[Hope Chest 01.0] Mesmerist

by Pam McCutcheon

  Annabelle dropped the gun with a moan and buried her face in her hands, sobbing her heart out as Clyde lay unmoving.

  Gina and Drake exchanged puzzled glances. Could it really be over now? But before they could make a move, the police chief burst in the door, followed by several men he had evidently deputized . . . and Miss Sparrow.

  As Garrett took in the tableau with a well-trained glance, Drake blurted out, “It was self-defense. He was about to murder us all.”

  Garrett nodded slowly. “I can see that.”

  Anyone could. The gun still clasped in Rutledge’s lifeless hand bore mute testimony to his intentions, not to mention the kerosene now seeping into his clothing.

  Esme ran to the weeping Annabelle and pulled her into her comforting arms. And as Garrett went to examine the body, Drake, bless him, headed straight for Gina.

  She entered his arms with a sob. “I was so scared.”

  “Me, too,” he admitted, stroking her hair. “I didn’t expect Rutledge—that report about the fire threw me off.”

  “Yes, Clyde was more clever than we gave him credit for.”

  He smiled down at her. “Well, it looks like you saved my life after all, sending Scruffy into the fray like that.”

  “Well, I tried, but that didn’t do it,” she admitted. “Annabelle did.”

  “Yes, but your move put the gun into her hands.”

  “And you put the stiffening in her backbone, “ Gina shot back. “She would have never been able to find the courage to shoot her husband before you worked with her.”

  He smiled down at her. “Well, I think we can both take credit for that. I just hope she can survive this.”

  Suddenly remembering the article, Gina moved reluctantly out of his arms to pull the piece of paper out of her pocket. She scanned it quickly, then exclaimed, “Look, it’s changed.” Where the paper had once spelled doom for Drake, it now announced Clyde’s death. “It says that the police will exonerate Annabelle of all guilt—and that her family is coming to the resort to take her home.”

  “Good,” Drake murmured with evident relief. “With her family coming, she won’t need me so much anymore.”

  Well, that was a switch. “Don’t you want to help her through the trauma of killing her own husband?”

  “If she wants to follow me to Richmond for treatment, I’d be happy to help her. But I’ve done what I set out to do, what I promised Charlotte. Mrs. Rutledge won’t have any reason to commit suicide now, and she’ll have the strength of her family to help her through this.”

  “I thought she was all you cared about,” Gina murmured, not meeting his eyes.

  Drake tipped her chin up so their gazes met. “All? No, toward the end there, all I could think about was the danger you were in. I was afraid you were going to try for the pistol yourself . . . and disappear.”

  Oh, yes, the pistol. In all the excitement, she had forgotten that her means back to the future lay in this very room. Not only that, but she had not just one, but two pistols to choose from. “I forgot,” she admitted.

  He drew her back into his arms and hugged her tight. “Could I persuade you to forget about it forever?” he murmured into her hair.

  Her heart jumped with excitement. Could he mean . . . ? She drew back, needing to see his face, needing to know every nuance of his expression. All he revealed was a plea and a hope.

  She swallowed hard. “What are you saying?” she asked and held her breath.

  He searched her face as worry etched lines in his face. “I’m saying that I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay here—with me.”

  Her heart did that leapfrog again but she forcibly calmed it, not wanting to hope too much. “Why?” she asked. “Why do you want me to stay?”

  He tenderly pushed a stray strand of hair away from her face. “Because I love you, and I want to make you my wife, forever.”

  That was the answer she’d been waiting for. She dropped all constraints and let her heart soar. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she said, “Oh, Drake, I love you, too. I think I always have.”

  Relief dawned on his face and he grinned. “Then you’ll marry me?”

  “Of course. I’d like nothing better than to stay here with you for the rest of my life.” He was right. There was nothing in the future for her. This is where she belonged—with Drake.

  “Then how would you like a Christmas wedding?” he asked.

  “Perfect.”

  They kissed hungrily to seal their engagement and only came up for air when they heard a polite clearing of the throat next to them.

  As Gina looked around in surprise, she realized that she and Drake were alone in the room except for Scruffy and Esme. Scruffy was leaning against both their legs and Esme stood regarding them with amusement, cradling both dueling pistols in her hands. Garrett must have gotten rid of the body and spirited Annabelle away while they weren’t paying attention.

  Gina looked down at the pistols with distaste. “What are you doing with those?”

  Esme glanced down at them. “I asked the chief if I could have them and he agreed.” She paused, then added, “I take it one of these was the pistol that drew you back in time?”

  “Yes, definitely.” Even though they were unmarred by fire, there was no doubt that one of them was the instrument that had taken her back in time. The one on the left, no doubt the one that had killed Drake in the original timeline, pulsed with energy that both attracted and repelled her.

  Esme cocked her head and smiled. “I also take it you don’t need it anymore?”

  “That’s right. Take them away,” Gina said, unable to contain her happiness. “I’m staying here. Drake and I are getting married Christmas Day.”

