by Ranae Rose
The faintly amused tone of Brom’s voice sealed John’s determination. “Absolutely I’ll go with you.”
* * * * *
The best seamstress in Tarrytown had promised to finish Katrina’s gown in time for the wedding, and Katrina’s father had spoken with the local minister, who’d readily agreed to perform the ceremony. Katrina should have been pleased with the day’s events, and in a way she was, but as she settled beneath the blankets and sank into the mattress, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on hindered her happiness.
She smoothed the quilt over her middle, staring out the window at the moon. A day’s passage had shaved a sliver from the silver half-sphere, leaving it a little less full than it had been the night before. Consequently, the world was a little darker, including the inside of Katrina’s bedroom. Shadows stretched across the floorboards and loomed over her bed, undeniably gloomy. If only she still had John’s favorite volume of poetry – she could have comforted herself by reading a few verses by candlelight before bed. A pang of regret struck her as she imagined the feel of pages between her fingers, but returning the book had been worth it – seeing John safe and well had been an immense relief.
He’d seemed stable in Brom’s company, if not completely at ease, and there was no question that he’d enjoyed her pie. She lapsed automatically into a smile at the memory of how his face had looked when he’d first smelled the gooseberries. Surely morbid thoughts couldn’t coexist with the anticipation and enjoyment of a freshly baked pie. She’d felt satisfied when she’d left the schoolhouse, confident in John’s safety – it had been on the way home from Tarrytown that this melancholy feeling had first assailed her.
She’d ridden in the carriage with her father, and they’d been caught off guard by rain that had been as fierce as it had been unexpected. It had blown beneath the carriage’s top, driven by the wind, and dampened her skin and clothing. Each drop had felt like a tiny needle, driving cold deep into her bones. As she’d shivered against the carriage seat, she’d seen a pair of crows roosting in a barren tree, heads tucked against the rain.
She’d instantly thought of John, who, ever-superstitious, regarded the somber birds as worthy of suspicion at best, and often, harbingers of bad fortune. But she’d heard other, happier things about them – namely, that a pair of crows foretold a wedding. The sight of them might have heartened her, if it hadn’t been for the fact that her and Brom’s wedding would be bad fortune for John, in a way. She wasn’t a fool – she was fully aware that John harbored feelings for her that went beyond mere friendship. And she returned his affection, though her fondness for Brom was no weaker for it.
So she’d ridden back to the farm, a prisoner of her own contradicting emotions, and had passed the afternoon in a whirlwind of domestic industry, baking and cleaning the daylight hours away. Now she was tired, but sleep eluded her. Instead, her worries and hopes about the next two weeks’ events burst forth like sudden rain.
It wasn’t only her impending marriage and the fact that it might isolate her from her good friend John that worried her, but a chilling tale that a neighbor had related to her father that afternoon. Katrina had heard every word. Even now, despite the fact that her body heat had thoroughly warmed the blankets, she shivered as she imagined the headless specter the Smits claimed to have encountered two nights before, on the way home from the harvest celebration.
Although the story was harrowing enough on its own, it hadn’t escaped her that it had occurred directly after John’s attempted suicide. There was no direct or definite connection she could point to, but it was disconcerting to hear of death riding among the living when someone she loved had so recently cheated it. Doing her best to cleanse her mind of spectral images and morbid fancies, she let herself dwell instead on the two very alive men who had dominated her thoughts of late.
Rain began to fall again, and the steady beating of it against the roof lulled her into a sleepy, if not quite restful state. As she slipped into the world of slumber, Brom and John stayed with her. In the peculiar way of dreams, she hovered somewhere in the distance, and saw herself standing before a minister with a man dressed in his Sunday best.
He, the groom, was Brom, of course, except…sometimes he wasn’t. Sometimes he was John, and then, the next moment, Brom again. By the time the ceremony was over, she wasn’t sure who she’d married, but her heart swelled with joy beneath the pale blue fabric of her wedding gown regardless. The fantasy sped forward, and by the time she arrived home with her bridegroom, she was experiencing the dream from within her own body. When she reached her marriage bed, she distinctly felt two sets of hands descend on her body, slipping beneath her gown and causing her breath to catch in her chest and then escape her in a rush as her nipples pricked against the fine fabric of her shift.
