by Becki Willis
Hannah’s favorite was a painted chest with three drawers of staggered sizes. The piece was very old, with original pale green milk paint. Although faded with time, a painted trail of green ivy snaked along the bones of the chest, intermingling with tiny images in a rainbow of colors, now bleached with age. She fingered the different emblems, even as she wondered from where their inspiration came. A crooked tree, an ear of corn, and a flower. Was that a cloud, or a body of water? That checkered item was more likely a fence, than a railroad. Certainly not a hashtag, not back then. She made out a brown triangle, and a tiny, once-red barn. Something else looked like a flock of black birds. The artist had a distinct talent, even though the subject matter was odd and varied. Still, it was an interesting piece.
Typical of old houses, there was no closet. A massive oak wardrobe occupied one full wall in the bathroom, but Hannah rather liked the convenience. At least the master bath had been updated sometime within the last decade.
A sitting room completed the suite. The couch was small and old, but there was a graceful side chair that, upon closer inspection, proved to be a recliner. Positioned across from a flat-screen television set, Hannah imagined it was Miss Wilhelmina’s favored spot in the house.
The writing desk would be just right for her laptop, Hannah decided. She visualized her own books in the nearby bookcase, not the odd collection of titles now in place.
The books were one of the few reminders of the past owner. Most of Wilhelmina Hannah’s personal effects were long since removed from the rooms. Hannah saw less-faded patches upon the walls, evidence of frames that once resided there. The only pictures on the papered walls now were scenes of bucolic pastures, ripe with Texas bluebonnets and the wildflowers of spring.
Satisfied that most of her possessions now had a home, Hannah stashed the empty suitcases in a corner and went down in search of something to eat. A quick salad fueled her for some afternoon exploration.
Taking the ring of keys Walker had given her, and with Leroy by her side, Hannah set out across the dusty driveway. The old general store was her first stop.
Just as the attorney told her, the walls and top shelves were lined with relics from the past. Some were behind glass; others were exposed to the thick element of dust in the old building. Hannah recognized some of the items as true antiques: a glass butter churn and its wooden predecessor, a two-man hand saw, a variety of tin pails, scoops, cans, and utilitarian gadgets, old tools, and an early radio. Many of the items were passed-over wares, left sitting on the shelf because no one had purchased them. Again, Hannah recognized several of the brands as defunct. This may very well be the last place on Earth still shelving the items.
Surely, she thought, this was more for show than for sale. After a moment’s study, she understood the pattern. Everything on the top, hard-to-reach shelves was merely for show. The items on the lower shelves, eye level and below, were for sale. While more current, their offerings were sparse and erratic. Small toys and tourist-trap trinkets shared shelf space with hard candy and rolls of paper towels. Hannah was surprised to see a small offering of canned goods and cases of water; she was even more surprised to see they all were within the expiration date.
Who buys this stuff? Surely, few motorists stopped in to shop.
The glass front, reach-in cooler was empty, leaving Hannah to wonder what usually filled the shelves. She could hardly see milk and vegetables staying fresh, not without someone to buy and consume them. And what was that ancient old scale used for? Decades before digital, the dials spun and numbers rolled as she put her finger on the smooth surface and gently pressed down.
Resurrecting rusty math skills, Hannah did the quick calculations in her head. One and four tenths of an ounce, for the cost of about a quarter.
Pfft. Surely, I’m worth more than that. She looked around, her mouth curling into a self-deprecating sneer. After all, I own a town now. Woo hoo.
The checkout counter looked almost serviceable. Neat stacks of brown paper bags, in a range of sizes. A handheld calculator and, of all things, a credit card machine. With chip compatibility, no less, so it had to be current. Postcards touting the images of the iconic Hill Country, and a small selection of handcrafted notecards. Even a half-filled box of those spinning gadgets, and a handful of selfie sticks. Both seemed strangely out of place next to the antique cash register.
