by Lexi Post
Setting a pot of water on top of the two-opening stew stove, Kat jumped when the kitchen’s outside door flew open.
“Kat, Kat, you’ve got to see what they’ve invented now!”
Kat put one hand to her chest and another to her hip. “Maxwell Vandend, you just about scared the life from me. What do you think to come into my kitchen like a witch on a broom?”
Max’s shoulders fell. “But Kat, I always come in this door, and you have to look at this.” He held out his ever-present sketchpad. “Kat? Is everything all right?”
She quickly dropped her hands and pulled a bowl off a shelf. Max must think her a bit touched to be so surprised by his entrance. It was her nerves and her conscience telling her nothing good would come of her good deed this night. “I’m fine. I just can’t be expected to know who is coming through my door.”
He lowered the pad and her stomach clenched. Now who was being a witch? “I’m sorry, Max. I had a bit of a surprise already tonight. Let me see what crazy new invention the Newtimers brought with them this time.” She smiled encouragingly.
Max suffered the most of all the villagers. Though a strapping young man of twenty, his curious mind longed for the excitement of invention instead of the local young ladies. A situation much bemoaned by not a few mothers.
His mercurial mood rose as he stepped closer to show her his sketch. He always shared his discoveries with her. Not only did it help her keep abreast of the Newtimers’ culture, but it gave him someone to share his excitement with. His grandmother wanted no part of Newtime.
“What is it? What does it do?”
“This is the dashboard in one of their cars.” Max pointed to his drawing. “Irwin said he tells the car to do something and the car answers and then does it.”
“No. How can that be?”
She grinned as Max proceeded to tell her how it worked, a regular routine for them. When he was done, his cheeks were flushed with his enthusiasm. His youthfulness made her feel older than her twenty-eight years. “That is astounding. Have you—”
A shadow fell over them. A very large shadow. Kat looked up to find Braeden in the doorway, his body overwhelming the opening and his face serious. “Excuse me. I rang the bell but no one came. Is my room ready?”
Her tension returned full force at Max’s quiet gasp.
“I’ll be right there.”
Braeden nodded and retreated.
Kat spun. “Max. You mustn’t tell anyone.” She grabbed his arm. “I had to let him stay because he is the Headless Horseman tonight.”
Max’s face grew paler as he moved his gaze away from the door to meet hers. “That was Brom.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“No, it wasn’t. It’s just one of his descendants. He’s Stephen’s brother.”
Max’s color started to return. “That is Stephen’s brother?”
“Yes. I know it’s hard to believe, but he is.” She glanced toward the closed door. “He’s only staying tonight so he can be the Headless Horseman for us. Stephen is not feeling well and asked him to do it. You know Stephen would never let us down, so I couldn’t send his brother away.”
Max suddenly looked his age. “But Kat. That’s against the rules.”
“I know.” She latched on to his arm. “But what could I do? If I didn’t let him stay, we would have no rider tonight. Please. Don’t tell anyone.”
Reluctantly, he nodded. “Very well. I suppose it will be all right for one night.”
She moved her hand from his arm to his cheek. He was truly becoming a man. “Thank you. Now I better show him to his room. He doesn’t have much time.”
“Right. I’ll be by tomorrow.”
As Max strode to the back door, she untied her apron and headed for the front counter. But Braeden wasn’t there. “Now where did you go?”
“I’m in here.”
His soft-spoken voice came from the parlor, but she didn’t see him. Walking into it, she found him looking at a painting on the wall shared by the entryway and the room. No wonder she hadn’t seen him. He stood with his arms behind his back, contemplating the scene with the Catskill Mountains rising above a stream where two men fished. His build, so much like Brom’s, had her heart aching again. But Brom would never have stood still long enough to study a painting. Hanging on to that fact, she steadied herself. “I can show you to your room now.”
He turned his head to look at her—no, study her. From the top of her head to the bottom of her dress. She swallowed, wishing she could fan herself. She raised her hand to put her hair back in place but stopped herself, placing it on the top of the settee instead. She hated that he could rattle her so easily. “Are you going to want breakfast in the morning?”
He cocked his head, as if he wanted to determine if there was more meaning to her question. Finally, he stepped away from the painting, walking toward her like a bear bent on his prey. “No, thank you. I just drink coffee in the morning. So where is the room you were able to conjure up despite being full?”
She glared at him before spinning on her heel to lead him down the hall. “If you must know, it’s my room.”
His hand on her arm stopped her cold, or rather hot, as heat streaked from the place where he touched her all the way to her toes. “Your room? I can’t do that. I’ll sleep back there.”
She pulled away and he let her go. Putting her hands on her hips, she focused on her irritation instead of the heat building in her belly. “Oh no. You are not staying in my parlor. First of all, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re big. My biggest settee could sleep an eighteen-year-old at best. Second, I just spent the last hour making the room ready for you, so you will use it. Understand?”
His mouth started quirking at the corner again, and she quickly turned. She needed to stay mad at him for at least another twelve hours. She strode down the hall quite confident he was right behind her. His weight alone on the old wooden floorboards made that clear enough, but even without the creaks and moans, her body was well aware of his presence. When they reached her door, she thrust it open before she could change her mind. “Here you are.”
