Ghost Horse

by Patricia Rosemoor

  I didn’t see the feet until I ran into the man. I plunged into him full force and he stepped back with the impact and threw a steadying arm around me.

  “Easy, there.”

  I looked up at the man and nearly screamed, “Damian!”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” I said, trying not to let him hear the fear in my voice. “I was just getting out of the storm.”

  “You should have taken an umbrella.”

  As he had. I was dripping but no longer being pelted with rain. Instead I was pressed against his broad chest under his umbrella. I was too aware of this man of whom I need be suspicious. I couldn’t trust anyone until I knew the truth. No one but Nissa.

  I slipped my hand between us to push him away and could feel his strong heartbeat under my palm. My breath caught in my throat and my pulse fluttered.

  “Let’s get you back to the house where you can get warm and dry,” he said.

  I didn’t tell him I was warm enough already because of him. He turned me toward the house but kept his hand on my waist, my hip pressed against his. Nothing personal on his part, I was sure, but it felt uncomfortably personal on mine.

  We’re maybe a hundred yards from the house. I waited until we ran up under the porch before I said, “You’d better check on your horses.”

  “Already done.”

  “Then you know one is loose.”

  “No. All present and accounted for.”

  “But there’s a horse out there.” I glanced back the way we had come.

  “Where? In the woods?”

  “Yes. I was coming back from the bluffs when I thought I heard it.”

  “It was probably the storm. The wind out here is tricky.”

  “I tell you, he was there, a gray Thoroughbred.”

  Damian laughed at me. “You have quite an imagination. The only pale horse on the estate was a valuable gray stud that died in a terrible fall off the bluffs last month.”

  Goose bumps prickled up my spine. He must mean Centaur, the stallion Jack Larson had mentioned. “There are no other grays on the farm?”

  “Not a one.”

  “What about a neighbor’s horse?”

  “There are a couple of bays in the area. Chestnuts. An Appaloosa. No grays.” He smothered another laugh. “You must have seen a ghost horse.”

  Bristling at Damian’s mocking tone, I bit down a tart retort.

  He placed a hand on the small of my back, saying, “Come on, let’s go inside.”

  We headed for the porch, with me too aware of the imprint of each of his fingers. I wanted to run ahead, but I didn’t want him to know he affected me.

  The moment we got into the foyer, Damian said, “Change and then come downstairs. The dryer is in the mudroom by the back door. And you can warm up by the fire.”

  The last thing in the world I wanted right now was to spend any extended amount of time in his company—I would rather take a hot shower and read before going to bed than chance more unwanted attraction—but I could hardly refuse. So I determined to use the opportunity to get what information about Dawn’s disappearance that I could from him.

  “All right. A fire sounds good.”

  I was soaked through, and the June night air was chilly. I ran up to my room and shed the wet clothes. Out the window, the rain was driving down hard like an opaque curtain. As I dried myself with a towel from the washstand, I remembered Damian’s arm around me, I felt again his fingers at the small of my back, and my nipples tightened in response.

  I wondered what it would be like to have his hand in other, more intimate places.

  And then I shook the fantasy. It wouldn’t be smart to develop a thing for my employer. I didn’t know him. I didn’t know that he didn’t play a part in Dawn’s disappearance.

  I dried my hair and combed it out, then pulled on terry pants and a long-sleeved top. Gathering the wet clothes, I descended the back stairs and stopped to put them in the dryer before heading for the study.

  The room smelled like a combination of old leather and furniture wax and smoke from the fire. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books lined two of the walls, and an old-fashioned desk with a new-fashioned computer sat between a pair of mullioned windows. It was the kind of room that set off the imagination…a room meant for clandestine meetings where plots were hatched and crimes planned.

  Damian was ensconced in a club chair in front of the fire, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He appeared every bit the master of the house. His brow was furrowed as he stared into the flames. I wondered what troubled him—my story about the gray horse or something darker?

  He turned his gaze to me. “So soon. Both punctual and a quick change.”