The register was an intricate piece, fashioned of shiny metal and decorative scrolling. Tall and heavy, with round buttons like she had seen on the very first typewriters. Hannah depressed one button at random, just to see if it still worked. With a distinctive cha-ching and the clatter of metal against metal, the heavy cash drawer popped out with unexpected force. It caught Hannah in the wrist and made her howl.
“Holy boomtown!” she cried, using a phrase her oilman uncle had coined. “There’s still money in there!” She didn’t dare touch it, but she saw a decent amount of start-up cash in the till.
“Obviously,” she said aloud to no one but herself, “this store is more operational than I thought. I guess it hasn’t been out of business for very long.”
She left the store exactly as she found it, turning out the lights and locking the door. As she made her way to the next building, she wondered if Miss Wilhelmina had worked the store until her death. That would explain the current merchandise.
The saloon and dance hall could have been from any old movie set. Old advertising signs, hand-painted in bright colors and vintage fonts, lined the stark wooden walls. It was hard to imagine a time when telephone calls were placed using a mere five digits, but the proof was here. ‘Dial JH-479’ and ‘Call Hal, MK-261’ beckoned from overhead. The sheer simplicity of some of the advertisements, ‘Try it! It’s good!’, made Hannah smile.
Ancient Wanted Posters, most of them appearing authentic rather than reproduced, graced the walls of the old saloon. Some were ragged, some were under glass. All were faded and ominous. What had these men done, Hannah wondered, to warrant a price on their heads? More than one was wanted Dead or Alive, his fate at the hands of a bounty hunter, professional or not. She shivered as she studied one faded and grizzly face, an evil-looking man with a patch over his eye and a deep scar on his cheek. Maurice ‘Patch’ Hatfield, wanted dead or alive, for robbing a stagecoach and killing its driver.
“He must have been someone famous,” she guessed aloud, “seeing as his poster warranted a glass frame. Glad I’ll never meet up with him.” Just looking at his scarred face sent shivers up her spine, and Hannah swore she felt a chill swirling the air around her.
Shaking off the sensation, she wandered further down the walls, covered here with old advertising posters. A rodeo from 1951, featuring the popular Hank Williams. A county fair a few years later, introducing a newcomer named Elvis Presley. And here on this very stage in Hannah, Texas, 1963, a dance featuring neighbor Willie Nelson.
With new appreciation, Hannah wondered up to the bandstand, situated across the yawning space from the long bar. Her mind spun fantasies of who had stood here in the past, and of who might grace the stage in the future. This would make an awesome venue for a wedding reception. A huge, open floor plan. Room for a band. Ample space for a dance floor, plus tables. A working bar. She saw spigots for tap beer, room for under-counter coolers, and an array of glassware. With a few strings of white lights and a bit of imagination, the space could easily transform into rustic chic.
The building adjacent to the saloon was in worse condition than she had imagined, but the two cabins were a pleasant surprise. The smaller of the two had been carefully and lovingly restored, boasting modern day conveniences in rustic disguise. A weathered panel slid aside to reveal a flat-screen television. An upside down pail in the tile-lined shower housed a multi-jet showerhead. Rippled tin and age-grooved wood were charming backdrops for everything a guest might need during a weekend stay. Just one bedroom, but with a pullout sofa to accommodate more.
The other cabin had two bedrooms and a wonderful old claw-foo
t tub. While similarly furnished and comfortable looking enough, it lacked the detail of its smaller counterpart. It struck Hannah as more dated, less darling. However, with a few embellishments and some well-orchestrated adjustments, she knew it had the same potential as the first cabin.
The old church was simple and elegant. Perfect, Hannah thought, for a wedding.
Her mind whirled with possibilities as she and Leroy walked back to the inn. Did she dare put voice to the thoughts in her head? Did she acknowledge this crazy notion that already took shape in her imagination?
Could Hannah, Texas really become a wedding venue? It had the basic elements for success…
A place for the ceremony. Two, in fact, if the couple preferred an outdoor wedding by the pond.
