Beaudry's Ghost

by Carolan Ivey

Overview

For more than a century, Union cavalry scout Jared Beaudry has haunted the Outer Banks, looking for the mad Confederate officer who murdered him. At a modern-day Civil War re-enactment, Jared makes a desperate leap into another man’s body. Hoping, he’ll at last find justice.

Taylor Brannon has always fought against the frightening psychic ability she was born with. When her entire re-enacting unit is possessed by spirits of the dead, she’s living a nightmare, and starring in that nightmare is sexy ghost hell-bent on self-destruction.

Jared’s powerful spirit touches her like no other, and she embarks on a dangerous quest to help Jared find peace. Just when it seems the revenge Jared’s sought for a century is within his grasp, he has to decide between getting what he’s always wanted and a love that could last an eternity.

The books in the Legends series are best enjoyed in order:
Book #1: Beaudry’s Ghost
Book #2: A Ghost of a Chance

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781640632080
Publisher:	Entangled Publishing, LLC
Publication date:	07/31/2017
Series:	Legends , #1
Sold by:	Macmillan
Format:	eBook
Pages:	305
File size:	2 MB

About the Author

Multi-award-winning author Carolan Ivey is a North Carolina native living in Ohio with her husband, two highly opinionated dachshunds, and far too many books.

A freelance writer by day, in her spare time she tries to indulge as many of her varied passions as possible: reading, traveling, winery hopping, and exploring her Scottish roots through music. She is also a Karuna and Celtic Reiki Master.

If she’s not playing with her grandchildren, she’s probably out riding her motorcycle with her husband or one of her Chrome Angelz sisters. Road name is Ghost Wrider.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

One Year Later

Jared Beaudry circled the campfire, his mind racing with questions.

A group of Confederate soldiers lounged around a fire, smoking or drinking coffee. Their quiet conversation, ribald laughter, and occasional mournful songs of home were so familiar, so beloved, that Jared ached in the place where his heart had once beat.

Friends. Comrades in arms. Brothers. He remembered well the bond among soldiers. How many years had it been since he'd sat by a campfire of his own? He'd lost count, but enough time had passed that these men should be long dead.

Jared hobbled closer, guarding where he placed his good foot. Then he laughed bitterly at himself. Old habits truly died hard. He could clatter about like a traveling tinker, or lean down to the closest ear and shout the rudest epithet, and no one would notice.

Only a gifted few could see a ghost.

Confusion swirled in his mind, momentarily blocking out the pain and the sickening sensation of his own blood draining from his wounds. Blood that flowed from a wellspring of rage that never ran dry.

Who were these men? Why, after all these years, were they back here on this island? Had war broken out again? Had he somehow been thrown back in time? Or had a piece of the past torn free and landed here in his horrible reality?

Before he could sort it all out, the sound of his own name brought him up short, and a singsong voice drew his attention back to the campfire. The men fell silent as they listened to one of their own, apparently the resident storyteller.

"... And they say the ghost of Union soldier Jared Beaudry rides the Outer Banks to this very day, looking for his lost arm and leg. Looking for revenge against Bloody Zachariah Harris, the Confederate lieutenant who took them and his honor, by shooting him in the back."

A moment of rapt silence followed. The large, red-bearded man who had been speaking settled back and sent a long stream of tobacco juice hissing into the fire, signaling the story finished.

The rest of the men released the breath they'd been holding, then broke into hearty laughter. Jared's mind reeled. These men knew him! They remembered his name! They spoke of his death as if they'd seen it! How ...?

"Hell's fire, Leon. That tale just gets better every time you tell it. You almost had me believin' it this time!"

"Yeah, you shoulda been a politician, Leon. Nobody tells a lie bettern' you."

Jared moved closer to the one named Leon as the huge bear of a man stiffened in mock offense.

"Fisher, you can insult my truck, my dog, or my wife but don't never call me a liar."

