by Ann Gimpel
She swallowed back a sharp retort that she didn’t bargain with evil. Instead, she kept her mind voice even. “How would you like it to be?”
“Why, both of us being witches and all, we should be on the same side.”
“If I agree, will you lay low for the rest of the night?”
Silence. Abigail ground her teeth together. Further conversation was probably pointless, but she’d never felt quite so helpless, or so exposed. Light leached from the day. Night was a prime time for wraith and mad wolf attacks. Though the other witch was inside her, Abigail couldn’t divine her thoughts.
Probably just as well. If I knew what she had up her sleeve, it might drive me insane.
She plucked a few bunches of wild onion and trudged toward the stationhouse. Luke must have lit the woodstove because fragrant smoke wafted from the chimney. Abigail pressed her tongue against her teeth and pasted what she hoped was a neutral expression on her face. It was going to be a long night. She sent up a prayer to the goddess that she and Luke would live to see the dawn. Pushing open the door, she let herself inside and dropped the greens on a table. “Hi. Thanks for firing the stove.” She glanced his way.
“Hi, yourself.” He’d braided his hair. Whiskers shadowed his strong jawline. Clear green eyes gazed at her, but the edginess that had made him seem like a prickly pear earlier was gone. “Do you want to cook, or are you okay with me making us something?” Without waiting for her to answer, he added, “I found some cornmeal in a sealed canister. There’s still some rabbit left, and some grease from it. Thought I’d fry up some cornmeal mush with greens and the rest of the meat.”
“Sounds wonderful. I’ll cut up the onions and meat.” Emotion narrowed her throat. Abigail couldn’t remember the last time anyone had prepared a meal for her, but beyond that, Luke was being kind. After the way Goody had tried to manipulate him, he could look past it and treat her humanely. She resisted an almost overpowering desire to throw her arms around him and thank him, but that would put him squarely in Goody’s clutches. She fumbled in her valise for a pocketknife and positioned herself beside him to help make their evening meal.
“Thanks for bringing my things inside.” She gestured toward her valise.
“You’re welcome. While I was scouting to see what was here, I also found this.” Luke cocked his head to one side and waggled a bottle of some sort of spirits. “Might be the stationmaster’s private stash, but I can always have another of the enforcers repay him next time someone rides through here.”
Abigail wasn’t sure why, but a ray of hope lightened her bleak mood and she risked a grin. “Bet that poor fellow never leaves his station unmanned again.”
Luke scraped rabbit fat from beneath the skin and placed it in a cast iron pot sitting on the woodstove. “You were going to tell me about yourself.” He nodded encouragingly and her self-consciousness dropped away. She fetched a wooden board from near the pump and organized her thoughts as she worked.
Chapter Six
Abigail pared the tough parts from the wild onions and debated where to begin. If she didn’t watch it, she could bore him to tears with her less-than-interesting life. “I was born when there were still colonies, just before the Revolution. You’d think I’d have had a whole bunch of adventures in the last ninety-odd years, but it hasn’t exactly worked that way.”
He scooped up the onion she’d chopped and added it to the bowl where he was mixing cornmeal with water. Grease sizzled in the pot and filled the small building with a pleasant odor. “Which of the colonies?” he asked, followed by, “Were your parents witches?”
“Virginia. Not my parents, but my grandmother.” Abigail smiled in spite of herself, remembering. “Poor Ma. She never liked being raised by a witch, and when she gave birth to one, it must have been damned unsettling. Of course, she didn’t find out right away, but still, neither of my parents were ever comfortable being around magic, and I’m sure it was a big relief to them when we left.”
“Who’s we and where’d you go?”
“My grandparents decided to head west well ahead of the wagon trains. They took me with them.”
Luke must have noticed she was done chopping because he picked up the board and tipped everything into his mixing bowl. “How old were you?”
