Passage (Soul of the Witch Book 1)
Page 5
Courtney brushed at the grime on the rest of the trunk, and a chill ran down her spine. She cast a quick glance around the attic, but only Dessa stood behind her, watching her work.
“You think this is the one?” The old woman asked in a hushed voice.
“If the picture is up here, it's in this trunk,” Courtney’s whisper tightened with the excitement.
Dessa raised one eyebrow. “You're sure? Well, let's see what we can find.” She kicked at the pile of discarded items behind her, and a thick spoon slid across the floor. “Here, now, that might do the trick.” She handed the utensil to Courtney, then wiped her hands on her apron and stepped out of the light.
Courtney placed the tip of the utensil under the latch and pressed down. On the second try, the clasp popped up with a click. Her arm shook as she slowly opened the heavy lid and let it lean against the wall. Her body blocked the light, and she eased over to allow the beam to illuminate the contents. Resting on what had once been a lavender skirt was a tarnished oval frame.
“There it is,” Dessa proclaimed, a grin splitting her dark face.
Overall, the photograph had weathered the passing of time well in the trunk. The cream and sepia-tone coloring spoke its age. The picture portrayed three people in stiff, formal poses popular at that time. Two men, dressed in dark suits, stood to either side of a blonde woman seated demurely in an ornately carved chair.
“Holy shit.” Courtney's vision blurred and then snapped into focus.
Dessa reached over and lifted the photograph. “Yep, this is it—the picture Ada showed me. See the man to the right of the woman?” Dessa pointed. “That fella's the one Ada claimed is our ghost friend. He's a handsome devil. I bet this young gal in the middle is that murderin' Nichole.” Dessa grinned and handed Courtney the tarnished treasure. “Now that we found your picture, I gotta run. I need to finish up some weedin' and see to my other chores. You stay here long as you like. Mind your step when you leave.”
Courtney's attention was devoted entirely to the faded picture. She looked up in time to see Dessa lift her shoulders in a small shrug and heard her chuckle as she made her way down the short flight of stairs. “Thank you,” Courtney called.
Dessa waved the rag above her head as she walked away from the attic.
Courtney remained in the room for hours. Seated on the dirty floor, she stared at the faces with a dull ache in her heart. Now she had another picture for her memory box. Her finger caressed the glass above Merril's jawline. “I love you,” she whispered and wiped at the tears with the back of her hand.
She studied the face of the young woman seated between the men. Her name had been Nichole Harris, and she bore no resemblance to Courtney. She would never convince Dr. Phelps she'd been the young woman in this photo.
I don’t care what he believes. Not anymore.
With a sigh, she rubbed her burning eyes. She gasped as the car accident, and all that followed, flooded her memory. The flash of oncoming headlights blinded her. The squealing wheels and the tearing screech of metal on metal, followed by the crunch of breaking glass as she flew forward.
Afterward, there was nothing except emptiness, devoid of light and sound. Time had no greater or lesser meaning than up or down. By slow degrees, the total darkness faded, and ghostly images emerged. She'd found herself in a shadowed corridor, the only source of illumination was a burst of light that rippled in waves from the farthest end. She'd known she was dead, but there was no regret or emotion associated with that knowledge. She'd felt at peace.
Her muscles tensed as she remembered the ghostly corridor. Anxiety crawled up her spine and she fought a gut response to flee the attic. Clinging to the photo for comfort, she recalled how she moved effortlessly toward the light, down the hall and past empty, darkened doorways. Familiar voices called from the warm glow ahead, although their words were never clear.
An opening to her right glowed and pulsed with the beat of a heart. It distracted her. The rhythmic light grew irresistible, and her direction changed.
Beyond the portal, Nichole Harris's heart had begun to beat again.
The pull was overpowering and swept Courtney's soul down and through the glowing passage.
All light disappeared the instant she'd crossed the threshold, and she spiraled into darkness. Terror had seized her as her mind filled with knowledge and memories from another lifetime. People, places, and emotions, foreign to her, and yet as familiar as Courtney's own life.
Both lives were hers, she'd realized, and with that single spark of recognition, they fused. She'd tried to grasp the enormity of her revelation, but all thought had stopped abruptly, and she'd fallen into an empty and barren unconsciousness.
Chapter 5
Amy Harris
June 5, 1875 – Denver, Colorado
Amy carried her gathering basket into the kitchen from the small backyard garden and set it down on the kitchen table. She pulled off one glove while glancing toward the stairs and parlor to make sure she was alone. With one finger, she stroked each of the tightly closed marigold heads, her lips moving in silent prayer to the mother. After each gentle touch, the buds would blossom and spread their tiny orange petals as if filled with jubilation. When the last flower awakened, she smiled with satisfaction.
The smile stayed on her lips as she untied her bonnet and hung it on the peg by the door, then tugged at the fingers of the other glove, one at a time. Footsteps on the stairs brought her head up.
June McKay stepped down into the kitchen. Formally, the housekeeper for the Harris-Highlands Ranch, she acted as Amy's companion during their year-long exile to the Harris house in Denver. “More herbs?” June nodded at the basket on the table.
