SleepyHollow2BookBundle

by Ranae Rose

  Should she make a pair of stockings for John too? He spent all of his money on books, and his wardrobe had suffered years of neglect as a result. Did he even have a pair of warm winter stockings? She began to knit, mentally picturing the slender muscle of his calf. The stockings would need to be a bit narrower than the ones she’d made for Brom; that would save her time, and hopefully allow her to finish them before the first frost. The thought was pleasing, but it couldn’t quell her nervousness. She glanced at the window, steeling herself for what she might see, but there was only the vast sky and a sliver of a moon. Had she imagined the phantom rider?

  Maybe, but… She hadn’t been very tired that night, either. She’d been lying sleepless for a while – it wasn’t as if she’d emerged from the fog of slumber, her mind still half-tangled in dreams. And though it had been brief, the sighting had seemed so real. Could the rider be out there now, unfettered by things as simple as gravity? It was a chilling thought, knowing that Brom and John were out there too, actively searching for the horseman.

  John had left her doorstep that evening looking grim. He was a notorious believer in the supernatural, and no doubt she’d alarmed him with her tale, but she hadn’t been able to keep from confessing to him. She’d told no one else of the incident, and it had lain like a stone in the pit of her belly, an uncomfortable burden that caused her stomach to knot whenever she remembered the sighting. It had been a relief to share it with John. If anyone would take her seriously and understand her feelings, it would be him. What on earth would she have done without him – worry her father? No, certainly not. Tell Brom? He doubtlessly would have been sympathetic enough, but he wouldn’t have believed her. The last thing she wanted was for her future husband to think her an idiot who could be easily scared by a few ghost stories. Thank God for John.

  She began to knit the first of the pair of stockings she intended to make for him – if only she could provide something to protect him against the threat of the supernatural as well, and the danger of his own guilt. After all, the expression he’d worn when he’d left the house hadn’t been due entirely to the prospect of hunting the headless horseman. No, she knew better – he would tell Brom that they’d kissed. Her cheeks heated at the thought, and she knit faster. What had she done?

  She’d meant to give him a bit of comfort, a token of her true feelings to ward against the cruel fact that though she loved him just as she loved Brom, she couldn’t marry him. She had, and she didn’t regret it, exactly, but what would transpire between the two men she loved when John confessed? Alarming visions flashed through her mind. Brom was certainly handy with his fists, and had never been known for a peaceable temper. Would he be angry enough with John to strike him, to injure him? Guilt stabbed at her heart as her knitting needles flashed in the candlelight. John would never admit to Brom that she had approached him and practically forced the kiss upon him without invitation. No, he’d take all of the blame, and probably wouldn’t fight back if Brom assaulted him. Biting hard into her lower lip, Katrina threw down her knitting.

  The stockings could wait. She had to tell the truth while Brom and John’s friendship – not to mention John’s lovely, straight teeth – could still be preserved. It could hardly wait until morning, not when Brom and John would be riding together for the next couple of hours. Judging by the look John had worn when he’d departed for Brom’s farm, he wouldn’t be able to hide anything overnight. She could only hope that she wouldn’t be too late to prevent any severed affections or broken teeth. Seizing her shawl, she wrapped it tightly around her shoulders and slipped silently from the room, taking care to avoid the loose floorboard in the hall that tended to groan when stepped upon. It wouldn’t do to wake her father – she’d only be outside for a few minutes, anyway. She’d wait at the door until John and Brom rode by, wave them down and confess everything. She tried not to be afraid of what might be lurking in the night, or of what Brom might think of her when he learned the truth.

  * * * * *

  The night was dark, barely lit by a thin slice of moon. “I hope this headless horseman is a noisy fellow,” John said, “for I don’t think we’ve much of a chance of spotting him, unless he should appear directly in front of us.” That seemed unlikely, given the fact that the disappearing hoofprints were still the most spectacular evidence they’d managed to find. That didn’t stop a shiver from racing down John’s spine when he mentioned the possibility though, and for just a moment, he imagined that he could feel the cold, moist press of fog.

