled through the pages to the last dated entry. Yesterday.
My best day here yet. I met this awesome guy at the library—yep—Mister Tall, Dark, and Handsome. He has the cutest southern accent, and he makes me laugh. And his kiss!
A grin of pure male satisfaction spread across his face. So she’d felt it, too.
And later, Bridget and the others came by my room and asked if I wanted to visit their coven tomorrow night. I wasn’t sure at first since Rebecca poked her nose in my private grimoire, but the others seem okay. Especially Ann. So I agreed and am—
“Where did you find that?”
Feminine hands snatched the journal away, and Tanner rose to his feet. “Sorry, I found this . . .”
Holy crap. Sarah stood before him, mouth pursed, outrage flashing in her eyes. “How much did you read?” she asked, each syllable jabbing his conscious like shards of glass.
“Too much,” he admitted. “The first page and the last.”
Spots of color burned her pale face. “You had no right.”
“I know. Look, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
She held up a hand, cutting off his apology. “Where did you get this?”
He gestured at the credenza. “It was here, behind a bunch of old books.”
Her brow wrinkled, and she shook her head. “Impossible. I kept this hidden in my room. I realized it was missing this afternoon when I wanted to write.”
“It is weird,” he admitted. “And I can see why you don’t believe me. But think about it. I’ve been at work all day—feel free to check with my boss.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “On a Saturday? Get real.”
“We’re working on a major project for the science department. And even if I wasn’t at my job, if I came in the women’s dorm, someone would be bound to notice.”
She tapped her fingers to her lips, and her shoulders relaxed. “You’ve got a point. But I don’t understand why anyone would want to read it and then stuff it in here. It makes no sense.”
“Maybe you should ask that Rebecca girl.”
“So you read about that.”
“Yep, she’s the one who poked her nose in your grimoire without permission.”
“The grimoire,” Sarah whispered.
It was out. Laid bare between them like a live, twitching thing. Silence stretched and pulsed with a heavy beat.
Tanner cleared his throat. “It’s okay, I understa
nd. My mom and sister have their own Books of Shadows filled with spells.”
She sensed an energy about him, a power of some sort. “And you? You must have used magic”—she held up the journal— “to find this.”
“It’s complicated.” He scratched the back of his head and glanced around at the couples coming and going. “If you aren’t too angry, please let me still take you to dinner. We can talk about it there.”
Her eyes dropped to the journal, which was far too large for her purse. “But what am I going to do with this?”
“Carry it with you?” he asked doubtfully.
She frowned. “Guess I’ll have to. I sure can’t leave it in my dorm, even hidden.”
He remembered the tool chest in his truck. “I’ve got an idea.”
Sarah fingered the cool, hard metal keys in her purse and found them oddly comforting. Tanner returned to the table, seemingly unaware of the waitresses and patrons checking out his cute ass.
Or maybe he did. He had a kind of confidence about him and a gleam in his brown eyes, as if he found a secret amusement in everything. She returned her hands to the table and sipped the steaming tea.
Tanner slid into the booth and swigged his soda. “The only way to drink tea is iced, with lots of sugar. I sure miss it.”
“Homesick?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” he grinned. “Every time I scrape ice from my windshield, I question my sanity.”
“Tell me about Alabama.”
“It’s hot.”
“I’m serious.” She set down her tea cup. The whole concept of home tugged at her heart. “What’s your family like?”
The laughter in his eyes morphed to understanding. Of course. He’d read her journal, knew about the foster care.
“We live in a small town that backs up next to the last rolling hills of the Appalachians. Mom and Dad run the local dry cleaners. Got a younger sister—Tanya—who’s a senior in high school.”
“So how did you end up in the frigid north?”
He grimaced. “Football injury. Played at Alabama. Once that got blown to hell, I kind of drifted. My dream had been to play in the pros one day. My folks thought it’d do me good to get away, so they got in contact with my uncle at WCS, and . . . here I am.”
His family cared about him. Bet he didn’t know how lucky . . .
“I’m starting to realize how lucky I am,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “But it took a while. I had a major pity party going on for a few months.” He gave a lopsided grin. “Party of one.”
“Sounds lonely.” She understood lonely.
“Actually, it was.”
His usual smile was back in place, but he reached a hand across the table, enveloping hers with strong warmth.
Sarah momentarily closed her eyes and allowed herself the fleeting illusion of being enveloped by a sense of home and safety. She popped them back open and straightened in her seat. Everything about Tanner spelled potential heartbreak: He was only in Salem temporarily, he was a drifter with no clear goals, and he was suspiciously full of secrets.
The waitress took their orders and in mere minutes returned with two heaping platefuls of spaghetti and meatballs. They each dug in with gusto, until at last Sarah pushed away her plate. Time for a real talk, one they’d managed to avoid during the spaghetti fest. “How did you find my journal?” she asked.
Tanner sighed. “We’re back to that, huh?” He drummed his fingers on the wooden table. “I don’t know if I can give you a rational explanation. It’s something I’ve always done. Even as a little kid, my parents would come to me when they’d misplaced their keys or couldn’t find something. As I grew up, I got better at it. That’s why I’m so good at my job. I can look at long strings of code and find what’s missing, or what’s not in a logical pattern.”
“A magical gift?” It had to be. She’d never heard of anyone else with that ability.