The men guffawed and various insults flew among them, save one. For the first time, Jared noticed a gangling youth huddled on the sand just outside the circle, with knees drawn to chest and arms clasped tight around them. Jared could swear that beneath the oversized grey uniform, the youth was trembling.

Something about the boy drew Jared nearer. Yes, the boy was trembling. Shaking, as a matter of fact. Without thought, Jared reached out, then drew back in self-disgust when he realized he was reaching with his handless left arm.

To Jared's amazement, the boy inhaled sharply and jerked around to look directly at him.

He fell back a step, startled by the depth of terror in the boy's green eyes. Yet he sensed something in this youth that was different from the other men. He could feel the boy mentally reaching out to search the darkness, looking for something that his eyes could not see.

Hope surged. For so long, he had pleaded with God. For an end to the pain, the loneliness of his prison on earth. For a chance to somehow live those last days over again, this time keeping his wits about him — and his limbs.

And at last, when God hadn't answered, Jared had screamed out for help to anyone who might be listening. Anyone.

Could this boy be his answer? Jared reclaimed the backward step he'd taken, and extended his good hand toward the boy's shoulder.

"Beaudry." A voice, sharp with warning.

Jared pivoted on his good leg and nearly fell flat. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!"

A tall, blond man dressed entirely in black stood a few yards away, holding the reins of the horse Jared had left ground-tied among the dunes. The horse — rather, the ghost of it — had been the only other creature to share Jared's nightmare. Until now. The man, relaxed now that Jared's attention was off the boy, looked him up and down. Then his mouth quirked.

"Not even close. My name's Troy." He patted the horse's neck.

Jared realized the figure before him was another like himself. The ghost of a man who had once walked the earth. The reason he no longer did so became apparent when Troy dropped the horse's reins and stepped closer. A fist-sized bullet hole glistened on the right side of his chest, the lack of blood showing that he had most likely died quickly.

A luxury Jared himself had not enjoyed.

Something about Troy's black clothing, though unfamiliar, and the way he carried himself told Jared something else. Troy was also a soldier.

"How ... how do you know me?" He marveled that he was actually communicating with someone. Until now, he'd had only his horse for company. Emotion choked him, and he stifled the urge to grab the man's shoulder and shake him to make sure he was real.

Troy laughed. "Leon's been telling that story since I was a six-year-old drummer boy in this re-enacting unit." He sent a sad, affectionate glance toward the men around the campfire. "We never got tired of it." His image flickered for an instant, but steadied as he narrowed his eyes in apparent concentration.

"Re-en ..." The term was unfamiliar to Jared. He'd known units of sharpshooters, horsemen, infantry, and artillery, but he'd never heard of a reenacting unit.

Troy jerked his chin toward the men. "These men are living history — acting out 1860s army life and battles that took place more than a hundred years ago. They're called re-enactors."

Living history? Who the hell would want to ... A hundred years!

The hope that had flared in Jared's chest died a little. "So this is still the present time, and I haven't somehow gone back ..."

Troy shook his head. "No."

If he'd had any tears left, Jared would have shed them in rage and frustration. For years — more than a century, he now knew — he had been trapped, a spirit who searched among the faces of living people for the one who had taken him prisoner, cutting him to pieces, and dishonored him by shooting him in the back.

Yet he gathered himself, a part of his remaining self still refusing to believe all was lost. "You seem to know why I'm here. What brings you to this little strip of paradise?"

Troy regarded him with a steady eye. "The only reason you're here, Jared Beaudry, is because you choose it."

Jared laughed, hard and long, the noise gurgling from the open gash in his throat causing his own stomach to roll. "I have a choice?" What did Troy think, that he enjoyed his hopeless existence? "Come, tell me. What choice do I need to make in order to leave this place?"

"That depends on where you're going after you choose, I suppose," said Troy, an eyebrow arched. Then he shrugged. "It's simple, Beaudry. From what I've seen, all you have to do is let go of your rage and your lust for revenge. That's all that's holding you here. Can't take baggage like that through the gates of heaven."