A place for the reception. Plenty of room for dancing and dining.
Rooms for the wedding party and out-of-town guests. Two private cabins, plus six rooms at the inn. She didn’t remember all the room details—didn’t one have two double beds, another have a couch? Off the top of her head, Hannah counted accommodations for at least twenty or more guests.
I know nothing about running an inn, much less a wedding venue, Hannah chided herself. I must be insane. Maybe I had too much wine last night. Too much fresh air and sunshine this morning. Inhaled chicken fumes, or cow gas. Something strong enough to knock my good sense loose. I can’t honestly be thinking what I’m thinking!
Can I?
Intent on questioning her own sanity, Hannah didn’t see the woman at first. A faint noise drew her attention, the sound of a breeze stirring among the loose edges of paper. To her surprise, a young woman stood at the front desk, fingering the guest ledger, a book Hannah had yet to examine.
“May I help you?” Hannah asked, trying not to sound as unsettled as she felt. Where was the woman’s car? Moreover, why was she dressed so oddly? She wore a lovely yellow dress, sprigged with little white flowers and featuring a very full circular skirt, but it was hardly something one wore every day. It was best suited for a costume ball, particularly if one were going as a Southern belle from a century long past.
The woman looked every bit as surprised as Hannah felt. “Oh, goodness me. I didn’t know anyone was here.” She spoke with a heavy Southern accent, honeyed and drawled with just the right amount of charm.
“Yes, I’m the—” she faltered, unsure of how to identify herself. She didn’t feel like an innkeeper, no matter what the legal papers said. Saying she was staff sounded too impersonal. She finally went with a simple, “I’m Hannah. May I help you?”
The young woman had the grace to flush. A soft rosy glow appeared on cheeks as pale and pure as the milk in this morning’s bucket. She needs to get more sun, Hannah thought absently. At least a darker shade of base. She’s as pale as a ghost!
“I’m sorry,” the woman purred. Everything about her was pale, in an exquisite, feminine sort of way. Her golden hair was curled into perfect ringlets, almost a perfect color match to her long yellow dress. Her eyes were light blue, her skin almost translucent. Her voice was as soft and dainty as her appearance. “I wasn’t aware someone would see me.”
Hannah was rudely reminded of her own attire. Blue jeans, t-shirt with a smear of cow slobber, new but already scuffed cowboy boots, and a ponytail from early this morning. Hardly the kind of thing she normally wore, and now a sad comparison to this beautiful woman, odd dress and all.
“I fear I was peeking at your guest ledger,” she admitted. “I’m searching for my beau. I was hoping he had been here.”
Recognizing the tactic as highly unconventional and reeking of privacy invasion, Hannah reached out to slide the ledger from the woman’s reach. Her petite fingers hovered just over the book, not quite touching it, but Hannah saw no need in offering further opportunity. She slipped behind the counter and pretended to thumb through the book in an offer of help.
“Is this Bo your husband?” she asked.
The woman gave her a strange look. Hannah thought she may have frowned, but the lighting was dimmer than she realized. She suddenly had trouble making out the blonde’s features, even at such short range. Hannah made a mental note to install brighter bulbs.
“No,” the woman finally said. “He’s my intended.”
It was an odd way of describing her fiancé. Hannah glanced at her ringless finger and wondered if the claim were true. No matter, there were still privacy laws prohibiting her from sharing such information.
At least, Hannah assumed there were. She would need to brush up on hospitality rules and regulations.
Listen to me, acting as if I’m truly considering this farce of an arrangement!
“Have you seen him?” the blonde asked, the tremble of worry slipping into her voice.
“I’m sorry, but I’m new here. I just arrived yesterday.”
“If you see him, please be so kind as to tell him that Caroline is looking for him. I’ll not give up, not until I see my love again!” She spoke with soft fervor as she put a lacy handkerchief to her nose and sniffed.
