Myth and Magic

by Mae Clair

  Caith looked away.

  “I’m planning a maze in the cornfield,” Aren continued quickly as if to cover the sudden awkwardness. “I’ve got a crop of pumpkins we’re going to harvest for the kids to face paint. We’re going to have two weekends, starting on Friday night with the hayride and continuing through the next Sunday afternoon. The high school drama club has volunteered to act as staff, and they’ll be in costume. Balin is heading things up for me.”

  Caith hadn’t seen his nephew, Balin, in years, but knew Galen’s son would be a teenager now.

  “I’ve got vendors to provide hotdogs, pumpkin pie, caramel apples, and cider,” Aren said. “If it goes over as good as I hope, I want to make it an annual event. I’ve got the ground. Why let it go to waste?”

  Caith angled a glance at the surrounding fields. Once more a sense of déjà vu swept over him. Derrick had never been on a hayride or run giggling through rows of towering cornstalks. “What does Dad say about it?”

  Aren shot him a suspicious look. “He’s always loved the outdoors, and he’s never outgrown his small town roots. He wanted to funnel BI money into it, but I told him I wanted to do this on my own. Dad’s always supported anything that benefits the community, especially if it involves Coldcreek’s children.”

  “Too bad he didn’t feel the same about his own kids.” Caith turned away before Aren could reply. Overhead, the sun slipped toward the horizon, melting into a brass-soaked ball. Caith stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It’s not easy coming back. I’ve thought about it all day. About leaving Derry here.”

  Aren’s face registered confusion. “Caith, we talked about this.”

  “I know we did, but I’m not ready to leave Derry that long. Not here, where Trask…” He exhaled deeply, reaching a decision. “I’ll go to the lodge as a consultant, someone who’s evaluating the program for you. It’ll cause less suspicion when I start asking questions. I’ll be able to come and go as I please, and see Derry whenever I want. You can tell people you know me from Boston. Our kids are friends, and Derrick’s staying with you while I complete an assignment for BI. It’s strictly credible you’d hire someone you can trust to evaluate the program. As it is, there are people who are going to recognize me. Let’s face it, I look a lot like Dad. With any luck, I can avoid most of them.”

  “Galen isn’t going to like it. We’re changing something without his approval.”

  “Screw Galen. This is about my kid, my terms. I’ve got plenty of cases waiting back home if you want to scratch the whole deal.”

  “Why do you always have to be so bullheaded? Between you and Dad—” Aren broke off and shook his head. “All right. We’ll do it your way. I’ll advise Galen of the changes tomorrow, but I want you to go to the lodge tonight. There’s a new group of guests arriving tomorrow evening. I’d rather you had the lay of the land before they get there.” Frowning, he considered his brother. “The board isn’t involved in this, but I’d like to update them twice a week as a courtesy. Stone Willow has BI connections, but it’s a Breckwood family project, not a corporate venture. There are two working phones at the lodge, one in Veronica’s office and one in Alma Kreider’s room. You can use one of those to contact me. Cells work, but the reception is limited.”

  “Kreider’s the cook?”

  Aren nodded. “She lives at the lodge along with Veronica. Lew Walden, the caretaker, has a separate home on the property. Call when you can.”

  Nodding, Caith fell silent. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Do, um…Trask’s parents still live around here?”

  Aren hesitated. “They left the year after their daughter graduated from high school. You would have been a college freshman then. They tried to tough it out, but it was too hard for them to stay.”

  Caith nodded. “Aren, Derrick’s never been away from me for more than a night or two.”

  “I figured that. I remember in Boston when he’d spend the weekend with Noah and Matt. You were freaky about it then.”

  “This isn’t Boston. It’s worse. It’s where Trask was killed.”

  Sighing, Aren clapped a hand on Caith’s shoulder. “I know this is hard, Caith, but don’t make your fears his. There’s a reason you haven’t told him what happened to you and Trask, and it’s because you want him to grow up a normal little boy, something you didn’t get the chance to do. Let him have fun while he’s here.”