She stepped back while he walked through, directly to her bed. The thought of him in there, naked, asleep, had her body warming all over again.
He turned slowly and looked at her. “That’s a large bed for such a small lady.”
She shrugged, trying for nonchalance. “It was my grandparents’. I saw no reason to change it.” She brushed by him to the washstand. “There is a pitcher here if you want to wash before your ride. This village is set in the 1790s and we keep everything authentic. That’s why you won’t see any electric lights here. Just turn down the lanterns before you go to bed. Now, is there anything else you need?”
He was still staring at the lantern by the bed when she asked the question, but his gaze found hers and it was filled with curiosity. “No, I’m good.”
“Good.” She started back through the room, anxious to shut the door behind her, when he stopped it from closing.
“I need to retrieve the costume from my car. Is there a key to the room?”
“A key?” She lowered her brows. Why would he need a key? Oh, right. Theft was common in Newtime. She looked up to find him gazing at her hair. He was only a half foot from her and she stepped back. It was easier to meet his eyes when standing farther away. “No, I’m afraid I have no key for this room. But don’t worry, your baggage will be safe.” She turned to leave but his hand on her shoulder stopped her. His palm covered her entire shoulder easily, just like Brom’s.
“Wait, I need to thank you.”
She didn’t want to turn and look at him. He would have a friendly smile for her and she’d melt completely.
“I don’t even know your name.” His low voice caressed her nerves, making them settle.
Ducking out from under his hand, she forced herself to walk away even as she spoke over her shoulder. “I’m Katrina Van Tassel, proprietor of the Sleepy Hollow Inn.”
Brae
den watched Ms. Van Tassel’s ass as she stalked down the hall, its roundness making his body come to attention. The name, Katrina, seemed too dainty for her. He liked “Kat” to fit her confident personality. He grinned in amusement. She reminded him of the yellow shrub rose, small, curvy, natural, and full of thorns. She was a contradiction in so many ways. She’d obviously taken an instant dislike to him and yet had been kind enough to give him her room. She made it clear she wasn’t happy to be in his presence, and yet he would swear she might be just a bit attracted to him. Maybe it was wishful thinking. She probably couldn’t wait for him to leave. Actually, he couldn’t wait to leave as well.
He headed for the front door, watching for his hostess, but she was nowhere in sight. He let himself out into the dark night and made short work of the long trek back to the dirt lot where his car was parked to retrieve his bag and the costume.
Stephen had outdone himself. The costume was ingenious and a spark of excitement hit Braeden’s gut. He might be doing this as a favor to his big brother, but after seeing Daredevil, he was anxious to take the ride that would culminate the night’s activities. There was quite a bit happening at the center of the village. From the dirt road, he could see the flames of a newly lit bonfire, and fiddle music played on an outdoor stage. Tent stalls were selling food and drink, lots of drink from the way the shadows swayed of the people who danced.
Returning to the inn, he slipped into his room unseen. Discarding his loose-fitting sweats and sneakers, he put on a pair of black leather pants he’d bought for the ride. His brother had insisted on him wearing exactly what he wore. He pulled on a black tank top and a wide-sleeved black silk shirt that buttoned at the wrists. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he slipped on the riding boots. Their familiar feel had his excitement climbing. Looking around the room for a mirror, he found none. Now, what woman didn’t have a mirror in her bedroom?
There had to be a mirror somewhere. Maybe the closet, but there was no closet either. A large armoire stood in the corner. That had to be the closet. He opened one door and the scent of brownies greeted him. Brownies? The last time he smelled that scent he must have been about eleven. Why would Miss Van Tassel have brownies in her closet? The feminine clothing exuding the homey scent invited him to touch. He reached out.
What the hell was he doing? He pulled his hand back as if he’d been caught with it in the cookie jar and yanked the other door open.
Ah, now here was a mirror. It was oval in shape and ran the full length of the door. Its intricate engravings didn’t fit the rustic décor of the rest of the room. Perhaps that’s why his hostess hid it away. She was proud to portray life as if it were the 1790s. He grinned at her small nod to vanity, but then his reflection caught his attention. “Shit. I look like a damn Zorro. All I need is the mask and sword.”
Grimacing at the image, he stepped away and lifted the top frame of the costume from the floor. He unscrewed the wing nuts and carefully slid the shoulder mounts to the farthest width. Tightening them again, he grabbed the chest drape from the bed and settled it over the metal framework, making sure the slits for his arms were lined up as Stephen had explained. Then he pulled the black cape from the bed where he’d laid it and hooked it on the top, around the neckline. He found the Velcro tabs that kept the cape to the side. His brother had said those were important for him to be able to see.
After donning the black leather gloves, another purchase his brother had insisted upon, he lifted the Headless Horseman’s chest and mounted it on his shoulders. Cinching the straps under his arms, he tightened another strap across his chest only to find there was less than an inch of leather left. He hoped it stayed on. The whole contraption was very light, and he had full range of movement.
