Mesmerist

by Pam McCutcheon

  “I couldn’t.” But it sounded good.

  “Sure you could.” Paul joined her at the counter, mirroring her folded arms but eyeing her with that stubborn look. “It’s free. It’s not being used.”

  “But—”

  “Ski season isn’t in full swing yet. You’ll be by yourself. No one to bother you.”

  “Well . . .” It sounds really good. But I shouldn’t.

  “You’d be doing Uncle Andre a favor, making sure it’s in good shape.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Go on. Do it. You haven’t taken a vacation since this place opened.”

  Corrie studied his face and detected only what she always found. Friendship.

  “You could leave tomorrow morning and—the way you drive—be there by dark.”

  “Get real. It’s two or three long days’ drive to Virginia.”

  “You have two weeks.”

  “But—”

  “Do it. It’ll be fun.”

  Maybe it would be fun. “Well . . . all right.”

  “Great.” He shot his cuffs and headed for the dining room. “I’m putting up the closed sign, then I’ll write out the directions for you since you refuse to trust the GPS on that phone you never carry.”

  “Thanks,” she called after him. Maybe being in a strange place would make the two weeks fly by.

  Paul stuck his head back in. “Then we’ll go to the party as soon as these customers finish.”

  Corrie gritted her teeth until her jaw cracked. What was it Scrooge said? Oh, yeah. “Bah humbug.”

  A few days later, Corrie anticipated surviving Christmas in rather better shape than usual. The nightmares that usually accompanied Christmas hadn’t occurred. And, as a tourist, she wasn’t exposed to the incessant holiday wishes—or worse, pity—of coworkers.

  Every night, she built a fire and sipped good wine while consuming romance novels by her favorite authors, with an occasional foray into The Complete Works of Shakespeare. By day, she explored Hope Springs with its quaint stores and even ventured up the hill to the abandoned Victorian-era resort called the Chesterfield. Something about the ramshackle grande dame called to her.

  This morning, she was breakfasting at the Coffee Cup Café in the old Morris Mercantile building as she planned her day over a map of the area that covered most of the table. She felt comfortable, having eaten here several times since her arrival. While the menu couldn’t be called gourmet, the cook had a definite way with French toast.

  “More coffee, hon?” The bee-hived waitress in the turquoise uniform set the pot down to straighten the load of dirty dishes on her arm.

  “Thanks.” Corrie’s eyes never left the map as she forked up another piece of syrup-soaked bread. If she didn’t strike up conversations, folks didn’t get involved in her life.

  “You surely do enjoy Joe Brown’s French toast,” the older woman said and turned away.

  Thinking she was safe, Corrie laughed. “It’s threatening my waistline. But then, resisting temptation has never been my forte.”

  “Why, honey, you’re too young to be worryin’ about resistin’ temptation.” The woman’s Marlboro-roughened laugh ricocheted off the ceiling as she placed the dishes on a vacant table and picked up the coffeepot. “You oughta be chasin’ that sucker!”

  Uh-oh. Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut, Webb?

  “Here now, where ya tryin’ to find?” An ample polyester-covered hip blocked escape from the booth.

  Except for her, the café was empty. She resigned herself to the inevitable chumminess. “There’s supposed to be a waterfall up past that old hotel, but I can’t find it on this map.”

  “Shoot, it ain’t hard to find.” Without a glance at Corrie’s cup, the waitress filled it to within a quarter inch of the rim. One neon orange talon tapped the map. “Right along here is the old railroad spur—used to serve the Chesterfield back before it closed.”

  “So I follow the spur and then what?”

  “About halfway up the spur, see that little blue squiggle right there?”

  Sure enough, a faint blue line traced its way past the end of the black-hatched marking of the railroad. She nodded.

  “Just follow that up about a half mile or so, and there you’ll be. But you gotta be careful . . . ,” the waitress said, obviously winding up for a long spell.

  Now came the difficult part—how to get the woman to leave her alone. Corrie knew she was only being friendly, but she never made friends easily. Short-term stays meant short-term relationships.

  Fortunately, a sheriff, two Hope Springs policemen, and a pair of Virginia highway patrolmen strolled in, and Corrie sighed in relief. She wasn’t the only one addicted to Joe’s cooking, and these guys were a heaven-sent diversion. The waitress followed them, deftly filled their cups, and jotted down orders, all the while keeping up a steady flow of banter.