“Let’s see.” She looked skyward, thinking. “Eighteen, maybe nineteen. It was 1788 and most of the country was still overrun with Indians. Gran and Pop were headed for California, mostly on account of it might be a friendlier place to practice witchcraft undisturbed. It was a tough journey, much harder than any of us anticipated.” She shook her head, eyes narrowed, remembering. “We never could have done it without magic. When we could find them, we followed Indian tracks. Finally, we gave up on the wagon. Pop finagled a few more horses from a local tribe and we transferred most of our goods, but we left a lot in exchange.”
“After all that work, was California all you’d hoped?” Luke dropped dollops of his concoction into the hot grease. It spattered and hissed, smelling heavenly. Her stomach clenched and she realized how hungry she was.
Abigail nodded. “For the most part, yes. People were grateful for what we could do. No one questioned us, or was frightened at all. The ones who ran the Mission de San Francisco de Asis mostly kept to themselves. When it seemed like we’d be able to make a life for ourselves, we built a log house in the woods. There were a few other settlers, but it was something like fifty-five years before the town of Yerba Buena came to be. Gran started midwifing and she did real well, between delivering babies and selling herbs for whatever ailed folk. She and the local Indian shamans got on famously. Pop got into lumbering.
“I mostly helped Gran and worked to develop my magic. Somewhere along the way Mother and Dad died. Remember, neither of them were witches. Gran and I wanted to go back east for Mother’s memorial service, but by the time we found out, it had already happened. We didn’t find out Dad was gone until over a year after the fact.”
“Yerba Buena’s the same as San Francisco, isn’t it?” Luke glanced at her and quirked a questioning brow.
“Yes. It got its new name around 1847, a few months after the navy claimed California as part of the United States.”
Luke turned the cornmeal pancakes and rustled through cupboards, coming up with a couple of dusty plates. She made a grab for them and went to the sink so she could pump water to clean them up a bit before the food was ready. He took the wet plates from her and set them atop the woodstove to dry. “Thanks. Witches live a long time. Are your kin still there?”
Abigail nodded. “I stayed there too, for years, but there were so few people I got restless. Besides, a bunch of religious groups showed up in the early 1840s and they saw Gran and me as little better than devils—same thing we left the eastern states to get away from. It took a little doing, but I signed on as a cook with some men and wagons heading back to the east coast. It took close to eight months to get back to New York City, but at least the men behaved themselves. I showed up at Coven headquarters one day, and that’s about it. I’ve been working for them ever since, maybe fifteen years. Gran and I write back and forth. Guess the gold rush of 1848 really made the city explode. She says I wouldn’t recognize it because of how big it’s grown.”
He handed her a plate and she felt suddenly shy. “Thank you. It smells great. I’d been planning to visit Gran and Pop after I dropped Carolyn off in Salt Lake. Pop’s getting really old. Gran’s been extending his life with her magic, but he’s finally getting to the end of things. Anyway, seemed like a good opportunity. I didn’t know when I’d be so close again…”
Her voice trailed off. Cheeks heating, Abigail knew she’d said too much. What if he asked her more about that, or worse offered to go with her to San Francisco? No way could she go to her grandmother’s in her current state. She loved the old woman and Goody might kill her. She pushed the stationhouse door open and sat on the top step, with her plate balanced on her lap. There weren’t any forks, but she still had her kn
ife and it was good enough to cut, spear, and transfer food into her mouth.
Abigail glanced over her shoulder. “What about you?” Maybe if she could get him talking about himself, he’d forget what she’d said about a side journey to San Francisco.
Luke tucked a sliver of wood beneath the door to keep it from slamming shut and sat next to her. “Not all that much to tell on my side, either. I was born in a village about a hundred miles west of Boston. Family was pretty darned normal. Me, three sisters, Ma, and Pa. We had a little farm and grew pretty much everything we needed. I didn’t realize I had power until I was fifteen.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Anyway, after that I studied with the village mage for ten years, wandered for a bit, and signed on to be a Coven enforcer.”
