A Season of Miracles

by Heather Graham

  She could feel the flames, though they were not touching her. She knew the feel of fire.

  She refused to know it again.

  She opened the window, then realized with a moan that the storm window was up. As she searched desperately for something with which to break it, she could feel the floor growing hotter beneath her feet. She was suddenly terrified that it would collapse, dropping her into the fire.

  He would come. He would not fail her again. She had to believe in the power of this second chance.

  “Jillian!”

  The voice was coming from outside. She rushed back to the window.

  Robert was there, with Griff racing up behind him.

  Robert was gesturing for her to get away from the window. She saw him dismount and pick up a dark object, large enough that it had not yet been fully covered by the snow. He drew his arm back, and she moved quickly away from the window.

  The glass shattered inward. She leapt back as shards smashed around her. The object he had thrown rolled toward her, but she paid no attention. Robert was here!

  Fire suddenly roared, breaking up through the floor. She rushed to the window.

  Below her, the porch was being consumed in flames. Robert had remounted and sat on his horse just beyond the flames, staring at her. She realized that what he had thrown had been an old cannon ball. Milo had found several on the property and had kept them stacked outside. A cannonball that could still explode.

  “Go.” The word was a whisper. And then she felt herself being shoved past the flames to the window.

  Milo!

  Below her, Robert was urging his terrified horse up to the edge of the burning porch. “Miracles!” he shouted. “You jump!”

  Robert and the horse were almost directly below her; flames shooting everywhere around them. Around her.

  Licking at her heels.

  Nearly touching her flesh.

  “Jump!” he yelled to her.

  And she jumped….

  She seemed to fall forever. In slow motion, she fell through time, the flames below her, but beyond them, so close, Robert. The man she loved. Loved in this life—and the last.

  She landed in his arms, an inferno raging around them; cutting off all escape. Was that how it would end this time? The two of them burning together? But Robert looked into her eyes, features grim and dark with soot.

  “Close your eyes,” he commanded. “Hold your breath.”

  He slammed his heels into Igloo’s flanks. The horse shrieked, balked, reared.

  And then Igloo leapt forward into the fire. Through the fire. He ran past the heat and into the cold, a world of snow and ice. Cold air wrapped around them, and her flesh was not burned. She seemed to hear nothing as they ran, no hooves upon the ground; they simply raced upon air, through the silence of a white world of snow, through time eternal….

  Then sound returned, and she heard Igloo’s hooves hit the ground. Robert reined him in, and they turned, heading back to where Griff still waited.

  They watched the house explode, the fire seeming to reach the sky.

  It didn’t matter.

  It wasn’t touching them.

  Daniel and Theo had nearly reached the cottage, riding double on old Blossom, when they started back. Douglas was frantic, Daniel said. Then he looked closely at her and insisted that they had to get back to the house and call a doctor. She was probably suffering from smoke inhalation, he said when he heard her cough.

  Sitting on Igloo, held close in Robert’s arms, she assured Daniel that she was fine, but she could tell that he didn’t believe her.

  Back at the house, Douglas was standing at the door. His knees crumpled when he saw her; she ran to hold him up. Amelia hugged her, Henry cried, and Agatha rushed around with warm blankets and pots of tea.

  It was some time before Griff said, “Just how the hell did the fire get started?”

  “I don’t know, but we’ll find out,” Douglas said with rough determination. “But for now, clean up and get some warm clothes on before I lose one of you to pneumonia.”

  Soot, the cold, none of it mattered. In her bedroom, Jillian did nothing but hold Robert for what seemed like hours. Then they showered, and finally they made love. They said little, too afraid to speak.

  “Was that a miracle?” he asked her at last.

  “Your lovemaking?” she teased. “Well, you were very good. Exceptional, actually. But a miracle…?”

  “Jillian…”

  “It’s a miracle. It’s all a miracle,” she whispered.

  * * *

  After their lovemaking, Robert dressed and went down to join the others, while Jillian opted for a bubble bath.

  Eileen and Gary were in the living room with Douglas, Daniel, Theo, Griff and Robert. Jasper McClean, the sheriff, had come and gone, telling them they would have to wait for the ashes to cool before the investigators could even begin to find out what had caused the blaze.

  “You folks were mighty lucky,” he had told them. “A cottage like that, with no fire escape…Well, it’s gone now. But Douglas, don’t you worry. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  Now, when it was just family, they knew it was time to get to the truth.

  “Did someone start it on purpose?” Eileen asked incredulously.

  “I think so,” Robert said. “I think someone rode out there and purposely set the place on fire—knowing that Jillian was inside.”

  “Not me—I don’t even like to ride,” Eileen said.

  “I was here arguing with you,” Daniel reminded him curtly.

  “You were at the stables, Griff.”

  Griff stood defensively, hands on his hips. “Yeah, right. I can see where you’re going. Because of that book. Reliving history, that’s what you two think.”

  “What are you talking about?” Douglas asked.

  Robert shook his head, staring at Griff.

  “I’m the bad guy, right—because I’m related, and I’m always joking with Jillian about marriage? So that makes me Sir Walter?”