  He was being foolish. “You’re right.” The last thing he wanted was to ruin his kid’s enjoyment. He’d spent the last eight years making up for the fact that Derrick didn’t have a mother, doing everything he could to keep his life happy and fulfilled. While he might be a little on the protective side, he wasn’t going to move into suffocation mode and chain his kid to an imaginary leash. Aren understood his fears and would take care of Derrick. “I should go while there’s still light.”

  It was harder than he thought.

  When he left, Caith gave Derrick a hug with instructions to listen to his aunt and uncle. Aren trailed him to his Explorer, assuring a final time he had nothing to worry about. As Caith opened the door, he spied Derrick’s pouch of marbles in the back seat. A lump formed in his throat.

  Retrieving the pouch, he passed it to Aren. “He takes them everywhere.” Before his brother could respond, he climbed into the truck and started the engine. He never looked back as he headed for Stone Willow Lodge.

  * * * *

  Veronica sprinted down the steps, satisfied with her inspection of the guest suites. When the new arrivals checked in, they’d find everything in order. A relief, considering she’d be juggling Caith, too.

  Aren had phoned to tell her his brother was on his way and to make certain she was comfortable with Caith’s guise as a Breckwood consultant. It meant they’d be working closely. She’d never forgiven Caith his callous dismissal of her feelings, but assured Aren what happened between them had been nothing more than infatuation and puppy love. He didn’t need to know how deeply their time together had scarred her.

  “Veronica!”

  She halted at the bottom of the staircase as Alma Kreider rounded the corner. A few months shy of sixty-five, her graying hair worn in a top knot, the cook was usually no-nonsense to the point of rude. Lately, she’d grown timid, casting worried glances over her shoulder and avoiding empty rooms after dark.

  “I’m glad I found you. I’ve started a cobbler and need three jars of peaches from the basement.” Alma fidgeted, twining her hands. “Lew said the breaker needs a new fuse, and the lights aren’t working. I don’t want to go down there.”

  Veronica should have known. With the sun setting and exaggerated shadows creeping from the walls, Alma was more likely to tangle with a rabid dog then venture into the basement.

  It was nearing six in the evening. Beyond the towering windows in the lobby, darkness feathered the edges of the October sky.

  “I’ll go.”

  “By yourself?” Alma was appalled. “In the dark? After what I saw?”

  “I’ll take a flashlight. There’s nothing down there but food stores and boxes.”

  Alma frowned. “Now, don’t start sounding like Sheriff Cameron. I saw Warren Barrister’s ghost, plain as day.”

  They’d had the same discussion numerous times. Veronica slipped a hand beneath Alma’s arm and steered her toward the kitchen. “There are no ghosts at Stone Willow, Alma. If someone was in the basement, they’re gone now.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “I do. But whatever you saw wasn’t a ghost.” Veronica was careful not to upset her further, but didn’t want to stoke rumors of the supernatural.

  “What then?”

  She bit her lip, unable to offer an answer.

  As if taking that as a concession of defeat, Alma harrumphed her triumph and departed. Veronica headed behind the reception counter and rummaged through the cabinets until she found a flashlight. She tested the batteries, then walked to the basement wondering what
else could go wrong. The breaker was another item in a long list of mechanical problems to plague the lodge. Coupled with those incidents that bordered on the supernatural, it was no wonder guests had started to imagine poltergeists behind every corner.

  The hinges on the basement door creaked as she pushed it open, and she made a mental note to tell Lew to oil them when he took care of the breaker. She tried the light switch once, then flicked on her flashlight, angling the beam down the staircase. Darkness yawned below, layered in whorls of licorice black. Must and mildew tickled her nose, and a draft of cool air scraped over her cheek.

  The cone of yellow light bobbed as she descended the steps. She paused at the bottom, sweeping the light to the far corners of the room, sending shadows scurrying from the beam. To the left, a floor-to-ceiling shelving unit loomed against the wall. Row after row of jarred vegetables and fruits cast back the reflected glow of her flashlight. Alma had canned most of the items, gathering the vegetables from a garden at the rear of the lodge, purchasing the majority of fruit from a local market.