  “Personally, I find that men take far longer at grooming than women do.”

  His eyebrows flicked upward but he didn’t respond to my smart response. I didn’t know if it was true and I hadn’t been with enough men myself to generalize. My one intimate relationship lasted more than a year, but in the end hadn’t worked out. James said it was me, that I couldn’t open up enough to let real love in, and that he wanted more than the physical passion I provided.

  Perhaps he’d been correct. My father’s abandoning me at a critical age made me cautious with men. So cautious that I balked at trying it again.

  “Can I offer you a drink? Brandy? Wine?”

  “A glass of red would be nice.”

  I warmed myself by the fire and Damian went to a liquor cabinet built into the shelving. He poured red wine for me and topped up his brandy. He handed me my glass and clinked his to it.

  “To a successful match. That is, you and Nissa,” he hurried to add as if I might misunderstand.

  My turn to raise an eyebrow at him. And to take advantage of the opening.

  I sipped at the wine, a fine dry vintage, and said, “Nissa and Dawn got along, didn’t they?”

  “Nissa had great affection for Dawn,” he said without sounding as if he shared that feeling. “It made it all the harder on the girl when Dawn left without saying goodbye.”

  “Yes, the agency mentioned something about a note—”

  “Saying she was eloping,” Damian finished for me. “Not that the agency should have mentioned anything of my business. The note was very cut-and-dried.”

  “Was that like her?”

  “I didn’t think so, but I’ve been fooled by women before.”

  I assumed he was referring to his ex-wife, Priscilla, and wondered if his serious expression when I entered the room was for her. I sipped at the wine and shifted in my chair so I could see his reactions to my questions more directly.

  “Maybe if the note wasn’t like Dawn…well, what if there was no truth to the elopement story?”

  “And she just took off and lied about why? That wouldn’t make sense.”

  True, but I wanted to explore all possibilities. “Perhaps something else was going on that you didn’t know about and Dawn didn’t leave on her own.”

  Damian flicked an eyebrow upward. “You do have an overactive imagination. First you think you see a ghost horse, now you think the last teacher met foul play? Who would have written the note, then?”

  I clenched my jaw at his repeated sarcasm about the ghost horse and told myself to remain cool. “I’m just playing ‘what if’ here. Was the note in her handwriting?”

  “It was written on the computer, actually,” he said, indicating the desk opposite the fireplace.

  “A signature?”

  He shook his head and a furrow creased his brow. “Just her name typed.”

  “Then how do you know something didn’t happen to her?”

  “Look, she packed her things and stole out in the middle of the night. The authorities were satisfied no foul play was involved. Why aren’t you?”

  I felt his increase in emotions like a physical force. I tried to read him. He was angry, but I think not at me. I decided to keep my tone light.

  “You sound irritated.”<
br />
  “It’s just that I’ve been over this and over this.”

  I wondered if the authorities were as casual about Dawn’s disappearance as he made it sound. Or was it Damian himself who questioned what really happened to my friend? I didn’t want to think he was annoyed because he had something to do with her disappearance.

  “Why the twenty questions?” he asked. “You didn’t even know the woman. Did you?”

  My stomach knotted at the reminder of my charade. Damian had no way of connecting us—I had done my querying through the employment counselor who actually was a friend of Dawn’s and mine. I avoided his question.

  “I think it’s important that I have as much knowledge as possible about the situation in this household so I can understand Nissa better. She seems emotionally fragile, and I need information if I am to help her.”

  “I’m here to see to her emotional needs!” he said brusquely. “You see to her studies.”

  Not the response I hoped for. I realized my interview was at an end. Damian was obviously getting exasperated and wasn’t going to be more forthcoming. At least not tonight. So I took one last sip of my wine and rose.

  “Thank you for the drink and the fire. I’m quite warmed up now, and I think it’s time I call it an evening. I’ve had a very long day.”

  “Pleasant dreams, then.”