  “Excellent choice,” Esme said approvingly, and Gina had never seen the housekeeper smile so wide. “You don’t mind if I keep one, then?”

  It seemed an odd sort of souvenir, but Gina didn’t really care what happened to them—they would have no more impact on her life. “Sure.”

  Esme unerringly chose the pistol that had created the time portal, then placed the other one in Drake’s hand. “Here,” she said. “Keep this as a reminder of your wife’s love and what she gave up for you.”

  Drake took it with a smile and placed it at the small of his back. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

  With that, Esme said, “I’ll just leave you two alone then.” Picking up her odd souvenir, she left Drake, Gina, and Scruffy alone to plan their lives together.

  Epilogue

  Christmas Day, 1885

  Esmeralda Sparrow retired to her room with a sigh. This had been the best Christmas of her life. Drake and Gina had been married in a lovely ceremony with the entire resort in attendance. Gina had made a beautifully radiant bride and Esme had never seen the solemn mesmerist smile so much in all the time he’d been here. They were truly soul mates, and she had done the right thing in bringing them together.

  In return, Esme had the only Christmas present she needed. She polished the pistol to a mirror-bright shine and laid it carefully in her hope chest, staring down at it with a smile and dawning hope of her own.

  One down, four to go. . . .

  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

  Dear Reader,

  This series came about when our critique group decided to write a time travel series together for a new (then) historical series line. Since most of us can’t resist adding a paranormal element to our stories, we decided to make the books time travels, and enjoyed brainstorming the books together.

  If you enjoyed this book, I hope you’ll return to Hope Springs, The Chesterfield, and the mysterious Miss Sparrow to read the others in the series: The Mesmerist by Pam McCutcheon, The
Lawman by P.J. Bishop, The Prince by Karen Fox, and The Thief by Laura Hayden.

  Pam McCutcheon

  Colorado Springs, CO

  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

  Also by Pam McCutcheon

  Contemporary Romantic Comedies

  My Favorite Husband

  Caught in the Act

  Chasing Baby

  It Happened One Flight

  Contemporary Paranormal Romantic Comedies

  The Trouble With Fairies Novella

  A Little Something Extra

  A Reluctant Rogue

  Historical Romantic Comedies

  The Three Graces Trilogy, Book 1: Belle of the Ball

  The Three Graces Trilogy Boxed Set

  The Hope Chest Series, Book 1: The Mesmerist

  The Hope Chest Series Boxed Set

  Futuristic Romantic Comedies

  Golden Prophecies

  Quicksilver

  About the Author

  Pam McCutcheon is the award-winning author of romance novels ranging from fantasy, futuristic, paranormal and time travel to contemporary romantic comedy. She also has two nonfiction how-to books for writers in print, has published fantasy short stories as Pamela Luzier in various anthologies, and writes the Demon Underground New Adult urban fantasy series under the name Parker Blue.

  After many years of working for the military as enlisted, officer and civil service successively, she left her industrial engineering position to pursue her first love—a career in publishing. She can be found in beautiful Colorado Springs with her rescue dog or on the Internet.

  Excerpt from The Lawman by P.J. Bishop

  Charles Dickens should’ve died a lot younger. Corrine Webb didn’t know when old Charlie had penned his sappy Christmas Carol, but whenever it was, she wished he’d died before then.

  She hunched a shoulder and squeezed a touch more lime into the mango salsa destined to top the sea bass on the grill. Okay, so I’m not all nice and chirpy about Christmas . . .

  Paul LaDue propped one hip against her prep table. Without looking up, she shot out, “What?”

  “Still in Scrooge mode, huh?” Immune to her mood—no, emphatically unaffected by it—he crossed his arms. Bistro Terre’s owner could outwait boeuf a la bourguignon.

  “I am not a Scrooge just because I don’t want to attend the staff party tonight.”

  “Everyone’s coming.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve known you more than five years and you’ve always had an excuse for why you can’t attend. Face it, Webb, you don’t like Christmas.”

  “Why wouldn’t I like Christmas? Of course I like Christmas. Nobody doesn’t like Christmas.” She realized she was ranting and gave the salsa a vicious stir. “The thing is, I’m very busy right now. Working.”

  “Making work, you mean.”

  “Wha—? But . . . I . . .” Corrie faltered to a stop as Paul waved his hand to encompass the kitchen.

  The restaurant’s core usually throbbed with the drumbeat of hurrying feet, the staccato chop of knives, and the soprano whine of a food processor. At the moment, however, the prep guy dozed in the corner and the grill chef concentrated on catching the tongs he tossed into the air every few seconds as he waited for the bass to cook.

  “You’re not working hard tonight. No one is.” Paul took her by the arm and led her to the door into the dining room. “What do you see?”

  “The same burgundy walls I told you two months ago look like a whorehouse from some old western. You’d think a gay guy would have better taste.”

  “Besides the decor, Webb.” He grinned. “Save the sarcasm for someone who cares.”