She chewed and swallowed. Abigail wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed with such humble ingredients, but the cornmeal mush pancakes were delicious and she said as much. It was easier than telling him she knew he’d left out a few key things about his past. Thank God Goody wasn’t kicking up a fuss, what with Luke sitting right next to her and all.
“Why’d you pick the Coven?” she asked.
He turned his head and smiled. He had very white, very straight teeth, and the smile transformed his stern features into something striking. “Easy enough. They’re the largest organized group fighting evil. Actually, other than a few splinter groups, the Coven is it. I wanted to be where I could do the most good.”
Abigail thought about it and worked her way through another pancake. “You said you wandered. Were you part of one of the vigilante groups taking on wraiths and mad wolves?”
He nodded. “Rogue humans too. We weren’t very well organized and didn’t have a dependable way to tell if new recruits were what they claimed.” His forehead furrowed. “One of the newer men sold us out and we lost three strong fighters. Those of us who were left went to the Coven and begged them to take us on.”
“I’ll bet they did.” She laid her knife on her empty plate.
“You’d be right, but how’d you know?”
“Because the Coven is fair and they’d never turn down anyone with power who could help our side.”
He eyed her plate. “Would you like more?”
“Sure. Maybe you could bring that bottle of spirits back along with another couple of pancakes?”
“I’d be happy to.” He pushed to his feet.
Abigail watched stars flicker and a harvest moon just cresting the horizon. She liked Luke. The more they talked, the more she appreciated his decency. He didn’t just pay lip service to an honorable code; he lived it. She wondered what he’d left out of his life story. He’d said something about losing a sister to wraiths earlier. Maybe whatever he’d skirted over was wrapped up in grief so profound it still hurt to talk about it.
He’d just settled back next to her, and handed her plate back, when she caught the sound of distant hoof beats. “You expecting any of the enforcers?”
Luke shook his head. “No. If it was them, I’d feel it. It’s not.”
She exchanged a glance with him and got to her feet. They faded inside the stationhouse, quietly shut the door, and killed their mage lights. Until they knew who was headed their way, it was best to lay low. It might just be a late traveler, but that seemed unlikely.
•●•
Luke loaded his revolvers by feel from the ammunition belts crisscrossing his shoulders. Silver-and iron-laced bullets snicked satisfyingly into cylinders. The approaching horses could be something as benign as the stationmaster returning, but until he knew for certain, it paid to be on his toes. Sloppy got you killed. As he worked, he glanced sidelong at Abigail. He’d thoroughly enjoyed just sitting and getting to know her while they traded histories. Quite aside from being such a beautiful woman it was hard to keep his hands to himself, she was a decent soul. There had to be something the two of them could do to defeat Goody.
Cooking had given him a chance to think. While he wasn’t totally positive what he’d felt inside Abigail was the Salem witch, she was the likeliest possibility. The energy matched what he’d sensed inside Carolyn and coincidences were rare birds. A very slim possibility existed that another stray dark spirit had captured Abigail at the same time Goody lost her home inside Carolyn, but Luke had never believed in flukes. He’d be ready for anything, but he was as close to certain as he could be who his adversary was.
Thoughts of the Salem witch sent a chill down his back. If something malevolent was headed their way, he’d bet Goody was behind it. He tightened his jaw and squared his shoulders. If Abigail turned on him, driven by Goody’s energy, he’d have a big problem on his hands. Shooting her would solve it, but he didn’t want to do that unless there wasn’t any other choice. She called to something inside him, a part he’d shuttered the night Tamra died. Before he could delve deeper into his irrational desire to gather Abigail close and protect her from harm, they had to separate her essence from Goody’s. He opened his mouth, and then clacked it shut. He couldn’t discuss the problem with Abigail without exposing his intentions to Goody, which made things that much harder. Worse, he couldn’t even come up with a subtle way to clue Abigail that he knew about her dilemma.
Luke listened intently, pulling magic to sharpen his hearing. Not only were the hoof beats drawing nearer, they’d turned off the main road and were headed right for them. Two horses, which probably meant two men. Damn!