CHAPTER 4
The last sliver of daylight had disappeared nearly an hour ago, slipping behind the tree line, a scenic view of which was afforded by the Jansens’ kitchen window. John had watched the light go, and it hadn’t so much faded as simply vanished, abruptly darkening the countryside. It had been an unsettling moment, but each minute that had stretched by afterward had been more so. Where was Brom? He’d said he’d arrive at the Jansens’ around sunset. John had waited faithfully at the table across from the window, keeping an uneventful watch. He tried not to think about what might have happened if Brom had encountered the headless phantom on his way to the Jansens’ farm – after all, he did have to ride through the forest to get there.
But that was nonsense. Another man, John might have truly worried about, but it was next to impossible to imagine a man as solidly made as Brom Bones being bested by a specter. So where was he?
Footsteps sounded on the hallway floorboards, padding softly toward the kitchen. John turned in his chair, tearing his gaze away from the window for the first time since he’d sat down. Could it be Mrs. Jansen, come to ply him with more food? A half-full plate still sat in front of him, bearing thick slices of bread generously slathered with butter and berry preserves, and a hunk of cheese half the size of a man’s fist. Apparently, she thought the victuals a must if John was to successfully hunt down the headless horseman; it hadn’t mattered a bit to her that he’d already eaten a large dinner.
It wasn’t Mrs. Jansen, but her youngest son, Joshua.
“What are you doing out of bed?” John asked, suppressing a smile of amusement. The boy normally sounded like a bull stampeding through a china cabinet when he walked even the shortest distance through the house. That he’d managed to creep so quietly from his room was a mark of the fact that he knew very well that he should be in bed, and what the consequences would be if his mother or father found him wandering about.
“I’ve been up working,” Joshua said, his face remarkably sober. “On this.” He raised one small fist, and something dangled from it, swinging to and fro like a pendulum.
“Ah, what have we here?” John leaned forward on the edge of his seat, donning what was hopefully his most scholarly expression of interest out of deference to Joshua’s somber demeanor.
“A crucifix. For you.”
John reached out and cupped the dangling object. It was indeed a small crucifix, roughly made of two slender sticks that had been whittled down to their smooth white cores and bound together with what looked like horsehair. It hung from a rough leather cord, long enough to be draped around a man’s neck.
“You’ll need it for protection against the headless horseman,” Joshua said, blinking earnestly up at John with large brown eyes. “A demon can’t touch you if you wear this – it’s the second best thing to holy water. Bartholomew Damkot says so.”
Bartholomew Damkot was another of John’s pupils, a boy a year or so older than Joshua. “Bartholomew Damkot is very wise for his age,” John said, “but you heard Mr. Van Brunt this morning – he supposes that the specter is only a prankster.” The idea of Joshua and Bartholomew – seven and eight, respectively – holding a schoolboys’ council over h
ow best to protect their teacher against evil spirits was endearingly amusing, but John didn’t dare smile.
“But you don’t believe that, Master Crane, and neither do I.” Joshua let go of the cord, and the crucifix dropped into John’s palm, a tiny weight in the hollow of his cupped hand. “Mr. Van Brunt is very strong and brave, but you’ve read more books than he has. You’re more learned about these things.” Joshua waved one hand toward the window, and John couldn’t help but let his gaze stray toward it for a moment.
No sign of Brom on the faintly moonlit road, yet. A shiver raced down John’s spine, and he labored to keep his shoulders square and still as he closed his hand around the miniature wooden cross. “Thank you, Joshua.” He slipped the cord over his neck, and despite his private amusement over Joshua’s efforts, felt a sense of comfort drape over him like a blanket. Yes, he’d wear the crucifix – the boy had made it with his own hands and risked a switched backside to deliver it to him, after all.
Joshua nodded in approval and took a couple of steps backward, slipping into the shadowed hallway. “Good luck,” he said. “And be careful when you go to saddle Gunpowder. I took those hairs from his tail, and he wasn’t pleased.”