  Which gave Corrie time to finish her meal without further interruption. When the waitress dropped her check on the table, Corrie glanced up. “Thanks for the directions.”

  “You just be careful up around the Chesterfield, honey. There’s tell of people goin’ up there and not comin’ back.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “And today’s the winter solstice.”

  “Now, don’t go scaring the girl with your tall tales. No more people disappear at the solstice than any other day.” One of the patrolmen swiveled in his chair to face Corrie. “But you watch the sky, little lady. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a snow squall any time now.”

  She nodded a thanks, then hurried out to her beat-up Corolla. The wind tugged at her jacket and rattled the Christmas lights on the bare trees in the parking lot. Corrie paused, her hand on the car door, and scrutinized the sky. Not a cloud in sight.

  “Snow squall, huh?” She got into the car and headed for the trailhead about three miles down from the abandoned hotel. “Keep your day job, officer. You’re no weatherman.”

  Corrie squinted against the wind-whipped snow and hunkered farther into her coat. “Okay, Officer Whoever-you-were. I take it back—you are a weatherman.”

  By her calculation, she should have already reached that damned waterfall four times over. In reality, she hadn’t even seen the railroad spur where she was supposed to bear left. She pulled out the map and studied it, turned it ninety degrees right, then one-eighty left.

  She pivoted to stare down the trail she’d just climbed. At least it looked like the right one. But there were more than half a dozen others she could have come up. Somehow, in the snow, she’d become disoriented.

  Footprints weren’t any help. The unusual powder-dry snow was blowing so hard, it wasn’t even sticking.

  It was, however, bringing an early dusk.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have taken that old house tour before heading up this way,” Corrie muttered. “Or stopped for lunch.”

  A shiver unrelated to the cold traced its way down her spine. Her backpack was loaded, but that bottle of ’03 Cabernet wasn’t going to help her see her way down this mountain. Still, she shucked off the pack and burrowed through the contents, just in case.

  It didn’t take long to determine that a slice of pâté, a baguette of French bread, an apple, the bottle of wine, a pair of hiking socks, and six unused condoms—from a camping trip several years earlier—did not equate to one flashlight.

  “Think, Webb. Which way is Hope Springs?”

  No matter which way she turned, all the trails seemed to go uphill. A particularly brutal gust reminded her of the sodden state of her jeans and her lack of gloves or hat. Even her long, thick braid offered little protection from the cold or wet.

  “Make up your mind or you’re going to end up one ugly ice sculpture.” With that, she shouldered her pack and started along the trail she hoped led to town.

  The snow increased in intensity with each step. Corrie was tempted to take shelter under a tree, but her legs were already going numb. She risked frostbite over a major portion of her anatomy. She pushed on e
ven as her lungs labored to get oxygen to her muddled mind. Each breath was a gasp, each step torture.

  I knew I should have kept up the running.

  She didn’t see the railroad tracks until she tripped over the rail. By the time she felt herself falling, all she could do was go with it.

  “Bah humbug,” she croaked.

  Geez, I’m beginning to sound like Scrooge.

  Tentatively, she eased each extremity into motion. Besides skinned palms and one bruised knee, she wasn’t too bad off. She sat up and tried to see through the blinding snow. Getting back to town was no longer her goal; finding shelter was. Preferably with heat. A large shape loomed a short way along the tracks.

  The old, tumbledown Chesterfield.

  “‘Be it ever so humble . . .’” Corrie sang under her breath as she ouched her way to her feet.

  In order not to lose her way again, she walked between the rails, even if it meant stumbling over the crossties. The track was supposed lead her directly to the hotel.

  “Okay, Webb, just a few more feet and you’re safe.” Her gaze dropped to her shoes. “Feet . . . come on, feet. I can’t feel you, but I know you’re there.”

  Her legs were cement stumps. Her hands were icicles. But she hadn’t fought the odds all these years to succumb to a little weather.

  “Corrine Webb doesn’t give up.”

  She lurched across a railroad tie and barely caught herself. Her vision blurred as she squinted toward the hotel again. Had it moved? Tucking her hands under her arms, Corrie surged forward.