He shrugged. “I suppose so. It’s like an itch in my brain. Like right now, I could probably find a pair of lost sunglasses, a glove, coins, whatever people have left behind.”
“That’s so cool.”
“No, it’s rough. I’ve learned to make adjustments and tune out minor objects calling out to be found. But occasionally, like earlier tonight, I can’t ignore the summons.”
“Like my journal. Why?”
“Because you have a strong attachment to it. And because, well, I’m starting to have a strong attachment to you. I know this is quick, but that’s how I feel. There’s just something about you.”
Her mouth went dry. Tanner said it so easily, so casually. Words that were difficult for her. Words she’d come to mistrust with each new family that sent her away.
But she’d come to college to start fresh. To try new things, to get closer to others, to open her soul. An uneasy smile trembled on her lips. “Ditto,” she whispered.
Oh Goddess, how lame was that? He’d reached out to her, and all she could manage was ditto?
“Good.” He nodded and reached for her hand again.
Sarah released the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. He wasn’t offended at all. “And I trust you,” she added.
“Double good. Because I wouldn’t give just any girl the keys to my toolbox.” He winked.
“I feel better knowing the journal is safe with you.”
“What about the grimoire? Should we stash it in there too? When I get back to my apartment, I can store them properly for you.”
She shook her head emphatically. “No way. I like to look at it every day. It belonged to my mother.” And what if Tanner decided he didn’t want to see her anymore? He could pack his bags and drive south tomorrow if he wanted. She could bear to see the journal go, but the grimoire was irreplaceable. Precious.
“What happened to your mother?”
Normally, she hated to discuss her past, but Tanner was so easy to talk to. “She died in a car wreck when I was twelve. I never knew my father. Mom was on the outs with her family. She never talked of them. I figure she must have been disinherited or something. At any rate, I ended up burdening Social Services. No one wants to adopt a girl with one foot heading into puberty. The younger you are, the better your chances.”
He nodded and gave no comment, for which she was grateful. No need for sympathy or a long, drawn-out conversation about the miserable foster care system. That was understood.
“Are you a witch or not?” he asked.
He’d caught her off balance with the sudden change of topic, and her thoughts swirled. She drew a deep breath. He’d opened up to her, explaining his gift to find lost objects and even alluded to having a rough time after his injury. It wouldn’t kill her to talk about it.
“Sort of,” she admitted.
He raised a brow.
“I’m not trying to evade the question. The grimoire belonged to my mother. She never labeled herself a witch, although clearly she practiced a mild form of it. Unlike you, I don’t have a special ability.”
“But?”
“But I have these dreams. Nightmares, actually. And it’s always the same. Like my mind is a TV station that’s continually set on the same program.”
“That doesn’t sound like a gift to me.”
“It’s not. I’d rather not have them. In every dreams, I’m watching condemned women who are facing execution for witchcraft.”
For a nanosecond, Tanner appeared to flinch, then return to his easygoing, confident manner. So quickly, she might have imagined the reaction.
“In Salem, of course. Have you considered it might just be the result of your Special Studies class?”
“Of course. The witch trial dreams didn’t start until I came here. But I’ve always had realistic, vivid dreams. Like your finding gift, my dreams get stronger the older I grow.”
“And you think this somehow makes you a witch?”
She straightened the silverware. “Yes. Because I really see the past. Or I think I do.”
He gave a low w
histle.
“It feels too real to be a dream. I mean I am there. Not in my body, but in my mind. I feel their sweaty fear, I hear the clink of the jailer’s key, I watch as the judge condemns them.”
“I believe you.”
Her eyes snapped to his face. No one had ever taken the dreams seriously, and she’d learned to bottle them up in her mind. “Why?” she asked simply.
“Why wouldn’t I? That’s why you were reading that book at the library. To discover more details on the women.”
“Yes. But . . . most people would find it bizarre to have such vivid dream recall of the distant past. Even here in Salem.”
Tanner shook his head. “I’ve seen more weirdness than you can imagine. The mountain hollows brim with folk magic and powerful witches and warlocks. Immortals, too. I’ve witnessed battles between the differing factions, and even I can hardly believe what my own eyes have seen. Salem’s got nothing over Appalachia.”
“And you’ve got that power,” she breathed. “I feel it in you.”
Tanner opened his mouth, then snapped it shut.
“What?” she urged.
“Automatic reflex. I was about to deny it. But no matter how far I go, or how much I distance myself, in the end, I’m still a witch. Or a warlock. Pick your own label.”
“You should be proud. It’s what makes you special. And your gift helps people find what they’ve lost. It has purpose. Whereas mine . . . only torments me.”
“Yours must have purpose, too. Give it time.”
She nodded, hoping desperately that Tanner was right.
“Everything all right here?” Their waitress hovered, a water pitcher in hand. “Any dessert?”
Tanner glanced at her, and Sarah shook her head. “We’re good. Thanks,” he replied.
“I’ll get your bill then.” She hurried away, and Sarah took another sip of tea.
“You still have some explaining to do, mister,” she said, only half-teasing. “Why did you read my journal when you found it?”
“At first, I was only trying to find out who it belonged to.” He stopped and looked down at his drink.
“And then?” she prompted.
Charmed by the Salem Witch: A Witch Romance (Appalachian Magic Series Book 3) Page 3