  “You tell me,” Robert said.

  “Hell, no!”

  “Don’t look at me,” Theo charged.

  “Well, who was out today?” Robert demanded.

  Daniel exhaled. “Oh my God. Where is Jillian now?”

  “Taking a bath,” Robert said.

  “Get up there with her,” Daniel insisted. “Until we know what really happened, you can’t leave her alone.”

  * * *

  She was relaxing, eyes closed, in the bubbles, when she heard the noise. She looked up, thinking Robert had come back.

  It wasn’t Robert.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, more confused than angry.

  “Daniel deserves that business. He’s the oldest male, and he’s worked for it. He’s put his life into it.”

  “The business will go to all of us. Not that that has anything to do with you.” She sank lower in the tub, hiding beneath her camouflage of bubbles. “Look, I appreciate what you do for Daniel, I know he values your help. You—”

  She broke off, frowning, as she stared at Gracie.

  “You told me to go to the cottage!”

  “But you got out,” Gracie shot back. “Daniel would never do anything to discredit you. Everyone adores you. You’re even in the commercials. You outshine him every day, in every way you can. He loves you too much to see what you’re doing to him. But he loves me, too. I know it. He needs me. So I went to him. I have my talents, you know. Talents outside the office. Daniel doesn’t even realize yet just how talented I am. You just haven’t been watching, paying attention. You could have found out so much, but you were only worried that your assistant, your friend, might have been having an affair with Daniel. I was worried, too. But all Connie was doing that night in Connecticut was telling him that she loved her husband, and that she hoped she and Daniel would always be the best of friends. I know, because I was listening. And now you have to notice me.”

  “Gracie, get out,
” she said wearily. Then her breath caught when she saw Gracie produce a gun. She stiffened in the midst of her bubbles, so much suddenly so clear.

  “Gracie!”

  The door burst open. Robert was there.

  “She’s got a gun!” Jillian shouted.

  Robert made a flying leap.

  Gracie fired.

  * * *

  “A miracle,” Sister Catherine told Jillian on Christmas Day, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “A miracle,” Jillian echoed. “Can you imagine what a clever woman she was? She killed the cat, then hid the poison in Daniel’s desk, knowing I would never seriously suspect him of anything, even if the poison were found and somehow connected to Jeeves’s death. She figured I would go riding, and even that I would insist on Robert taking Crystal again, so she rigged the saddle. She knew where the shoot was going to be in Florida, so she hired a couple of local college kids to weaken the branch. They thought it was for a movie stunt. The sledding accident was more like grasping at straws, but she planned that, as well. It was a long shot that might have worked. Anyone is welcome to use any of the cars in the garage, so Gracie drove down the road and ran into the fence herself. When we were all fooling around, she managed to see to it that I was the one heading toward the break in the fence. She couldn’t be sure that a car would speed by, but I might have been seriously hurt or killed anyway. And then there was the fire,” Jillian finished softly.

  “Which Robert saved you from…but what about the bullet?”

  “Robert hit Gracie’s arm, ruining her aim. The bullet hit the tub, ricocheted, then hit Gracie. They say she’ll be fine, though, so she can stand trial.”

  Connie came running out of the dining room then, smiling. “The bird is on the table. Time for Christmas dinner.”

  “Sister,” Jillian said, “we’d all love it if you would say grace. I have to warn you, though. We usually all put in a few words, a thank-you from each family member for what the year has brought. It’s a tradition. But it would be wonderful if you would begin for us.”

  A few minutes later, Sister Catherine did just that. “Thank you, Lord, for the food that we are about to eat. Thank you for gathering us together here today. Thank you for second chances—”

  “Thank you for this Christmas,” Jillian said, interrupting first, and far earlier than she had intended.

  “Thank you for our daughter,” Eileen said softly, smiling down at the little hand wrapped in hers. Sister Catherine had brought Jenny, who had taken to Eileen and Gary immediately. The adoption would not take long.

  “Thank you, God, for my family,” Douglas said. “And,” he added with a wink, “my new almost-blushing bride.”

  “Thanks for watching out for my cousin,” Griff said gruffly.

  “Thanks for protecting us all from harm,” Daniel said, feeling guilty for not realizing the depth—and danger—of Gracie’s obsession with him.

  “Thanks for the really great girl I know you’re going to find for me this year,” Theo said. He smiled at Sister Catherine. “You sure you’re wedded to the Church?”

  “I’m afraid so. However, if I weren’t…” She gave him a teasing grin.

  Jillian spoke again. “Thank you,” she said, looking heavenward. “And thank you, Milo, wherever you are. I don’t think you’ll be coming back now. And, God, thank you so much for Robert. For my life. For our lives. Thank you very, very much—”

  “For miracles,” Robert said.

  And then he kissed her.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at

  WICKED DEEDS

  the latest thrilling tale of romantic suspense

  in the Krewe of Hunters series

  by New York Times bestselling author

  Heather Graham.

  Available now from MIRA Books

  PROLOGUE

  In Dreams

  It was dark, and it was night, and she was followingalong a strange wooded path.

  Vickie Preston fought against it; good things never started this way.

