“Not really. As Rowena, he had no injuries. He felt no pain. As Pearce now, he’s suffering for it.”
“So that’s when you knew? When you finally woke up?”
“I was still so disoriented when you got there—I was trying to make you understand what was happening, but I could hear myself going on, not making any sense to anyone but myself. No wonder I frightened you half to death. When I came to and realized Pearce had drugged me, and then found him missing, that’s when I began to put two and two together. I remembered how he’d acted at the clinic. And while I was searching for him, that’s when I discovered some of Rowena’s things missing from her closet … and others that looked as if they’d been worn. I truly did think Pearce had died mentally at that point.”
Kate shook her head, still stunned by the enormity of it all. “So who thought of using Tawney? You?”
“I wish I could take the credit for an original plot, but when I realized what danger you were in, my mind went absolutely blank. The truth is, it was all Denzil’s idea.” He smiled at that. “A masterful plan, really. We got Tawney into some of Rowena’s clothes, and used the veil.”
“She had me fooled.” Kate couldn’t help but laugh.
“And has some bruises for her trouble, I’ve no doubt.” Gideon squeezed Kate’s hand, his voice urgent. “It was Rowena, you know, Pearce as Rowena all along—your clothes, your cabin, all of it. He even admitted that Rowena set the trap for you by the cave… but caught the wrong person.”
Kate looked away, a lump forming in her throat. “He was so sick that night… so… helpless….”
“Yes… helpless…” Gideon looked down at her, a faint smile crossing his face. “And I was so worried about you… and in the process nearly succeeded in scaring you to death. That night at your window—”
“That was you!”
“Yes.” He looked sheepish. “I wanted to make sure you were all right. I was trying to play the hero, guarding your cabin.” He laughed at himself. “And I followed you, too—several times. Only you heard me, and that frightened you more. What a poor excuse for a bodyguard I’d make.”
“I’m not complaining,” Kate assured him with a smile.
Gideon let out a long, weary sigh. “Pearce wanted Rowena with him forever, you know. And now… I suppose… he has her. Kate… I…” He looked away, his voice softening. “Forever is such a big, frightening word. I’d be happy with just tomorrow…. to know you’re there….”
Kate studied his wonderful profile, her heart catching. “I’m not really so far away, you know. By plane. Or letter.”
“Or telephone.” He smiled. “Or even thought.”
“As if you don’t have enough on your mind already,” Kate scolded. “And don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.”
“Oh, but I do intend to keep them—although I will have to get matters straightened out here first.” His expression went serious, and Kate took his arm.
“You’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “You will be. And you have your writing—your books, not William’s. And you’ll have lots of others. I know it.”
“Thank you. For that confidence. It means a lot.” His eyes settled on hers, and he caressed her cheek… turned her face up… kissed her. “And so do you.”
“Hey, Kate!” Denzil yelled. “The stagecoach is leaving! You coming?”
Kate grinned as Denzil waved his bandaged hand. Gideon grinned back at her and let out a groan.
“My competition again. He’s very determined, you know—he won’t give up easily.”
“I’ve come to that conclusion.” Kate laughed and threw her arms around him for one last hug. “Goodbye, Gideon. Thanks. For everything.”
He watched her run to the van and shouted after her, “And keep writing! I’ll be expecting to see your name on the bestseller list!”
“Jeez”—Denzil rolled his eyes—“doesn’t that guy ever give up?”
“It’s part of the courting ritual,” Tawney said seriously. “I think I’ll write a poem about it.”
“No,” Denzil groaned. “I know I’ll be sorry I asked this,… but what’s the title?”
“‘Passion’s Wooing Takes Persistent Doing.’”
“I’m even sorrier than usual. Just drive.”
Kate smiled out the window as they wound their way out of the woods and into the village. The air was fresh and pure, pine-fragrant and sun-warmed. As they pulled up to the depot, Miss Bunceton waved excitedly from the platform.
“Yoo-hoo! Kate, dear!”
“Oh, Miss Bunceton, you look like you feel better!”
“Gracious, yes. Now, you mustn’t touch me… but nothing could have kept me in that bed another day!”
“I’m so sorry about your things,” Kate said. “With the fire and all—”
“Good excuse to buy new things! I’m just glad I wasn’t in the cabin when it went up—oh, look, there’s our train!”
“Yes.” Kate turned and looked at her friends, sudden tears in her eyes. “Good-bye, Tawney,” she said, hugging the girl tightly. “Don’t forget to write and send your poems. I’m sure going to miss you—oh, and I’ll send your clothes back just as soon as I get home.”
“They look better on you,” Tawney insisted, her own eyes wet. “And I’ll write, I promise.”
“See you, kid.” Denzil hugged her, eyes twinkling like an amused owl. “You’ve been one hell of a sidekick. Even if you do attract every man between here and the Rio Grande.”
