Haunting Ellie

by Patti Berg

  “He had it coming.”

  “So you settled it with your fists.” She twisted away. “Seems to be the way you handle all your problems. You’ve been close to hitting Matt every time I’ve seen you together.”

  “I should have punched him last night for what he did to you. I should have hit him tonight, too.”

  “I don’t think it has anything to do with me. I think it all goes back to the day you shot that deer. You can’t forget. You just want to get even.”

  “You think that’s what all this is about?” Jon asked, taking hold of her shoulders and keeping her from turning to walk away. “What about what he did to you?”

  “I had things well under control.”

  “Yeah, right. Would you really have stuck that glass into his neck? Could you have pushed it deep enough into his skin to make him stop? What if he’d grabbed you? What if he’d wrestled the glass out of your hand?”

  “Stop it, Jon.”

  “I won’t stop. Your brother just might get himself thrown in jail if he keeps on hanging around with Matt and Floyd. I was trying to talk some sense into him.”

  “I don’t like Matt, I don’t like Floyd, and I don’t want Eric running around with them. But you don’t have proof they’re doing anything wrong, and neither does anyone else.”

  “That could change at any time.”

  Elizabeth looked away. “Eric’s never been in trouble before. He’s not the type.”

  “I got a real good look at his character tonight.”

  “That wasn’t my brother in that room,” she fired back. “I don’t know what’s going on, but Eric’s never acted like that before.”

  “Maybe you just never saw this side of him. Maybe he’s always put on too good a show.”

  She jerked away and Jon realized he’d said too much. “He’s my brother, but that doesn’t seem to make any difference to you.” She laughed. “Why would it, though? You’ve got a vendetta against your own cousin. I sometimes have the feeling you’re looking for a fight. You’re bigger than everyone else, and if you can’t intimidate them with your size, you use your fists.”

  “Your brother deserved it.”

  “Guilt by association, right?” she asked. “My brother doesn’t deserve to be on your enemy list any more than I did, but you’ve put him there. I guess that means you might as well put me back on that list, too.”

  “I told you I was sorry. I told you I trusted you.”

  “Yeah, so you did. But I had to prove I was innocent. What if you hadn’t seen me with that glass to Matt’s neck? Would I still be trying to make you believe in me?”

  Jon shook his head. No amount of words would calm her, would make her understand that everything he’d done today was for her.

  “If you’ll take your hands off me, Jon, I’d like to go home now.”

  “Don’t go, Ellie,” he asked softly, but her eyes glared into his.

  Slowly he released his grip, and without hesitating a moment, she walked up the hotel steps and through the door.

  There was nothing more he could do now, nothing more he could say. But Jon swore as he watched that door close that he wasn’t about to let her walk out of his life for good.

  Chapter 16

  Elizabeth rocked back and forth while Alex paced her bedroom floor. It had taken her ten minutes to stop crying and nearly half an hour of pacing along with Alex to calm her anger. The problem was she didn’t know who she was mad at—Jon, her brother, or herself.

  Eric was irresponsible and his association with Matt just proved it even more. Jon had a temper, just like most artists she’d ever known. Being big and powerful on top of that made him all the more passionate. She leaned her head against the high-backed wooden chair and closed her eyes. Lord, but she loved his passion. There was nothing meek or timid about him and he stood up to her at every turn. Other men had never tried.

  Thinking about him made her smile for the first time in an hour. She’d been so wrong to yell, to take her frustrations out on the man who’d attempted to tell her he was only trying to help. Knowing Jon, that’s what he was doing. Helping.

  He’d helped her again and again. He sculpted and gave all the money to wildlife charities. He organized work crews to take care of things in town, bounced children on his knees, and told them stories of long, long ago.

  Jon Winchester was, by far, the best man she’d ever known, and she loved him with all her heart.

  “You going to sit there all night mooning away over that big galoot or are you going to finish reading that diary?”