Let go! Jared swung away from his newfound companion, instantly dismissing the notion. He gazed with lonely hunger at the soldiers — re-enactors — some of whom were drifting toward their tents and sleep.

"And your choice is to stay here, as well?"

Troy's voice, sounding oddly fainter, came to him from behind. "That's something I'm still trying to figure out. But for now, I'm here because of her."

Her? Jared saw no women among the re-enactors, only men clad in grey. One of them, the boy, glanced nervously over his shoulder, staring in Jared's direction. No, past him and toward Troy, eyes wide as if desperately searching for something, but afraid of what he might find.

Abruptly the boy rose to his feet and snatched an Enfield musket from the nearby stack. At the campfire, all conversation halted. Jared sensed an odd combination of sympathy and resentment rushing out of the men to envelop the boy, who hunched his shoulders.

"I'm going out to relieve Jimmy on the picket line."

Jared was faintly surprised at the soft, husky quality of the voice. The boy sounded even younger than he looked.

"It's not your time yet, Taylor," said Leon, keeping his gaze locked on the campfire, as if he couldn't bring himself to look at the youth.

The boy shrugged. "I won't be able to sleep, anyway, thanks to you, Leon Gulley."

Leon shifted his chaw to the other cheek. "It's only a legend. Who knows if it's even true."

The boy checked the cartridge box on his belt and turned away. "And if Jared Beaudry was real? It's not a good idea to speak ill of the dead, Leon. Especially on the same battleground he died on."

Now Leon did look up. "Taylor."

The boy paused, but didn't turn around.

"It's been a year. There's no need for you to ..." Gulley sighed when he saw Taylor's back straighten. "Stubborn," he muttered as he resettled himself.

Without another word, the boy walked out of the circle of light and into the dark, stiff wind of the Outer Banks night.

"Her," said Troy quietly, nodding after the retreating figure. "My sister."

Jared didn't want to know what a woman was doing in battle uniform. His voice dropped needlessly to a whisper. "Can she see us?"

Troy shook his head. "She could, but we're shielded. For a short time, anyway. And don't," Troy pointed a warning finger at Jared, "even think about it, Beaudry. You leave her alone. One look at you and she'd never sleep, ever again."

Jared frowned mentally at the woman who headed toward the dunes. "I'm not shielding myself from anyone," he said, confused.

Troy smiled sadly. "It's my doing. And it helps that she isn't focusing on you."

Jared thought about how the woman had turned toward him in the firelight, and disagreed. She might not be looking for him, but she damn well had sensed him, somehow.

As if on cue the woman, in shadow now, stopped in her tracks, and her gaze swung in their direction. Troy paled.

The woman's grief was a tangible thing hanging in the air. Jared shifted uncomfortably on his good leg. "You should show yourself."

For the first time, Troy showed hesitation, glancing down at the gaping hole in his chest. "I was going to, then you showed up. God knows it would scare the shit out of her to see you, must less me, so right now my energies are otherwise occupied.

"In fact," he continued, "this shielding business is hard work." Troy retreated to the horse and leaned wearily on the saddle. His shape wavered like a reflection disturbed by ripples in a pool.

"Wait ... wait!" Jared stumbled toward Troy's fading figure. He sensed that Troy, though dead for a far shorter time than Jared, knew things that Jared had never bothered to learn about being a ghost. "Can you tell me ... is there some way, any way I can get through to these men? Speak with them? Maybe even ... walk among them?"

"Why? These men are re-enacting a battle that, for you, marked the last days of your life."

Why, indeed? The pain of his wounds flared and he stiffened his spine against it as he remembered the Confederate who had inflicted his suffering.

"To live through it this time, with my body parts intact so I don't have to spend an eternity like this."

Troy tipped his head to one side, as if amused. "That's all? Not hoping for a little taste of revenge? That's what's kept you here on these shores, hasn't it?"