The action would have been outrageously dramatic, had it not been so sincere. With a stab of sympathy, Hannah thought she understood. Perhaps the poor woman had lost her lover to a tragic death, and her mind couldn’t accept reality. Perhaps she had always been this way, or perhaps the loss had pushed her over the edge. Either would explain the odd attire and the general air of mystique shrouding her.
“Yes, certainly,” Hannah agreed with a pitied smile.
“Bless your heart,” Caroline replied, her own smile serene.
Leroy barked, looking toward the front windows. He ran up and down the long room, his sharp bark piercing as it rose and echoed in the tall spaces.
“Leroy, quiet,” Hannah instructed, trying to interject the same sense of authority she had heard in Walker’s command yesterday.
When the dog continued to bark, clearly on alert, Hannah excused herself and rounded the counter to see what caused the commotion. Peering out the windows, she saw vague movement in the trees, but it could have easily been the wind. A rabbit, even, or a bird.
“I’m sorry about that,” she murmured, turning back to address her guest.
Caroline was nowhere to be seen. Only a faint trace of her perfume remained, a light hint of lavender lingering in the air. With a frown, Hannah called the woman’s name. She peeked into the kitchen, and the small powder room off the hall. There was no sign of her. Certain she wasn’t downstairs, Hannah took the staircase up. Clearly, Caroline had decided to search the rooms for herself. For the first time, Hannah considered the fact the woman might be dangerous. She faltered on the steps, but knew it was unacceptable for an unauthorized visitor to go nosing through the rooms. Good thing the rooms were all empty. The woman had no business being upstairs.
“Caroline?” Hannah called from the landing. “I’m afraid I must insist…”
Her voice trailed off as she watched the woman exit the room at the far end of the hall. She never heard the door close. In fact, she could have sworn the door was securely fastened and never moved. But that was impossible. One moment the hallway was empty, and the next moment Caroline was there, in her long yellow dress and its wide circular skirt. A hoop skirt, she thought it was called, just like the Southern belles of the Old South once wore.
A sense of unease came over Hannah. A chill worked its way down her spine and manifested itself as gooseflesh.
“C—Caroline?” she managed to croak.
From down the long corridor, the blond woman looked forlorn. “He’s not there,” she reported in a sorrowful voice. “My love has vanished.”
“How did you—” Before she could finish her sentence, Caroline turned and disappeared.
Hannah frowned. She didn’t remember another hallway, but obviously, she had missed it. Curiosity pushed her forward. Maybe she was unaware of a back stairwell.
But when Hannah reached the end of the hall, there was no exit. Just as she remembered, she quite literally hit a brick wall. She n
ow knew it was part of the massive chimneys bracketing either side of the inn, an early precursor to central heating. Where had Caroline gone? How did she vanish into thin air? There weren’t any windows, and the door to Room 5 was locked. Hannah checked.
From the great room below, Leroy barked again, and this time, he was more agitated than before. Torn between looking for Caroline and seeing what upset the white beast below, Hannah wavered with uncertainty. When Leroy began to growl, she made her decision. She hurried down the stairs, just in time to see a flash of color pass by the front window.
However she had done it, Caroline had managed to get downstairs and out of sight, all before Hannah could reach the door.
Chapter Seven
The motel door banged against the wall, announcing his brother’s arrival. It startled the man in front of the television set, breaking his concentration. He had mentally tallied up the value of the last showcase, and Drew Carey was about to reveal the price. He’d missed the first one by almost twenty thousand dollars, but this guess was right on the money. He could feel it.
One eye on the television set, one eye on his brother, he asked, “How’d it go? What’d you see?”
The big man threw his hat on the motel bed in disgust. “Not a dad burned thing. There was a huge white dog, big as a polar bear, raising a ruckus that could wake the dead. Couldn’t get close enough to see a thing, don’t you know.”
“Shoulda shot the darn thing,” his brother advised. “There ain’t no bear season round here, is there?”