  Brom shrugged, his broad shoulders steeped in the shadows of trees. They had just entered the forest and were riding toward the bridge and the farmland that lay on the other side. If they reached the Jansens’ property without incident, they’d ride back through the forest and the village, making sure that all was well before they retired. It had become their nightly habit, and John felt the strain of it already, though they’d just begun. The harvest was over, which meant a lighter workload for most, but not really for Brom – though he’d harvested his modest crops, the bulk of his work lay in the training and selling of horses, which was still a time-consuming business during the fall months. Likewise, John had no hope of stealing a few extra minutes of rest in the mornings, due to the fact that school was in session. He yawned, letting Gunpowder’s reins droop. The gelding seemed to have grown accustomed to the nightly inconvenience of the patrol and had been behaving marginally better during the rides, though he still raised Hell when being saddled beforehand.

  “Stay sharp,” Brom said. “I know we haven’t caught sight of the bastard yet, but rumors of strange things have been flying around the village more than ever these past couple days, and I get the feeling that they have meaning – that they’re leading up to something. We may catch this horseman yet.”

  John reached down and pressed a hand against Gunpowder’s neck, letting the beast’s warmth soothe his cold fingers. Unfortunately, there was nothing the feel of a warm body could do for the chill Brom’s words had sparked inside him. How strange that Brom, of all people, should have picked up on the same feeling John had been plagued by the last couple days – the sense of foreboding, of impending…what? Maybe not disaster – hopefully not – but something. Rumors had been racing through the village, tales of galloping hooves and horse screams heard in the night, things glimpsed for half a moment and gone the next. As the stories whirled through John’s mind, it didn’t seem at all implausible that he and Brom might encounter the headless horseman at any moment. “What do you make of Katrina’s claim?” he asked, eager to keep the stark silence at bay.

  “It might have only been a dream.” The deep timbre of Brom’s voice was soothing, even if they were still speaking of disconcerting matters.

  “It might have been,” John agreed. “But what if it wasn’t? The thought of a specter passing by her window gives me a dreadful feeling.” To think that such a dark creature might think to frighten or harm sweet Katrina filled him with an unbearable mix of anger and fear.

  “It does me as well, but that’s all the more reason to get to the bottom of this business – if it’s only a man, folk will calm down once we catch him, and there will be no more dreams, no more ghost stories.”

  John nodded, fighting the nervous flutters that had attacked his middle. Brom still spoke of catching a trickster and giving him what-for for frightening the residents of Sleepy Hollow, but he no longer scoffed at John’s suggestions that the culprit might be more than a mere man. Brom’s apparent willingness to at least consider the possibility, if only the slightest bit, was the most frightening aspect of the entire matter.

  Nothing leapt out at them as they approached the bridge, nor materialized in a cloud of fog. The silence pressed in on them though, so thick and heavy that it was impossible to imagine birds singing in the morning from the very same branches that surrounded them. It was a relief when they rode over the bridge; after all, it was a well-known truth that spirits couldn’t cross water. When John had offered up that fac
t days ago, Brom had deemed it horse shit, so they rode on, trotting past the Jansens’ farm, where all appeared to be well. Seeing the stable, Gunpowder made a bid for freedom, but John rode out his bucks and managed to get him turned back around. When they crossed the bridge again, reentering the forest, John felt just as reluctant as Gunpowder. He might not be able to see the haunting presence in the dark, but he could feel it.

  * * * * *

  Katrina pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders and peered across the field, squinting as she scanned the farmland across from the house for any sign of horses and riders. A horse’s whinny had just sounded, causing her to jump, nearly dropping her shawl. The silence had been so absolute beforehand that the sound had seemed like cannonfire. Now, though, it rekindled both her determination and her nervousness – Brom and John would come into view at any moment, and she’d explain how and why she’d kissed her betrothed’s closest friend.

  Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and yet, she saw nothing as she waited. They were nearby, though – the muffled clip-clop of hooves against dirt was still audible. Had they turned around before emerging from the wood? She gripped her shawl tightly, her nails digging into her palm, even through the fabric. Every moment she spent outside was a moment she risked her father waking and realizing she was gone. The hooves weren’t racing; their pace was slow enough that she might be able to catch their attention if she hurried to the edge of the woods and waved her shawl, and perhaps gave a slight shout. She took off at a hasty walk, eyes trained on the edge of the dark wood as she focused on the sound of falling hooves.

  * * * * *

  “God, but it’s a cold night,” John said, buoyed by the sight of the edge of the forest. Within a couple short minutes, he and Brom would emerge from the gloomy shelter of the forest road and make their rounds of the sleeping village. His heart lifted at just the thought of escaping the shadows; the eerily distinct feeling that something was lurking among them seemed to fade with each step toward the open area beyond the fringe of the wood.

  “It is,” Brom agreed, his breath rising in a cloud in front of his face. The sight was reminiscent of a ghostly fog, and John shivered in the saddle. “Were it not for this horseman business, I’d much rather have you beneath me than this damned saddle.” One corner of his mouth curved in a suggestive smile.

  John sucked in a breath, surprised as much by the sudden desire Brom’s confession sparked within him as by his actual words. Brom rarely spoke to him that way – at least, not while they were riding down an oft-traveled road. The man had a wicked tongue at times, but he rarely said such things in a tone above a whisper, and only then when they were utterly alone. Now his words hung in the air along with his breath, and the novelty of it had John’s mind whirling with carnal imaginings, both rough and sensual. The cold that chilled the air permeated the body and the soul, and Brom’s embrace was surely capable of warming both. “Perhaps after we finish our patrol, we can make that a reality.” His body heated at just the idea of Brom’s hard muscles against his.

  “Perhaps.” Brom urged Torben toward Gunpowder, and soon the horses were walking shoulder-to-shoulder, rubbing noses and snorting with interest. Brom’s knee brushed John’s, and he reached across the gap between them, laying a hand on John’s thigh. “God, you’re warm.”

  John sighed, his breath rushing out in a voluminous cloud. “So are you.” Brom’s hand was more than just warm – it was hot, and causing heat to rush up John’s thigh and into his groin. Holding Gunpowder’s reins in one hand, John reached out with his other and touched Brom, laying a hand on his firm thigh. It felt good to be connected, anchored by warm human touch even as the cold air caused the skin on the back of his neck to pebble. There was no “perhaps” about it – they’d have each other, even if it meant another sleepless night.

  Brom withdrew his touch so suddenly that John saw his hand retreating before he felt the absence of his body heat. John began to ask what the matter was, but Brom dug his leg into Torben’s ribs, putting space between the two horses. John’s hand fell limply at his side. “What –”

  “We’re not alone,” Brom said, his voice low. “There’s someone ahead.”

  John’s heart leapt into his throat, and he gripped the reins, head snapping to look straight ahead.

  A figure had indeed appeared at the edge of the forest. John’s stomach clenched as his arousal rapidly turned to alarm. Just how far could one see down the darkened forest path? Could their interrupter have seen them laying hands on each other? “Good God…”

  “It’s very dark,” Brom said shortly.

  It was, but darkness did nothing to disguise the sound of voices, and it was a silent night. How long had the unidentified person been standing there? John’s heart beat brutally against his ribs. If the true nature of his and Brom’s relationship was known, a hunting party would be sent out for them.

  “It’s a woman,” Brom said as they drew closer.

  John nodded. “I see her skirts, and the white of her cap.” His heart sped even more when the woman waved what appeared to be her shawl in the air – clearly, she saw them. His heart nearly stopped when he recognized her.

  “Katrina.” He and Brom said her name at the same time, and a sickly feeling descended upon John. If she saw them and was trying to get their attention, clearly she wasn’t sleep-walking. A new fear quickly overlapped his initial alarm. “Do you think something happened at the farmhouse, and she’s come for help?”

  Brom heeled Torben into a fast canter in response, and John followed suit. They reached the edge of the wood within moments, where Katrina stood, white-faced.