  Alex was standing right in front of her when she opened her eyes. “I’m sorry, Alex. I forgot.” Libby’s phone call had interrupted her not even halfway through the revealing details of Phoebe’s diary. She’d run to the cafe, seen Jon smash her brother in the face, and exploded. Oh, she was still angry about the fight; she was still angry about her brother showing up in town without saying a word, and she was more than angry with herself for losing her temper.

  But right now she had to finish that diary. She could deal with all the other problems when she was through. The most important thing at the moment was taking care of Alex.

  She picked up the diary he’d set beside her chair and once again began to read.

  oOo

  Elizabeth turned over the last page and set Phoebe’s journal in her lap, folding her hands over the top. “Everything we need to prove your innocence and Luke’s guilt is right inside here.”

  “But will anyone believe it?” Alex asked. He’d been leaning over her shoulder, listening to every word she read, adding his own truths to Phoebe’s.

  “She was a madwoman,” Alex stated. “She said so herself. Why would anyone believe an ounce of that drivel?”

  “Because it’s the only proof we’ve got.”

  “It proves only that Luke killed me. It doesn’t say anything about me being the rightful owner of all the Dalton assets. That’s important.” He prowled the room for a moment, then knelt down before her. “Once you prove that Jedediah deeded everything to me, the Winchesters will lose everything. They’ll be out on the street with nothing, and I’ll have my revenge.”

  “I don’t really think that will happen, Alex. Not a hundred years after the fact. Not when too many generations of Winchesters have lived on Dalton property, invested the money, and built a completely different empire from the one that existed all those years ago.”

  “It has to happen. They need to suffer.”

  Elizabeth put her elbows on her knees and rested her chin on her folded hands. “Is that what you really want? Do you think two men who had nothing at all to do with your death should suffer for the sins of their great-grandfather?”

  “Of course I do!” Alex thundered. “You’d want it, too.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t care all that much about what happens to Matt, but I care very much about Jon. I was under the impression you were starting to like him, too.”

  “Liking him and getting out of here and back to Amanda are two different things. I swore I’d get rid of the Winchesters, and I will.”

  “Will getting revenge take away your pain? You don’t even know if getting revenge will get you out of here.”

  Alexander’s shoulders drooped as if all the fight had been knocked out of him. He paced the floor again, back and forth, back and forth, and finally he stopped. “Take the diary to Jon. Read it to him, and tell him about me. Maybe he can help us.”

  She sat up straight in the chair and frowned, wondering what had brought on this sudden change. “He’ll think I’ve lost my mind if I tell him I’ve been communicating with a ghost.”

  “He won’t.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s known about me since he was a boy. He knows I’m here now.”

  Elizabeth sat motionless, trying to fathom the words Alex had just uttered. Was he telling the truth? Surely she would have sensed it if Jon had known about Alex. “Why hasn’t he said something to me about you?”
>
  “Because a long time ago he told people about me and no one believed him. Because he’s never seen me, and he’s not even sure I exist. I think he halfway believes he’s crazy.”

  “You think that’s funny, don’t you?”

  Alex nodded. “I’m a ghost. I’m supposed to scare people, or at least make them think they’ve gone plumb loco.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “And the fact that he’s a Winchester made it ten times as enjoyable?”

  Alex shook his head. “Some twenty-odd years ago that big oaf was my best friend. He came here every day. We’d play games, we’d talk. He’d sit up in the attic for hours at a time and draw pictures while I watched. I managed to forget he was a Winchester, but when he told those other men about me I was afraid this place would be overrun by people trying to exorcise me. I didn’t want to leave this place—not till I knew I could be with Amanda. So I didn’t talk when he asked me to. They laughed at him and Matt, lily-livered buzzard, said he was crazy.”

  “Didn’t you feel sorry for him?” Elizabeth asked.

  Alex nodded. “I hated what was happening to him, but I had to think of myself first. Maybe I was wrong, but I can’t change any of that now. Your Jon’s a good man. I still find it hard to believe he’s a Winchester.”