  To the right, a short set of block steps led up to an exterior exit. Rarely used, the metal storm doors were angled into the rear of the home, part of the original structure from the 1800s.

  She felt an unnatural chill, but pushed it aside, realizing she was being silly. There was nothing in the dark that wasn’t there in the light. Crossing to the shelving unit, she ran the beam of the flashlight over neat, orderly rows of canning jars, pausing to study the handwritten labels. Something moved behind her and a hand settled on her shoulder.

  Veronica gave a startled squawk and lurched clear, her scream choked short by fright.

  “Veronica, it’s Caith.” His voice struck her as the yellow beam washed over his face. Wincing, he raised a hand to block the direct path of light. She caught only vague impressions—coal black hair and eyes like crisp winter sky.

  “Caith?” she echoed dumbly.

  “Mind lowering the light?”

  Veronica dropped the beam to the floor where it bounced off faded denim and brown work boots. She had a vague sense of his height, pinned between him and the shelving unit. He held a flashlight in his hand, smaller than hers, something that would easily fit into his pocket. Sidestepping, she swept her own light to both corners making sure there were no other surprises. “What are you doing in the basement?”

  “I came in through the storm doors a while ago.”

  “They weren’t locked?”

  “Not when I got here.”

  She frowned, disturbed by the idea of Caith snooping around without her knowledge. “You could have saved me three years of gray hair by coming through the front door like everyone else.”

  “Sorry.”

  She doubted he was. He didn’t seem contrite at all. Now that her eyes had adjusted, she could see him better. Wiry and lanky as a youth, he’d developed the muscle and definition that comes with maturity. Tall, broad of shoulder, and narrow through the hips, he carried a trim, athletic physique. His hair was shorter, black as the raven he’d been named for, and tapered against his neck in a becoming cut. Piercing blue eyes held her gaze, causing her heart to hammer faster. The good-looking boy she remembered had grown into a thoroughly handsome man.

  He frowned. “What are you doing in the basement in the dark?”

  “The light doesn’t work.”

  “I figured that out.”

  Heat flushed her face. “So that private investigator’s license is good for something after all?”

  Caith chuckled softly. “Maybe we should start over.”

  Veronica opened her mouth to snap a reply. Before she could formulate a single pointed word, a shrill scream jarred her to the bone. She felt the blood drain from her face as the horrified shriek shuddered into silence, then started again, climbing in volume.

  “Alma!” she cried.

  Of one accord, she and Caith bolted for the stairs.

  Chapter 5

  Veronica clung to Caith’s heels as he barreled into the lobby where Alma Kreider stood screaming. “Alma, what is it?” she cried, rushing to the woman’s side.

  White-faced, her eyes darting between Veronica and Caith, Alma pointed behind her. “The kitchen. There was a man outside. A horrible man. I saw him looking in the window.” Covering her face with her hands, she began to cry. “It was ghastly. Like a scarecrow. A ghost.” Her voice broke beneath hysterical sobs.

  “Shh,” Veronica comforted. Thankfully, all the guests were out on a hike with the guide, Ben Dunning, and hadn’t heard the commotion. “It’s all right now.”

  Caith snatched the flashlight from her and darted for the kitchen. Wrapping an arm around Alma’s shoulders, Veronica led her to one of the low-backed sofas in the lobby. It took her close to ten minutes, but eventually she managed to calm the agitated woman. Alma’s sobs had dwindled to sniffling by the time Caith returned.

  “Well?” Veronica asked expectantly as he walked into the lobby.

  The cold air had heightened the color in his cheeks, intensifying the wintry blue of his eyes. He shook his head.

  “Nothing. I looked outside and the ground wasn’t disturbed below the window.” He scowled doubtfully at Alma. “The soil’s soft enough to leave prints, but I couldn’t find any.”

  “It’s almost dark,” Veronica said. “You could have missed them.”

  “Maybe.” Unconvinced, Caith continued to look at Alma. “Are you sure it wasn’t a trick of the light? A reflection of some sort?”