  “What is it?” Brom leapt out of the saddle and hurried to Katrina’s side, laying a hand on her shoulder, searching her blue eyes with his dark ones. His face was a mask of concern – first and foremost for her, surely, but he had to be just as shaken as John for their own sakes, as well.

  Katrina had caught her lower lip between her teeth and clasped her hands in front of her skirts. Each of her knuckles stood out, dainty and ghost-white.

  “Has something gone wrong at the farm?” Brom demanded. “Your father—”

  “No,” Katrina said quickly. “No, nothing like that.”

  None of the tension went out of Brom’s rigid shoulders. He hadn’t been fooled anymore than John had by her reassurances – clearly, something was wrong.

  “I must confess something, Brom.”

  A cloud that had been partially obscuring the night’s modest moon moved out of the way, and in the new light, Katrina was the picture of distress. John felt torn in half – on one hand, he knew he was imposing, but on the other… He wanted nothing so much as to slide off his horse and put an arm around her, to tell her that everything would be all right. He forced himself to stay in the saddle, and realized that he was holding his breath as he awaited her confession.

  “Tell me then,” Brom said, his voice softening to a tone that John had heard on only the rarest of occasions. Most of those times, he’d been in Brom’s arms, and that realization leant an increased air of intimacy to the conversation. Winged creatures erupted into flight inside his belly as he fought the roiling tide of contradicting emotions that struggled for dominance within him.

  Katrina stood a little straighter, her eyes locked with Brom’s. “I kissed John.”

  For a moment, no one said anything. Gunpowder shifted his weight onto a different foot, and John righted himself in the saddle, for he’d slumped a little with relief at Katrina’s words. His heart ached with guilt and sympathy when he saw that the matter troubled her, but at least she hadn’t been harmed, or encountered anymore possibly supernatural phenomena.

  “I know,” Brom said, still in that same gentle tone. “John told me.”

  “Oh!” Katrina recoiled, pressing a hand to her mouth. In a flash, she was beside John’s horse, a hand on his knee as she peered up at him, her eyes searching his face. Whatever she’d feared finding apparently wasn’t there, for she
wilted visibly with relief. “You’re all right then, John?”

  “Quite. What were you afraid of, Katrina?” John was careful to keep a tight hold on the reins, making sure Gunpowder didn’t have enough slack to turn his head and bite Katrina.

  She shook her head, taking a step backward and looking sheepish. “It’s only that… I thought you would tell Brom, and I thought he might – well, strike you.”

  “You abandoned your bed and ventured out into the night alone to see whether I might have a blackened eye?” He was aware that his voice was edged with dissaproval, but that was for the best, considering the tenderness that had welled up inside him at the idea. How very foolish…and utterly sweet.

  “I’d hoped to arrive before it came to that,” she said. “I wanted to tell Brom myself.” Straightening her shoulders again, she turned to face Brom. “I wanted you to know that I kissed him – did he tell you that?”

  Brom shot John a quick look, his dark eyes gleaming with interest, and was that amusement? “No, he didn’t.”

  “I did,” she said. “I kissed him, and he couldn’t have avoided it – at least, not at first.”

  “Was it a very long kiss?” Brom asked. There was an undertone of amusement in his voice, but Katrina clearly didn’t recognize it.

  “It was long enough,” she said, and wrung her skirts. “Oh, Brom, I’m sorry if you’re furious. But if you are, I deserve your anger, not John.”

  “I’m not angry.” Brom stroked her cheek, tucking away a stray lock of hair. He’d drawn her so close that their lips were nearly touching. The tenderness of the scene had John frozen, his heart skipping a beat despite the tension and his significant role in causing Katrina’s distress. He was acutely aware that he was glimpsing into their private world, the one they’d exist together in after the wedding – and that he’d be left on the outside of it then, just as he was now. A pang of longing slowed his racing heart, causing him to forget about his fear of being caught with Brom. All that mattered was that Brom and Katrina were the two most perfect people in the world, and that it would be very difficult to be anything other than a cause of strife to both of them. The fact that Katrina had ventured out into the dangerous night alone because of him made that clear.