“Flowers.” Amy laid her gloves beside the colorful blossoms then took the arching handle on her forearm. “The last of them, I promise. The marigolds bloomed, and the lavender budded.” Amy stepped past June to the stairs. “I want to dry them before we leave.”
June slipped an apron over her head. “Is Tom back yet?”
Amy paused as she reached the second-floor landing. “I haven't seen him,” she called down to June.
Tom Baker had been in Denver for a week. He'd brought the buckboard from the ranch to use on their return trip. Earlier that morning, he'd walked to the public livery to check on their animals and had yet to return.
Amy's trunk was packed and ready. She glanced at it as she passed her room. Her breath caught in excitement.
I'll see Jason soon.
Their separation had been hard, but Jason's cousin could not abide her. Amy and Jason decided it would be best if she made Denver her temporary home. Their separation would only last until Jason could make Nichole understand that his marriage to Amy was no threat to the cousins’ close relationship. Unfortunately, Jason's plan hadn't progressed at the pace she anticipated.
Amy and June were scheduled to return to the ranch at the end of the spring roundup, just in time for the annual Highlands’ barbeque. Amy intended to stay for a month or longer, depending on Nichole. She hoped Nichole would be too occupied with new dresses and summer distractions to pay attention to her.
Once they returned to the ranch, June McKay would reclaim her former role as housekeeper. Although the woman had become Amy's friend over the last year, she had not become her confidant. There were some things she could never share.
She passed two more bedrooms before unlocking the door at the end of the hallway. She had made the attic space her own when she first arrived at the town house. Now pegs for drying flowers and herbs lined the wall above the workbench. Mortar and pestle graced her table along with a row of apothecary bottles filled with herbs, tinctures and oils.
Once in the attic, she opened the small ventilation window near the peak of the eaves to let in the morning air. She set her basket on the workbench and sorted the flowers.
Jason and Nichole riding in a carriage.
Amy gasped in surprise and gripped the bench. The clarity of the vision was startl
ing.
Merril enraged and grief-stricken.
Jason steps from the buggy while Nichole watches.
Anxiety accompanied the vision now, and a sense of loss. A premonition this strong was rare. She left the basket on the bench and hurried down the hall to her room. Once inside, she closed the door and slid home the seldom used bolt lock.
Philip, collapsed at his desk. Kevin in tears as Merril stalks out.
Her hands shook as she pulled a candlestick and holder from her dresser drawer. She struck a match, held it to the wick, then shook the match out. She poured water from the pitcher into the black washbasin beside it, filling it to the brim. The locket around her neck held a curl of Jason’s blond hair. She withdrew several of the strands and floated them carefully on the water.
She drew the curtains closed to darken the room and returned to the dresser. The candle flame reflected across the water as though it were a mirror.
She crossed herself and said two prayers; the first, to her father's God. Eyes closed, and head bowed, her lips moved as she spoke her father's favorite, Psalms 23. When she finished the prayer, she whispered, “Amen.” The familiar words steadied her.
She turned and raised her arms toward her improvised altar and invoked a blessing from her mother's Gods.
“Lord and Lady, I call to thee,
and to the four elemental spirits of this world –
Air, Fire, Water, and Earth.
Attend me now and grant your blessing.
Gift me with understanding and clarity,
from the vision that you send.
Guard and protect my purpose.
Let my will be done.”
Her mother had taught her to cast a circle and call the corners to seek spiritual guidance or command the elements, but today, a simple blessing would have to suffice. She had neither the time nor the privacy to cast a circle, and urgency drove her.
As she finished, she lowered her arms. A deep sense of calm enfolded her. In her mind's eye, her body took on a warm golden glow. Only then did she consider the basin. The trembling had subsided, and her spirit filled with calm purpose. She looked deeply into the water, her eyes unfocused, concentrating instead on her inner sight.
“Show me,” she said softly as the vision unfolded.
* * *
Tom Baker was eating an apple in the kitchen when Amy came down the stairs. “Was everything all right at the stable?” she inquired.
“Yup,” he responded, taking another bite.
“Can we leave for the ranch immediately?”
Tom stopped chewing and looked at Amy. “Now?”
“Well, yes. Before noon.”
“I suppose,” he shrugged and swallowed. “I don't see why not.”
“Good. Go back and get the wagon ready. Oh, and give the stable boy a penny and have him stop our milk delivery.”
“What's this?” June asked. She came into the kitchen just as Tom stepped out the back door, taking another bite of his apple.
“We’re going to leave today instead of Thursday. Can you be ready in an hour?”
“In an hour!” June's eyes bulged wide.
“Yes. I want to be there by tomorrow.”
June pulled the apron over her head and hung it on a peg by the door with a sigh. “I can be ready in an hour if you help me close up the house.” June's eyes lit and she grinned at Amy. “Are you that anxious to see Jason?”
Surprised at first, then relieved, Amy chuckled. “Of course, I am.”
The older woman nodded and turned toward the staircase. “Well, that's good,” June said over her shoulder. “It's about time you got that family started.”
“June!” Amy laughed, but the smile faded as June disappeared up the stairs.