  The grandfather clock struck.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Six more times.

  Elizabeth bolted out of the chair she’d been sitting in for too many hours. “It’s eight o’clock! I’m supposed to be at Jon’s.”

  “Two hours ago you told me you never wanted to see him again. Let’s see, what were the exact words you used—”

  “I lied. As for the words I used, I’d appreciate it very much if you never told a soul. I was angry.”

  “So, do you plan on lollygagging around here all night, or are you going to get down the street and apologize?”

  Elizabeth laughed. “I don’t know if a mere apology will get me back in his good graces. I was pretty mean.”

  “Thunder and tarnation, woman! Apologizing doesn’t have to be done with words alone. Now, you’d best get moving.”

  Elizabeth rushed down a flight of stairs to the entry. She pushed the diary into her coat pocket and slipped into the sleeves. “I’ll be home—” Her words trailed off as she looked at Alex. “I won’t make any promises about when I’ll be home,” she said. “Apologizing might take a while, but when I get back, I hope to have a plan that will get you out of here.”

  It didn’t take more than a moment for Elizabeth’s combat boots to hit the road, and she ran for the first time in years. Icy air stung her cheeks and burned her lungs, but none of that mattered. She had to get to Jon. She had to beg forgiveness, and she had to say she loved him.

  There were few lights on in the buildings lining the street, but a small bit of moonlight squeezing through a hole in the clouds lit her way. Even the lights that usually shone in Jon’s turret room were darkened—and that frightened her. Had he gone away? Had she lost her chance to say she was sorry?

  She pushed through the iron gates and rushed up the steps. She knocked. And waited.

  She rang the bell. And waited.

  Finally, she turned the knob and entered the unlocked house. Every room downstairs was dark, silent, and empty. She ran upstairs to the third floor and into Jon’s bedroom, hoping against hope that maybe he’d just gone to bed. But that big old mattress was just as empty as the rooms downstairs, the covers just as mussed as they’d left them that morning.

  Could he be in his studio? In the dark?

  She ran down the hall, her boots thudding against the boards. She climbed the narrow stairs, around and around, until she reached the top of the house and the circular room where he practiced his craft and put all his emotions into works of art. Yet even surrounded by beauty, the room felt lifeless without his presence.

  Where can he be? she wondered, as she walked around the room, peering out the tall, narrow windows. She saw a thread of light beaming through the storm shutters in a building behind the house and felt her heart beat a staccato rhythm against her chest.

  She left the room, running down the stairs, step after step, and exited the house through the kitchen door. The building was at least a hundred yards from the porch and appeared to have once been the stables or carriage house. Slowly, she pushed on the thick oak door, opening it just a crack so she could peer inside.

  What she saw took her breath away.

  Jon stood silhouetted before the open doors of a furnace, the flames leaping high inside. He was pouring molten metal, and the yellowish-brown liquid flowed easily from the long-handled crucible into the mold she’d seen before in his studio—the first mold he’d made of her face and shoulders.

  She leaned against the doorjamb and watched him at work, doing the thing he’d described to her at one point during their long night together. His chest was bare, his hands and forearms covered in thick insulated gloves. Sweat glistened on his flexed muscles, and Elizabeth wished she had her camera so she could capture this moment, where bronze flowing from the vessel looked like an extension of Jon’s bronzed and beautiful skin.

  She sighed deeply and Jon’s eyes fluttered up through long blond lashes and looked at her. His jaw hardened, and he looked back at his work once again.

  When the last of the metal flowed from the crucible, Jon set it aside, closed the door on the furnace, and removed the gloves. He looked at her again, and the flames she’d seen leaping in the kiln now sparked in his sapphire eyes.

  He stalked toward her, his deep, penetrating stare never once leaving her, not for a moment. She swallowed hard. Was he angry? Was he going to tell her to leave and never come back again?