  Corrie resisted the temptation to goad Paul more about his decorating and looked around the spacious room, her gaze pausing at each cozy dining alcove, each meticulously dressed table. As usual, the crystal sparkled, the china and silver gleamed, and the tablecloths were immaculate. In honor of the holiday season, fresh holly and pine festooned the tables and walls. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace—a blue norther had blown through Dallas yesterday and the extra heat was a welcome addition. “What exactly am I supposed to be noticing?”

  “You’re never going to make it when you own your own restaurant if you don’t see it.” Using both hands to turn her head toward the dining room, Paul gave her a little shake. “Count the customers.”

  It didn’t take long. “Two tables of two couples each equals eight customers,” Corrie recited like a kindergartner answering a math question. Returning to her usual tone, she asked, “Your point is . . . ?”

  “We only had three other reservations the whole night. And no walk-ins.” He sighed. “That doesn’t pay your salary for the night, much less all the others’.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh.” He shook his head as he walked her back to her station. “Any restaurant owner has to look at the bottom line. If you ever want to own your own place, you have to start paying attention to stuff like this.”

  Corrie fiddled with her knives, upset with herself for putting her dread of Christmas ahead of her dream—a café of her own. If she was ever to realize that dream, she had to concentrate on the business aspect of the restaurant as well as the food. In her head, she knew about customer load versus overhead, but in reality, it had never sunk in. But then, she’d never paid much attention to people. Just work.

  Only work.

  Which was how, at the age of twenty-six, she’d risen to head chef at the prestigious Bistro Terre, one of the most highly acclaimed five-star restaurants in Texas.

  She replaced her prized chef’s knife in its slot and looked up at her boss. “I guess I didn’t notice. . . .”

  Paul scraped a hand over his face. “I noticed.”

  “And?” Something in his expression made Corrie dread the answer.

  “I’m closing the restaurant.”

  “Closing the Bistro?” No, you can’t. If she was the crying type, she would’ve broken down right there. But Corrie hadn’t cried in more than seventeen years. A wall rose around the memories and she stiffened her spine.

  Her fist closed around Paul’s coat sleeve. “You can’t. You can’t close it. Not now. Not at Christmas.”

  “Hold on—”

  She shook his arm. “What about all the employees? What’ll they do? It’s Christmas, for gosh sakes!” Her coworkers were the one thing that might make Paul change his mind.

  “I said hold on.” Paul pried her fingers from the fabric and brushed out the wrinkles. “I’m closing Terre until New Year’s Eve is all. Not for good.”

  “But how will people pay their bills?” How will I get through Christmas without distraction? If she couldn’t work herself into exhaustion, the nightmares might return.

  “If you’ll give me a chance to explain, I’m giving everyone two weeks paid vacation. It’s going to put a strain on the budget, but I’ll be saving on heating and cleaning.”

  You had to choose now to act like Santa Claus? “Two whole weeks?”

  “What’s the problem? Everybody else is happy as clams.”

  “Ever hear of clam chowder?”

  “Come on now, Scrooge. What’s your problem?”

  Corrie could stand sarcasm, but not Paul’s concerned tone. She thumped him on the shoulder with her fist—not in anger, but defeat. Then she pressed her forehead against the place she’d hit so she wouldn’t have to see his expression.

  “Why the attitude, Corrie honey?” Paul squeezed her closer, like the big brother she’d always wished for and never had.

  Because he was the only one in the world she trusted, she couldn’t help admitting the pathetic truth. “If I don’t have to be here, I don’t have to b
e anywhere.”

  “But that’s the good part. You can do whatever you want. Go see your family.”

  With her head close to his chest, Corrie heard his sharp intake of breath as he remembered. Her answering sigh trembled a bit.

  His grip tightened. “Shit, honey, I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “Can’t say but what I’d like to sometimes,” she mumbled into his coat.

  “So . . . spend Christmas with me and the family. You know you’re welcome.”

  Yeah, welcome and as comfortable as a duck in a tux. She’d never gotten the hang of families and holidays. How could she, when she never really belonged? And the enormous LaDue clan, all chattering in Cajun patois, would only emphasize that fact, no matter how much they tried.

  She shook her head. “No, it’s okay. I’ll be fine.” How, she didn’t know, but it wasn’t Paul’s problem. She stepped back. “Really, I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  “Listen, LaDue . . .”

  “No one should be alone at Christmas.”

  “I’m used to it.” Amazing what you can get used to.

  Corrie let him rant a little more as she oversaw the plating of the sea bass with the salsa, along with a London broil with béarnaise sauce, then finished the presentation with a swipe of the plate edge. She turned her attention back to Paul as he snapped his fingers.

  “I’ve got it.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the counter. “What is it you’ve got? Rudolph in the closet? Or has he come out with you?”

  “Christmas.” He threw both hands up to keep her quiet. “Hear me out.”

  She arched one eyebrow.

  “How about you spend Christmas in Virginia?”