He stood in front of the mirror, but had to take a number of steps back to get the full effect of the costume. A chill raced up his spine. He could see perfectly through the black drape. The Headless Horseman in the mirror was eerie. He grinned in spite of himself. This could actually be fun.
He glanced at his watch. Already half past eleven. Taking his Rolex off, he laid it on the nightstand and grabbed the plastic bag with the fake jack-o’-lantern. It was a Halloween prop that was battery operated, so he switched it on, lighting up the eyes. Not as convincing as the rest of the costume, but good enough.
Quickly, he made for the stable. As he passed the pub, he noticed no one remained there. They must be along the route already.
His long strides brought him to his destination within minutes. “Hello? Ludo?”
There was no answer. He headed for Daredevil’s stall only to see the stallion, saddled and ready, tied to a hitching post just outside the back doors. The horse neighed and tugged at his reins. “Whoa, wait for me, Daredevil.” Braeden scanned the old plantation saddle and double-checked the cinch strap. With a practiced hand, he untied his mount.
Daredevil snorted and stomped his feet, but he remained still until Braeden mounted and his foot found the other stirrup. Then, without warning, the horse took off.
Braden laughed loudly and gave the horse his head, one hand holding the reins, the other gripping the jack-o’-lantern.
Chapter Two
Daredevil sped up the street, straight toward the revelers. Braeden tightened his knees and pulled the reins to direct the horse between the two lines of onlookers.
The bonfire burned brightly on the far side of the crowd and the loud partying had gone silent. He glanced at a reveler as he flew by and the man’s face was in such open-mouthed horror that Braeden couldn’t help himself. He laughed aloud at his success.
Through the village they galloped, the horse and he as one. Finally, they hit the wooded lane where only a few brave souls dared to watch. The adrenaline rush fueled his euphoria and he laughed again. The sleek strength of his mount beneath him made it feel as if he had wings. In little time, they left all the revelers behind, but Daredevil sped on.
He missed this. Not the people. Never the people, but the freedom of the ride. When he returned home, he needed to ride more. He’d make time for it. One day a month outside his penthouse couldn’t cause too much trouble.
The dirt lane soon turned to a path, the elm tree branches overhanging so low that he pulled Daredevil to a walk. Still, he had to duck regularly for fear of the costume being torn. In the distance, the path appeared brighter, revealing an opening in the forest. It must be the church his brother had mentioned. It was the three-quarter marker.
He and Daredevil stepped into the clearing when a flash in front of the church spooked the horse and he reared. Braeden dropped the pumpkin, grasped the reins to control the horse and tightened his legs to keep from falling. The horse came down hard and immediately raced through the clearing toward an old wooden bridge.
Movement to Braden’s right caught his attention and his blood froze. Unclear—and yet clear—was a mirror image of himself racing on a white steed alongside him. It couldn’t be. It had to be another trick of the festival. Yet even as Daredevil hit the bridge, Braeden watched in fascinated horror as the apparition disappeared.
He pulled on the reins while laughter floated on the air around him. Finally, Daredevil stopped, though he continued to prance in triumph over the white horse. Braeden looked back toward the church. Nothing moved. The only sound the quiet gurgle of the brook they’d left behind under the bridge.
He should go back to investigate, but even as the thought surfaced, Daredevil pulled hard, and he let the horse start the walk back toward the stable. He’d have to ask around. It had to be a trick of the organizers, but he couldn’t shake the feeling he was dead wrong.
When he arrived at the barn, having completed the two-mile loop, Ludo walked out and crossed himself. “Mother, Mary and Joseph, you look like the real Hessian.”
Earlier in the evening Braeden might have laughed at the idea, but after his encounter in the wood, he was less confident in the fun of the event. Still… “How would you know what the real Hessian looked like, Ludo? Especially
without a head?”
Ludo grinned as he finally approached to take Daredevil’s reins while Braeden dismounted. “That be a good point, Van Brunt. Did Daredevil do you well?”
Braeden uncinched the strap at his chest and those under his arms and lifted the horseman chest from his shoulders. “Daredevil was great. He raced through town and the wood as if the devil were on his heels. But he’s a smooth ride.”
“He didn’t throw you or nothin’?”
“Hey, it takes a lot to throw me.” Braeden slapped the man on the back carefully as Ludo led the horse into the stable. Setting the costume on a sawhorse near the entrance, Braeden divested himself of the gloves and silk shirt. His brother had been right, the shirt had blended well with the drape. He should have known Stephen had thought of everything. It was his way. Still, he’d rather not be seen in it. Being the Headless Horseman for a night was one thing. Dressing like some swashbuckler was another.
Ludo came out with a bottle of whiskey. “Would you like a nip before you turn in?”
Braeden grinned. “Am I the Headless Horseman?”
* * * * *
Kat wrapped her full-length shawl over her shift and dragged her quilt to the longest settee. Dropping her pillow at one end, she made her temporary bed. “It’s just for one night. I’ll be up before anyone wakens anyway.”
While that was true, she still had to wait until Braeden returned. He was a grown man and could find his own way to his room, but the thought of him seeing her sleep made her body flush. She’d wait until he settled in for the night before closing her eyes.