  More sarcasm? Or did Damian mean this? I couldn’t tell. He was once again preoccupied with his own thoughts.

  Tension followed when I left the study. I fetched my clothes from the dryer. They were still a bit damp but they would dry on hangers. I took the back stairs to my room, where finally I relaxed and changed into my favorite nightgown—a calf-length white cotton shift edged with lace.

  Exhausted yet not sleepy, I stood at the window and watched and listened to the drumming rain and the nervous nickering of horses in their barns. The windows had overhangs and were fairly dry, so I opened one and let the fresh smells and soothing sounds fill my room. The storm had lightened a bit and I stared out to the woods and to the small area of the bluffs beyond.

  My ghost horse did not do a command performance for me.

  My bed awaited, narrow but comfortable.

  As my eyes fluttered closed, I pictured Dawn in my mind’s eye. She was beautiful and happy and laughing.

  And I knew it was a lie.

  Dawn…my friend…the sister of my heart…what really happened to you?

  The patter of rain lulled me to sleep.

  DAMIAN WAS DOZING before the fire when a loud clunk brought him awake. “Who’s there?”

  “Just me, devil-boy.” Alex strolled into the study and poured himself a drink.

  “That nickname is getting old.”

  “Just like it’s owner.”

  Damian roused himself and pulled a hand through his hair. How long had he been sleeping? He checked his watch and was surprised to see it was barely ten-thirty.

  “What are you doing home so early, Alex? I thought you had a date.”

  “Bored. I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again.”

  “How many women do you go through in a year?”

  “Jealous?”

  After the mess with Priscilla, Damian wasn’t in a hurry to repeat his mistake by being attracted to the wrong sort of woman. Too bad Dawn hadn’t been more intuitive in that regard.

  “I have too many other things on my mind.”

  “Then you need a distraction…like the pretty new schoolteacher.”

  Irritation sizzled through him. “Stay away from this one, Alex.”

  “Ah, so you’re interested in her for yourself?”

  Damian didn’t answer. Something in him responded to Chloe Morgan. She was soft in nature, yet she seemed capable of holding her own. He sensed there was more going on with her than she let on. It wouldn’t do to think along those lines, of course. She was Nissa’s summer tutor and that was it as far as he was concerned.

  But he didn’t want Alex messing with her, either, not like he had with Dawn.

  Alex plopped into the chair next to him, saying, “If you don’t make a move on the comely Miss Morgan, you won’t mind if I do, right?”

  Knowing Alex was messing with him now, Damian wearily asked, “Will you ever act your age and settle down?”

  “When the right woman comes along.”

  Thinking of the string of women Alex had gone through over the past several years, Damian asked, “Who would that be?”

  “One with enough money to afford the lifestyle to which I would like to become accustomed away from here.”

  Damian had heard it all before. “What’s wrong with this life?”

  Alex thought he wanted a different one…only, he didn’t know what. Damian figured it went back to their boyhood rivalry, when Alex continually attempted to one-up him.

  “Take a realistic look around you, Damian. This place needs a ton of money to make it shine again. It’s sliding down the tubes.”

  “We’re not going to lose Graylord Pastures!”

  “No, we’ll probably get by somehow while the walls crumble around us.”

  “Then, figure out a way to get us the business we need to pull out of the hole.”

  “My specialty is promotions, not miracles.” Alex splashed back his brandy. “Now, if we could ever find Great-great-great-grandmother Anna’s diamonds…”

  “Don’t put stock in fairy tales,” Damian said. “I’m sure the Equine Diamonds were sold a century ago to keep this place going. If they ever existed in the first place.”

  The tale of the Equine Diamonds had lured generations of Graylords to find them, but no one ever had.

  “Then we need a miracle, devil-boy.”

  “We need a miracle.”

  I WANDER ALONG the bluffs, my feet stirring white clouds of fog that rise around me and encompass my body like snakes. The air is thick and I can hardly breathe, yet I go on…searching…trying to find her.