“Denzil—” Kate began, but suddenly felt her words smothered by his kiss.
“I’ll find you,” Denzil said, the corners of his mouth moving up in a grin. “I’ll track you down.”
“Come, Kate, let’s board.” Miss Bunceton bustled her up onto the train.
“There’s no place big enough where you can hide!” Denzil yelled.
Kate laughed and waved as the train whistle shrieked into the beautiful morning. “Good-bye, you two! Good-bye!”
“You can run all you want, but I’ll be right on your trail!” Denzil shouted.
Kate kept waving until she couldn’t see them anymore, until their two small dots faded into the distant landscape.
“Well, Kate,” Miss Bunceton said, settling her impressive bulk into a seat. “I hope you enjoyed this little excursion.”
“I really did, Miss Bunceton.”
“And that something made some kind of impression—”
Kate touched her lips with her fingertips. “At least two things, Miss Bunceton.”
“Good. I was so afraid you’d find this trip boring, Kate. I hope you weren’t bored most of the time.”
Kate snuggled down into her seat, shaking her head. “Not most of the time.”
“Maybe you can put it all in a story, dear. A good writer saves everything up here,” Miss Bunceton tapped her head, “and uses it to create.”
“Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll make a whole project out of it.”
“Splendid. Such as?”
“Oh… a western horror novel?”
“Good heavens, for a minute I thought you were serious!”
Kate leaned against the windowpane and smiled.
A Biography of Richie Tankersley Cusick
Born on April Fool’s Day 1952, Richie Tankersley Cusick was destined at a young age to write scary books. In a career spanning three decades, she has paved the way for young-adult horror writing, a genre she continues to publish in today.
Although born in New Orleans—home to some of the country’s most ancient ghosts—Cusick spent her early years in a small bayou town called Barataria, which once provided a safe haven for the fearsome pirate Jean Lafitte. A true Southern writer, she took early inspiration from the landscape of crumbling mansions, Spanish moss, and aboveground cemeteries, and began writing stories at a young age. For years a ghost lurked in her family’s house, making particular trouble around the holidays, when he would strip the Christmas tree of its ornaments and hurl them to the floor.
When Cusick’s novel-writing career began, horror fiction for teens was a new genre. Along with authors like Christopher Pike and R. L. Stine, Cusick pioneered the form, finding success writing chilling stories with only a dash of the gore that defines adult thrillers.
Since Evil on the Bayou, Cusick has written more than two dozen novels about everything from vampires to pirate ghosts. In 2003 she began The Unseen, a four-volume series about a young girl who is tormented by the occult. Cusick currently lives with her three dogs in North Carolina, where she enjoys listening to classic horror-movie soundtracks as she writes on an antique roll-top desk once owned by a funeral director. The desk is, of course, haunted.
Richie Tankersley Cusick at age three in front of her grandparents’ house in Rolla, Missouri. From left to right: Richie’s father, Dick; her mother, Lou; Grandma Tankersley; and Aunt Deanie. Richie’s grandmother was the biggest inspiration in her life, and the first one to really encourage her passion for writing.
Richie in her senior year at Riverdale High School in Louisiana in 1970. Richie was editor in chief of the school newspaper, the Scotichronicon, and was also voted most creative of her senior class.
Richie’s official press card as editor in chief of the Scotichronicon. Her responsibilities included writing editorials, thinking up topics, conducting interviews, and assigning stories to the staff.
Richie started playing guitar at an early age, inspired by her uncles and their love of country music. She has always loved singing, and has written several hundred songs.
Richie in her cubicle at Hallmark Greeting Cards, Inc., where she worked as a writer from 1975 to 1984. In addition to writing every type of greeting card imaginable, Richie wrote poems and prose for posters, puzzle backs, calendars, plaques, key chains, buttons, coloring books, mugs, and more.
Richie with her maid of honor and lifelong friend, Lise, at her wedding in 1980.
Richie’s haunted roll-top desk, pictured here in her former home office in Missouri. The desk belonged to a funeral director in the 1800s, and has been the source of some spooky occurrences, including eerie footsteps, muffled voices, and ghostly singing.
According to Richie, sometimes the quirkiest little thing can help an author break through writer’s block. In this case, she is using a quill pen and ink.
A sketch of Beverly Island and the summer house from Richie’s horror novel The Lifeguard. Richie loves to have visuals for her book settings, and made these sketches so she wouldn’t get “lost.”
Richie chatting with fans at a book signing in Rolla, Missouri, in 2004.
Richie with her three dogs at her home in Missouri in 2011. From left to right: Halle Berry, Emma, and Audrey. Richie’s dogs are her constant companions, and often get put out when she spends long hours writing rather than playing with them.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1990 by Richie Tankersley Cusick
Cover design by Neal Heacox
978-1-4804-6906-8
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
EBOOKS BY
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