It could mean a whole lot more than that. Wraiths and mad wolves don’t need horses.
He glanced at Abigail. She’d retreated to a corner with her arms wrapped around herself and her head tilted downward. Luke wanted to go to her, crush her against him, and reassure her he’d take care of her, but he didn’t. That much proximity would surely spur Goody into something. Whether it was sexual or aggressive didn’t matter. He didn’t want to deal with the Salem witch unless she made her presence obvious. Once she did that, Abigail was as good as dead.
Luke jammed his revolvers back into their holsters. He wanted to smash his fist through something. Frustration jangled his nerves. He’d never been much for cloak-and-dagger operations. No, he liked to play with his cards face up. To have to pretend grated against every instinct he’d ever had. Plus, he knew he was playing with fire—and breaking all the rules—by not killing Abigail outright, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it—not yet.
“They’re coming here.” Abigail’s voice was thin, strained.
“Ssht.” He looked at her and shook his head, meaning for her to remain silent. Luke padded to a window. He used magic to keep himself invisible and peered out. A bay and a black trotted into the Overland Stage yard. Two horses, two men. He’d been right about that part. He split his magic to feel beyond the horsemen, and sent it hurtling into the darkness to sense what might be with them. Something blocked him, which gave him all the answer he needed.
He strode to Abigail’s side and bent so his mouth was right next to her ear. “No matter what happens, you stay in here and shroud yourself with magic.”
“I helped you fight before.”
Her words didn’t sound right, and she wasn’t looking at him. “That was then,” he murmured low. “This is now. I’m pulling rank on you. As a Coven witch, you’re obliged to obey an enforcer’s direct order.”
Abigail’s features twisted into something he couldn’t quite make out in the dark. That she kept her face averted didn’t help. He read anger in her posture, along with resignation. Luke turned away. By the time he made the door, he held a gun in one hand. The only way he’d make it through the next little bit of time was by taking a hard offensive position. A quick glance out the window showed both men still on their mounts as if they were waiting for something, or someone else, to arrive. Too bad there wasn’t a side door, but he’d have to work with what he had.
Abigail hadn’t moved. Good. Luke pulled shadows around himself so he wouldn’t be quite so visible, opened the door, and shut it behind him. He drew his second gun, keeping both low, half hidden by his
body—and his spell. Magic would shield him, but not from astute magic wielders. “Hey there!” he called out with false cheer. “You woke me. What can I do for you?”
“Stationmaster sent us,” one of the men replied.
“Yup. We’re the relief drivers,” the other said. “Seeing as how we’re behind schedule, we thought we’d get a jump on things.”
The men were hazy, but it might have been Luke’s spell. He sent shielded magic outward, but it bounced back again. “I’ll wake the lady,” he murmured, buying time. “We’ll be ready soon as you get the horses hitched.”
“You’re the stable boy tonight,” the first man snapped. “You get ’em hitched for us.”
If Luke had any doubts about the men, they evaporated. Horses were sensitive to dark magic. If these men couldn’t hitch up a team, it meant what was beneath them had to be illusion. In one smooth motion, Luke swung both pistols to firing height and pulled the triggers. Screams ricocheted off the trees, shrill and horrible, and the men plunged to the ground, clutching their stomachs. Before the riot of noise faded, he lowered the guns fractionally and shot whatever was masquerading as horses. Neighs turned to snarls and the horses shimmered, becoming huge gray wolves writhing in death throes, surrounded by spreading pools of blood.
Luke was breathing hard. Still clutching a gun in each hand, he scoured the darkness with magic and his eyes. Had he missed anything? The door creaked open behind him. Abigail—or Goody. He twirled, but he was a second too late. The woman launched herself at him, biting, scratching, clawing. Magic poured off her.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry, but I can’t keep her under control,” Abigail screamed, her face contorted in agony.
“No need for apologies. I already figured it out.” Luke quickly holstered his guns.