  Hoofbeats drum across the ground, the sound muffled. I turn and turn and turn…looking…searching….

  A shape pushes at the fog and forms an equine head. It comes at me in slow motion. The head, mane floating along a breeze…then the body, tail raised…finally the rider, hair whipping around her face….

  “Dawn!” I cry, elated. I have found her at last.

  But the horse and rider run straight through me, ghosts both….

  I awoke in a sweat. Hot and cold. Feverish and washed over by the wind wailing through the open window. The storm had renewed itself, and the transparent curtains flew toward me like ghosts accompanied by a spray of mist. Thunder shook me in my bed and lightning electrified the sky so brightly, it illuminated my room.

  I swore I saw something in the shadows.

  My chest squeezed, and I gasped, “Who’s there?”

  No answer. Maybe I imagined it, part of the nightmare.

  More lightning, and I caught movement this time. I thought fast. A weapon…what could I use?

  And then the figure drew closer and I saw that it was Nissa.

  “Nissa, is something wrong? Are you afraid of storms?”

  She whispered one word. “Mama…”

  Her eyes were open and she was moving but she was asleep. They say not to wake a sleepwalker. So, gently I turned her to the door and walked with her back to her room.

  The door was open. Inside, the room was lit only by the fish tank that glowed softly against the wall. I got her into the bed and tucked the covers around her, then smoothed the tangled red hair from her forehead.

  “Love you, Mama,” she said with a sigh. And then her breathing said she was asleep.

  Wondering how often she walked in her sleep and whether or not Damian knew about it, I left the room thinking I would have to talk to him about it.

  I was almost back inside my own room when I heard a noise overhead. I looked up as if I could see through the ceiling. I heard it again. A bang. I was not imagining this. Not a part of my dream. Perhaps the storm forced open a wind
ow that needed closing.

  Another bang as I entered my room—one that gave me a start.

  I would never sleep if the noise overhead continued. And it was too late to wake anyone. I would have to fix whatever was wrong myself. I flipped the switch but the room lights didn’t go on. The storm must have knocked out the power.

  I found candles on my dresser and now knowing why they were there, lit them. Then I took one and left the room again to head for the back stairs. I didn’t get but one foot on the first step before another door opened and I turned to see Mrs. Avery, her pale face ghostly in the candlelight. Her pencil-thin eyebrows winged up in question.

  “And where do you think you’re going, miss?”

  Chapter Four

  “Mrs. Avery,” I said, trying to sound natural over the pounding of my heart. “I heard a noise overhead.”

  “Your imagination.”

  “No, really. I heard something earlier, as well.”

  “The house is ancient but settles still.”

  “It wasn’t a creak or a groan, but more like a bang. I thought maybe a shutter had gotten loose. I thought I would just go check.”

  “That’s your problem, miss. You think too much. It’s not for you to decide anything about this household. And I told you myself that the attic is off-limits to you.”

  I flushed with a combination of embarrassment and irritation. “I’m sorry… I couldn’t sleep for the noise.” I couldn’t help but feel defensive.

  “All right, then,” Mrs. Avery said, her tone exasperated. “I shall check on the attic myself and fix whatever it is that disturbs you. Though, if it isn’t the wind, it’s undoubtedly squirrels.”

  I didn’t have any arguments left, so I nodded and descended the few stairs I’d taken. “Thank you,” I mumbled as I headed for my room. I glanced back only once to satisfy myself that Mrs. Avery was, indeed, climbing to the attic.

  The woman disliked me. Why? Did she feel I was usurping her somehow? Had she felt the same way about Dawn?

  Shivering at the thought, I opened my bedroom door. Once inside my room, I blew out the candles. I climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling overhead as noises seemed to skitter from one direction and then the other. The sounds quickly subsided, and I heard a creak from the hallway—the stairs, no doubt, as Mrs. Avery descended. If she’d found squirrels in the attic, no doubt she’d chased them away for good.