  He stood in front of Elizabeth, his chest heaving in time with hers.

  She looked up.

  He looked down.

  Elizabeth swallowed again.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again,” he said.

  “I promised I’d be here. I may get angry and say stupid things, but I always keep my promises.”

  She hoped that he’d smile, but he didn’t.

  “If you’ve come for an apology, you’re not going to get one.”

  “It’s my turn to say I’m sorry,” she said. “Not yours.”

  He gently brushed wisps of hair from her cheek. “Just saying you’re sorry’s a damned poor attempt at making up.”

  “I thought of a few other ways, too,” she said softly, pressing her hands to his chest and sliding them upward to wrap around his neck. “I only hope you’ll give me the chance to try.”

  “One chance. That’s all you get, so you’d better make it good.” He swept her into his arms. He smelled of fire and smoke and felt slick and hot, and she buried her face into the cords of his neck and kissed him.

  He carried her outside through the cold winter chill. He carried her into his home and up the wide circular staircase. He carried her into his bedroom and stood her on the floor, and without saying a word, peeled off her coat, her gloves, the red knit shirt she’d been wearing all day long as they’d searched the house. He snapped loose the hook of her bra and pulled it away, freeing her breasts.

  She fought for every breath as he watched her, studied her, and touched her skin with only the power of his unwavering stare.

  He lifted her again and carried her to the bed. His fingers easily released the laces of her boots and slipped them from her feet. Her socks followed. Her jeans. The tap pants she loved to wear.

  And then he stared at her again.

  His chest rose and fell. He kicked off his boots and shoved off his Levi’s.

  He was hard with need and want.

  And Elizabeth wanted him.

  She opened her arms, and he bent just low enough for her to wrap her hands around his neck, her legs about his waist, and he lifted her once more, carrying her to the bathroom. He opened the shower door, turned on the water until it pulsated fast and warm from the nozzle, and he stepped inside.


  His mouth covered hers with passion and possession. She felt his hands gripping her bottom and her legs, his fingers just beginning to explore. She felt the cold, wet tiles at her back. She felt him hot and hard against her legs.

  And she cried out when he entered her with one swift and easy stroke.

  Jon threw his head back and the warm water slipped over him and between them. She combed her fingers into his hair and drew his face to her, kissing him with a hunger she’d never known existed. She didn’t care at all about the roughness of the grout between the tiles as it scraped against her back; all she cared about was the rhythmical beat as Jon moved within her, higher, deeper, harder, stronger. He seemed out of control, lusting to possess everything he could touch, everything he could reach.

  Again and again Elizabeth moaned with need and screamed with pleasure, wanting him to stop, wanting him to go on and on. And slowly the heavy beat of his movements turned into a soft, lilting rhythm of tenderness and care. He turned her from the wall and into the warmth of the water, holding her tight, tighter, until his tempo built again.

  Again he kissed her, his mouth wild and hot. Beneath her fingers she could feel the muscles of his shoulders, his neck, and his back tighten. She felt her own muscles grabbing hold, not wanting to let go of him now or ever as he filled her completely, and together, mind, body, and soul, they skyrocketed into the heavens.

  For the longest time, Jon rested his cheek on her shoulder. The rapid rise and fall of his chest slowed, and finally he tilted his head and whispered into her ear, “Damn fine way of apologizing.

  Elizabeth smiled. “I haven’t done a thing yet.” “

  All in good time, my love. All in good time.”

  And he picked up the soap and began another erotic adventure along the curves of her body.

  oOo

  Morning came and went, and when afternoon rolled around, they stirred from sleep and crept downstairs, filling a tray with crackers, salami and cheese, the only worthwhile things they could find in Jon’s kitchen other than beer and coffee.

  He told her the housekeepers came just once a week, and since his grandfather had passed away he’d made a point of eating most of his meals at Libby and Jack’s. They were old friends and good company. Jack didn’t talk much, but Libby had always kept him entertained.