  “I know what I saw, young man. You sound just like that Sheriff Cameron and all his cronies, not willing to believe a word of anything.” Alma’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who are you anyway, and what are you doing here?”

  Before Caith could answer, Veronica rushed to explain. “Alma, this is Conner Lairen. He’s the consultant BI hired to evaluate the lodge and its anti-stress program. He’ll be staying with us for a while.”

  “Consultant. Hmph.” Alma’s snort of contempt made her opinion clear. “Just what we need, a corporate busy-body sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. BI should get off their executive keisters and send us security instead of a paid snitch.”

  “I’ll be sure to put that in my report.” Caith motioned to the hallway. “Would you mind coming back to the kitchen and showing me exactly where you were standing when you saw, uh…whatever it is you think you saw?”

  Alma’s expression was hostile, but the belligerence helped dry her tears. Straightening her shoulders, she stood and traipsed from the lobby, her bearing defiant.

  Veronica frowned. “I hope you make a better impression on the rest of the staff.”

  * * * *

  Caith stepped into the kitchen, fully aware he’d made a mistake. No question about it. He’d thought he could waltz into the lodge, help Aren with his problem, and then vanish again with his pockets a little fuller. Stupid.

  Especially since he’d never cared about money. Oh, he didn’t mind an income that let him buy what he wanted, when he wanted, without having to worry about strapping his bank account. But cash had never been the driving ambition behind anything he did. And if he was honest with himself, money had absolutely nothing to do with his reasons for returning to Coldcreek. As much as he wanted to pretend otherwise, the pull of family was here. Family, and the woman he’d loved since he was eighteen.

  He’d gotten over the initial shock of seeing her, but not the aftereffect. Even now, his palms sweated and his heart raced. He felt like a tongue-tied school kid with a crush. Raising Derrick didn’t leave him time for relationships, and the sight of this woman, the one who’d haunted his dreams for the past twelve years, resurrected how much he wanted her.

  “Where were you standing Alma?” Veronica asked.

  Caith tried to concentrate on the question but was too preoccupied by how much she’d changed. She’d always been a tom-boy, lean and small-hipped. Still beautifully slender, her body had ripened with sexy cu
rves. Small, pert breasts strained against the fabric of a teal sweater with a V-neckline, her long legs were luscious in soft gray slacks. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek pony tail, gold and gilded like the sun with just a hint of brown beneath. Clear, creamy skin warmed the minty green of her eyes.

  “Mr. Lairen,” Veronica snapped.

  He jerked at her formality. Too late, he realized he’d been staring.

  “Did you hear anything Alma said?” Clearly annoyed, Veronica stepped to the sink. “She was standing right here, a few feet from the window. I think it’s obvious she wasn’t imagining things.”

  Recovering, Caith glanced about the kitchen. It was large and roomy with cherry cabinets, mocha-colored counters, and a center island for food preparation. Copper pots and wicker baskets dangled from hooks overhead, adding a touch of warmth along with practicality.

  Caith stepped to the window and ran his finger along the edge. The seal was tight and unbroken. With both women shooting daggers at him, he moved to Veronica’s side. “There’s your face,” he said, with a nod for the pots. The reflection in the window didn’t quite form features, but taken with the small baskets on either side, a quick glance could have produced a startled reaction.

  “That’s absurd,” Alma hissed. “I’m not given to flights of fancy, young man.”

  “Maybe not, but everyone’s been edgy. It’s easy to misconstrue something when your nerves are rattled.”

  “I am not rattled!” Alma pressed her lips into a tight line. “At least, I wasn’t until you showed up.”

  “Alma.” Veronica tried to calm her.

  “I’m going to my room for a little peace and quiet. Then I’m going to call Aren Breckwood and tell him what a fool he is for saddling us with a snitch who’s as agreeable as arsenic.”

  Caith bit his lip to keep from grinning. He’d been called a lot of things in his day, but he’d never been compared to arsenic. Somehow he didn’t think Veronica would find his amusement entertaining.