As Joshua stepped out of sight, John ran a thumb over the center of the crucifix, rubbing the coarse hair that bound it. He frowned at the thought of the boy hovering around Gunpowder’s hindquarters, surely dodging kicks as he plucked them. If he’d survived that, maybe the cross really would protect its wearer from evil.
When Brom finally appeared on the road, mounted on Torben, John jumped and nearly turned over his chair. He’d sat so long at the table, thinking of ghastly things, that Brom had nearly looked like a ghost himself when he’d appeared in the hazy moonlight, mounted on his dark steed. Pressing a hand to his heart and biting back a curse, John pushed the chair back under the table and made quickly for the door, pausing only to seize a lantern.
“What kept you?” John asked when Brom reined Torben in, stopping in front of him.
“Rode slowly on the way here,” Brom said, seeming supremely unaware of how he’d worried John. “Doubled back a couple times, looking for anything amiss.”
John frowned up at Brom, who sat tall in the saddle. “You were supposed to fetch me before you began investigating.”
“It would have been a waste not to have taken a brief look around – our culprit might have preferred an early start tonight.”
They would have gotten an early start too if Brom had shown up on time, but John chose not to point that out. “Well, was anything amiss?”
“No.”
John thumbed the crucifix hanging over his breast again – might it provide virtues such as patience, in addition to protection? Between Brom and Gunpowder, it would be just as welcome. “I’ll fetch my horse then.”
Brom rode the short distance to the Jansens’ stable and dismounted. “Would you like help with the wicked beast?”
“Perhaps that would be best, for time’s sake. I’ve received a tip that he’ll be in one of his fouler tempers.”
Brom replied with a grunt that John took to mean that Brom didn’t distinguish between Gunpowder’s various black moods, and they approached the creature’s stall together.
The cantankerous old gelding was standing in one corner, his bony hindquarters angled toward the door. As John and Brom approached, Gunpowder bent his neck to peer at them balefully, his eyes gleaming with reproach. John laid a hand on the stall latch and the horse shifted his weight onto one leg, cocking the opposite hoof in preparation to kick.
“Our task is too important to risk breaking any bones before we set out,” Brom said, laying a hand over John’s and stilling it on the bolt. “Here.” Brom strode down the aisle and ducked into the feed room, emerging with a bucket. He shook it, causing a sparse handful of oats to rattle inside.
Even Gunpowder wasn’t immune to the allure of oats. He swung about rapidly, nostrils flaring as he scented the air, his ears pinned back against his skull. While Gunpowder shoved his nose into the bucket, John seized a rope and looped it securely around the horse’s neck. Gunpowder seemed oblivious, until he finished the oats. When they were gone, he tugged against the rope and gave John a look of sheer hatred.
“Easy now, you old bastard,” John said, finally unlatching the stall and stepping inside, holding firmly onto the rope. He managed to bridle Gunpowder without losing any of his fingers, and then saddled him without having his toes crushed. “Overall, a roaring success,” he said, emerging from the stall, leading his reluctant mount by the reins. By some lucky intuition, he was able to dodge a bite that Gunpowder aimed at his backside. As he leapt forward, the beast’s lips grazed the seat of his breeches and a hot blast of breath warmed the fabric. John shifted his grip on the reins, holding them directly beneath Gunpowder’s whiskery chin, immobilizing his head.
The lantern was put out and left behind as John, Brom and Gunpowder exited the stable. Outside, both men mounted their horses. Torben pawed the ground, obviously eager to be off. Energized by the oats, Gunpowder gave a few wild bucks that belied his age. Brom waited until John was able to get Gunpowder under some semblance of control before heeling his own mount into a brisk trot. With a few solid kicks, John was able to coax Gunpowder into a similar gait. All went well, until they reached the bridge that spanned the stream that ran at the edge of the wood.
“Whoa!” John barked, trying to rein Gunpowder in and heel him toward the bridge at the same time. Gunpowder resisted, trying his damndest to bolt in the opposite direction.