  But she wasn’t in deep woods. She was not far from some kind of a city—she could see light through the trees.

  The light seemed strange. It wasn’t the contempo­rary, bright luminescence of electricity that shined with such fervor that it was easily seen from space. This was different. Soft light. As if it came from candles or…gas. Gas lamps.

  She had, she thought, stumbled into a different time, a different place. She made a turn, and the darkness was gone, things changing suddenly in that way of dreams; she was in a city, and it was day, late after­noon perhaps, with evening on its way.

  People were rushing about, here, there and every­where.

  “Vote! Fourth Ward polls!” someone called out.

  A woman with a big hoop skirt pushed by Vickie, dragging a man about by an ear. “Harold Finder! Vot­ing is no excuse for my husband to show himself in public, drunk!” she said angrily.

  Harold was twice his wife’s size, but Mrs. Finder seemed to have an exceptional hold on his ear!

  They had just come from what appeared to be a tavern. Vickie looked about, wondering why no one noticed her. They were all dressed so differently; men in frock coats and waistcoats and cravats and women with their tightly corseted tops and great, billowing skirts. Granted, she was sleeping in a long white cot­ton gown, “puritanical,” or so Griffin had teased her.

  No, no, oh, yuck! You know how I feel about our dear historical Puritans! she’d told him.

  Vickie, like Griffin, had grown up in Boston. She’d become a historian and wrote nonfiction books. De­spite trying to understand the very different times they had lived in, she just didn’t care much for the people who had first settled her area—they were completely intolerant.

  Griffin could usually just shrug off the past; he’d been a cop when she’d first met him and he was an FBI agent now. The past mattered to him, but mostly when it helped solve crime in the present.

  He’d been sleeping next to her, of course. They were on their way to Virginia from Boston, ready to start a new life. But they’d stopped in Baltimore, at a hotel… They’d laughed as they got ready for bed, he’d teased her about the nightgown…

  She did not look like a Puritan!

  Griffin had assured her that she wouldn’t wear the “puritanical” gown long, and she hadn’t, but then, freezing in the air-conditioning of their hotel, she’d put it back on…

  She was glad, of course. Otherwise, she’d be walk­ing stark naked around this unknown and bizarre place.

  Where was she?

  She turned to the doorway of the “polling place” where Harold and his wife had just departed. She could hear all manner of laughing and talking. It was defi­nitely a tavern. Gunnar’s Place.

  And there was nothing indicating Puritan Massa­chusetts here—she wasn’t in Massachusetts and these people certainly weren’t Puritans.

  She walked in, wondering if women were welcome. It didn’t matter. No one seemed to notice her.

  The place was smoky and dusty. Barmaids were hurrying about, handing out drinks. Men were being solicited for their votes.

  There was a lone man seated on a wooden bench at a table, head hanging low. But when Vickie entered, he looked up, and he beckoned to her.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said impatiently. He stood, wavering.

  He was a small man, just a little shorter than Vickie, maybe five-eight to her five-nine. His hair was dark and a curl hung over his forehead. His eyes seemed red-rimmed and sunken in his face, which was quite ashen, with a yellow pallor.

  She knew him.

  She’d seen his picture throughout her life; she’d loved his work. She’d loved that he’d been born in Boston—even if he had come to hate that city. There was a wonderful statue of him now, a life-size bronze figure of the writer, hurrying along with a briefcase and a raven.

  She knew his face from so many pictures and im­ages, a man haunted by demons in life, most
of those demons brought about by his alcohol addiction. She’d always wondered if more knowledge during his age might have helped him; a really good therapist, a good program…

  “I’m hallucinating you, you know. Delirium trem­ors,” he told her gravely. “But I have been waiting for you, Victoria.”

  “I love your work!” Vickie said. She flushed. It was a dream, or a nightmare, and she was having a fangirl moment. She needed control and decorum.

  “Yes, well, then, you are brighter than my insidi­ous detractors,” he told her. “But here’s the thing. You must stop it. I am being used—my work, my memory. It was good—it was all good, until I came here, until I reached Baltimore. Then, they…were upon me.”

  “They who?” she asked. “No one knows—it’s still a mystery.”

  “They were upon me,” he repeated.

  Vickie reached across the table and set her hand gent ly upon his. He was trembling, she realized, vio­lently. “You’re not looking very well,” she said.

  And he turned to give her a rueful smile. “No. I will not be here long, you see. But I’m glad that you made it, so glad that you’re here. It’s happening again. And you must do something. You must stop it. No one will see, because it’s much the same. Do you understand?”

  “Not a word,” she assured him.

  He looked across the room and seemed concerned; he stood suddenly and hurried toward the door. Vickie raced after him.

  She didn’t see him at first. He was on the ground, slumped against the building. She tried to reach him, but there was already a man at his side, attempting to help him. She noted an address then, Lombard Street.

  As she stood there while the one man tried to help, people continued to hurry along the street. Hawkers shouted out their wares—and their candidates. Drinks were promised for votes; there was laughter, there was a rush of music, someone playing a fiddle…

  She tried to reach the fallen man, thankful that at least someone was helping him.