Chapter 6
Nichole Harris
The Highlands Ranch
Nichole picked up her hairbrush, fumbled with it for a moment, then set it back on her dressing table. Anxiety coiled in her chest, but she ignored it as she pulled on a lightweight pair of day gloves. She checked her coiffed hair in the mirror one last time and adjusted the beautiful wide-brimmed sunbonnet. Perhaps this betrothal was an egregious mistake.
It wasn't Kevin's fault that she had fallen in love with his cheating brother. Lord knows, she had willed that emotion away a thousand times. There were no more tears left for Merril Shilo, and yet just the thought of him made her heart beat fast and brought a blush to her face.
She knew it wasn't fair to Kevin. He was a good-tempered man, like his father, Philip. There was no reason whatsoever she couldn't make a marriage with Kevin work. Except she didn't love him. She never would. She'd lost her soul to a scoundrel, as for the rest, she would just have to make do.
The turn of phrase, we will just have to make do, reminded her of her mother. How she wished her mother were here right now. If the thought of Merril no longer brought a tear to her eye, remembering the loss of her mother always did. That unspeakable train ride west four years ago was a nightmare that haunted her sleep to this day.
It had been the spring of 1871 when the letter from her father, Quincy, arrived at her Uncle Spencer's home in Boston. She and her mother had lived with her uncle and his family her entire life, while her father sought to strike it rich out west.
She had just turned sixteen, preparing for her Boston debut, when the letter arrived and ruined her life. In the letter, her father claimed to have made his fortune at last. He had built a family home on his new cattle ranch in the Colorado territory, and he instructed his wife and daughter to join him there as soon as possible.
Nichole sank into the chair beside her dressing table. Her hair and sunbonnet were forgotten; her mind fixed firmly on the past. Memories of her mother filled her thoughts. However, in her hope to find comfort, she found only grief.
They had departed Boston within a week of receiving the letter. Arguing her case swayed no one. Her father decided the time had come to begin their new life together, and that was final. She was thankful now that her mother's young maid, Jeanne, agreed to travel with them. She would not have survived that trip without her.
Her mother became ill on the train. One side of her face grew weak, and she stopped speaking. It was evident Emily Harris was having apoplexy, but there was nothing to be done. By the time they reached Cheyenne, the porter had to carry her mother aboard the short line bound for Denver.
Somewhere between Cheyenne and Denver her mother slipped away. Rage and loss had stunned her beyond tears.
What should have been a warm reunion became a bitter and silent meeting. Her father, at first confused, and then distraught at his wife's death, eventually tried to welcome his daughter, but Nichole would have none of it, or him. She'd been both hostile and withdrawn toward her father, and clung to Jeanne while he made arrangements for his wife.
Her first months at the ranch were as terrible as she could make them, for everyone. Pensive and aloof, she wanted to run away and return to her uncle's home. She missed her cousin and her friends. Although the people at her father's ranch were kind to her, she spurned their friendship.
Then Merril Shilo returned to his father's ranch, and her entire world changed. Merril had just turned twenty-one and had been on his own for six years. He told stories about places and people she had never imagined. Tall and wild, with little respect for authority, Merril had the most beautiful green eyes she'd ever seen. He explained how he had run away after the death of his own mother. Merril understood her anger and emptiness.
Her passion for Merril sprang from more than just similar tragedies, or so it seemed at the time. He became the center of her world, her reason to live in the dusty emptiness that was the high plains, east of the Rockies.
Then he betrayed her. And now, well, she would just have to make do.
Nichole picked up her reticule from the bed and straightened her short jacket before she stepped into the hallway. The door to her cousin's room across the hall stood open. Jason had already gone downstairs.
“Hey-ho, cousin, you look lovely. There is something extraordinarily beautiful about a woman who doesn't keep a man waiting.” Jason pulled back on the reins and brought the two-wheeled, single horse vehicle to a stop.
Nichole dimpled her cheek at his remark and batted her eyelashes.
His hair had grown a bit too long, and disorderly blond curls fell over his collar. He brushed them absently from his eyes and smiled at her. Growing up together in Boston, they were often mistaken for siblings. Both she and Jason shared the Harris family's curly blond hair and light-blue eyes.
Despite her anxiety and second thoughts, her cousin made her smile. She waited as he set the brake then stepped down from the carriage and offered her his hand.
“Shall we, my dear? We don't want to keep your future husband waiting.”
Nichole cringed at his remark and placed her gloved hand in his—a frozen smile on her lips.
He escorted her to the other side of the vehicle and helped her onto the seat.
The buggy had been a gift from Jason, one she insisted he purchase for her. He'd warned her that it was sprung for the cobblestone streets of Boston and wouldn't travel well on the rough trails around the ranch. She didn't care. Her mother would have loved it, and so did she.
The tassels on the awning swung as Jason climbed onto the padded seat beside her and took up the straps. With a quick shake of the reins, they moved down the short drive to the rutted trail that served as a road between the two ranches.
“We're going to have to proceed slower than usual,” Jason warned as he directed their horse around a hole at the base of the drive.