“Would you like to switch horses?” Brom asked, watching the proceedings with a frown. “I’ll straighten that nag out for you.”
“That’s quite all right,” John breathed, wrestling with the reins. “I’m used to his antics.” It was a sad fact that Brom thought John a poor rider, due to the fact that he’d scarcely ever seen him mounted on a sane animal. While John was no master horseman like Brom, he could at least handle a horse without being thrown, and eventually reach his destination. Usually, anyway. Tonight, Gunpowder was certainly giving his all to his efforts to unseat John and return to the privacy of his stall.
“Nonsense,” Brom said firmly, and swung his leg over Torben’s back, gripping the pommel of his saddle.
Just when Brom was halfway dismounted, one foot in the air and the other still in the stirrup, Torben reared violently, shrieking as he lashed out with steel-shod hooves. As Brom’s foot slipped and he became airborne, Gunpowder seized the bit between his teeth and jerked his head.
“Brom!” John’s heart leapt into his throat as Brom hit the ground, landing on his backside and bouncing before sprawling in the dirt and dead leaves.
“Damn!” Brom was on his feet within a moment, cursing, but it was too late – Torben had escaped. He thundered across the field, running toward the Jansens’ farm.
Gunpowder shrieked and made a desperate bid for freedom, leaping forward and then throwing his back legs up in an almighty buck.
“Don’t let him!” Brom shouted, lunging for Gunpowder’s head. “Don’t let him follow!”
Gunpowder snorted in defiance when Brom seized his bridle, but was unable to overpower the man’s grip. Before John could so much as blink, Brom had seized Gunpowder’s mane and pulled himself onto the animal’s back. John was bumped unceremoniously out of the saddle, left to sit behind it, straddling Gunpowder’s bare, bony back. “What in God’s name are you doing?” he demanded.
Brom replied by wordlessly snatching the reins from John’s hands and digging his heels into Gunpowder’s sides, sending him flying after Torben. Despite the burden of two men, Gunpowder moved with a speed he probably hadn’t used for a good five years. John cried out indignantly as the creature’s vertebrae dug into his balls, and was forced to wrap his arms around Brom’s waist in order to keep from falling off the back end of the speeding horse.
Several breathless moments passed, during which he managed to elevate his tender nether-region a little by
fiercely gripping Gunpowder’s sides between his thighs and tightening his hold around Brom’s waist. “We must look like complete idiots,” he said between clenched teeth. It was all too easy to imagine how he and Brom must look, two grown men hunched together on the back of a bony old nag, racing wildly toward the stable. John could only hope, quite desperately, that no one would see them.
Apparently worried enough over Torben to risk being seen looking like a fool, Brom rode on, urging Gunpowder toward the Jansens’ stable, which Torben had dashed into. When they finally came to a sliding halt in the stableyard, John couldn’t dismount fast enough. He hopped off before Brom, wincing as his thighs twinged and an ache flared in his abused balls. “How I hate you, you senseless, spine-backed creature,” he said, panting as he looked Gunpowder in the eye.
Gunpowder merely stamped a foot and turned his head toward the dark interior of the stable, plainly pleased to be back home and riderless once again.
Brom thrust the reins into John’s hands and hurried into the stable, murmuring reassurances to Torben. While he was gone, John took the opportunity to catch his breath.
Torben’s nostrils were flaring pink when he was led out of the stable by Brom.
“It’s not like him to spook,” John remarked as moonlight gleamed on the surfaces of the horse’s wide, dark eyes.
Brom shook his head, like a father who’d just been disappointed by a trusted son. “The nag,” he said simply, casting a dark look in Gunpowder’s direction.
John wasn’t about to stand up for the temperamental gelding, but as terrible as Gunpowder’s behavior so often was, he’d never managed to upset Torben so badly before. It was almost as if something else entirely had spooked the horses. It wasn’t impossible – after all, they’d set out to hunt down a headless horseman, and while Brom may have convinced himself of the reputed phantom’s humanity, that was hardly a possibility if the Smits’ story was true. “Perhaps both the horses were scared by something on the other side of the bridge.”