  “Where’re the rails, feet?” She floundered to the right where the building ought to have been but wasn’t. Or it might have been, but she couldn’t see it.

  Panic rose, a bitter acid in her throat. She could die out here. Alone.

  Always alone.

  “Corrine Webb doesn’t give up.” She wanted to shake a fist at the clouds but couldn’t seem to make her hand close. For that matter, she couldn’t really feel her hands.

  Her left foot—or maybe it was her right, she couldn’t feel either—slipped off the crosstie, plunging her headfirst to the ground.

  She groaned and rolled to her hands and knees. Her head swam, and shaking it did nothing but scramble her brain more. But beneath her hands she could make out a walkway, veering off to her right. Hope cleared her head enough to send her half stumbling along the walk. It had to lead to the old hotel or at least some sort of structure.

  The wind changed in pitch, whining around a building instead of through trees. Eyes squinted against the snow, Corrie forced her gaze upward and saw a sign above a gaping doorway: THE CHESTERFIELD HOTEL.

  She floundered through the lobby and, by instinct, found the kitchen. The stove flues must have acted as supports because here the roof was intact in a holey sort of way. Corrie stamped her feet and clapped her hands together, but the cold had penetrated too deep.

  She needed a fire. Fast. Nothing in her pockets or her backpack helped.

  When a search of the kitchen failed to turn up any matches, she extended her investigation to a hallway off the kitchen. Hurriedly, she rummaged through the rooms along it.

  Other than a few rodents’ nests and more beer cans than she could count, they were all empty. Corrie cupped her hands over her mouth and blew warm air over her fingers. All she felt was a vague tingling.

  Not good at all.

  “Paul LaDue, you owe me. You owe me big time.”

  Corrie closed her eyes. She was so cold. Deathly cold.

  Her eyes shot open. No way was she giving up.

  She pushed on around several corners and continued her search. At least she was out of the wind here. Other than a few broken chairs and tables, she found little furniture—which made the big wooden chest in the corner room conspicuous.

  Dropping to her knees in front of it, Corrie fumbled with the clasp. Maybe someone left a blanket in here. Or an oil lamp. And matches.

  Unlikely, but hey, she could hope.

  The wind howled around the corner of the hotel, but somehow the windows in this room had survived basically intact, and it wasn’t as cold as the rest. The little light coming through revealed an odd assortment of items in the bottom. But nothing she could use in her current situation.

  Just old, rusty, and broken things—a necklace, a pair of handcuffs, a nameplate, and a barely dusty antique dueling pistol like ones she’d seen in movies. Knowing she had to find something to make a fire with soon, Corrie reached into the chest and brushed her fingers over the items in case there was something underneath them. Frostbitten, she couldn’t really feel anything, but a compulsion built within her to touch . . . something.

  The pistol tilted beneath her numb fingers, revealing a tarnished sheriff’s badge with one point missing. An odd sensation tingled up through her fingers to her arm as she lifted the badge.

  Her head swam again, but this time everything felt . . . different. On unsteady feet, she lurched upright. She glanced down at the badge and closed her hand around it.

  The world tilted. She plunged toward the floor.

  But the floor didn’t arrive.

  A gray, swirling mist enveloped her. Calm. Quiet. But her stomach and inner ear informed her that she continued falling. In desperation, she twisted around.

  Light gleamed in the distance. A flashlight beam? Had someone found her?

  Corrie struggled to reach a hand toward the brilliance. For a moment, her fall slowed to become a peaceful motion toward the light. Then she looked behind her. Darkness.

  Her fall resumed—tumbling, rolling, out of control.

  Whatever was happening—hypothermia-induced delusion or snow madness—lasted way too long. Corrie tightened her grip on the badge. “All right, already. Hit the floor, Webb.” Then pain slammed through her as she landed.

  Another lousy Christmas.

  She struggled for a breath and wheezed, “Bah humbug.”

  The Complete Hope Chest Series

  Book 1: The Mesmerist by Pam McCutcheon

  Book 2: The Lawman P.J. Bishop

  Book 3: The Prince by Karen Fox

  Book 4: The Thief by Laura Hayden

  Book 5: The Pinkerton by Maureen McKade

  The Hope Chest Series Boxed Set

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Reader Letter

  Also by Pam McCutcheon

  About the Author

  Excerpt from The Lawman by P.J. Bishop