Jared would have snorted. "It's all I can hope for. As you say, these men aren't real soldiers — they're playing at it. They aren't likely to carve me up like a chicken, now are they?"

"First of all, I'd be very careful about calling these fellows 'fake soldiers'. Re-enactors they may be, but they'd find a way to make life miserable for you if you let that little opinion slip." Then Troy's expression turned thoughtful as he took Jared's measure. "What you're considering is dangerous. And it probably won't even work, if you're thinking what I think you're thinking. And besides ... does it really matter any more?"

Jared bristled. "Look at me. Look at you. You of all people should understand. I don't know if it will work, if getting through this battle a second time with my parts intact means I'll get my own back in the next world. But I have to try. Besides, how bad could it be? I'm already dead."

Troy lifted a hand to stop Jared's runaway train of thought. "Dangerous not only to you, but also to whoever ..." Troy's voice trailed off as he stared out into the darkness, away from the circle of soldiers. "... takes you in."

Jared turned to follow Troy's gaze. Though he was a bit slower, Jared sensed another presence out among the dunes. Someone else who watched the circle of Confederate soldiers. A man's dark head showed briefly above a sand dune overlooking the camp.

The firelight caught a corner of the man's uniform. A Union-blue uniform.

The man ducked back into hiding.

Troy took a long, silent look at Jared. "I've heard that it helps if you have full cooperation," he said. "Failing that, it can be done. But I wouldn't recommend it."

Once again, Jared's mind raced with possibilities, with plans. Eagerly, hope surging through him for the first time in a century, Jared turned back to Troy. To his horror, the man in black had almost completely faded from sight.

"Wait! You have to tell me what to do!"

"Don't worry, my friend. I'll be back," said Troy's disembodied voice. "God knows how you've stood the pain this long, Beaudry. Hate must be a powerful thing ..."

Shaken, Jared stared at the spot where Troy had disappeared.

Fine. He would figure this out on his own. The horse snorted, pawed the ground and pushed its nose against Jared's shoulder. Jared ran his good hand over the creature's satiny neck, the moon and tide pulling on his soul. Within an hour the tide would be slack, the signal for them make their tortuous ride south to Cape Hatteras. The same ride they had endured every full moon for more than a hundred years.

Time was short. Very short. He had to act fast. If only I knew how!

He could no more ignore the tide's call than he could ignore the ever-present pain of his wounds, the ever-present lust for revenge in his heart.

Swinging into the saddle, Jared cast one more glance at the players in his rapidly forming plan. The Confederate soldiers. The man in Union blue who spied on an enemy position. And the woman in grey, who now assumed a picket post atop a sand dune several tens of yards to the south.

"Don't even think about it, Beaudry. You leave her alone." Troy's words echoed back to him. He set his jaw and ignored them. If this woman was a key to getting what he wanted, God help him, she was was one key he was going to turn.

Jared turned his horse into the wind and lifted the reins. The horse sprang away at a full gallop.

*
Hunkered down against the relentless offshore wind, Taylor watched from the dubious cover of beach grass, hands tight around her Enfield musket.

The electricity had gone out again, a frequent occurrence on these sparsely populated barrier islands of North Carolina. Without the reassuring lights of the development a quarter mile to the south, Taylor had no problem staying awake at her post. Darkness was for bats. Taylor preferred light. The only reason she had fled the comforting light of the campfire was Leon Gulley's ghost stories.

She hated them.

She hated them even more now that Troy was dead. Taylor tucked in her chin and fought to keep it from quivering. Had it been a year since she had collapsed to the floor of her office, a crushing pain in her chest, knowing the worst even before she'd received official word two days later? A year of days since her last words to him came back to slash her heart? "Go ahead, big man. Go on and get yourself killed. Have a great time!"

She had told her brother over and over again a man like him had no business joining the Navy SEALs. SEAL teams were for those with no ties, no one who waited for them at home. He hadn't listened. Craving adventure outside their little hometown, he had set his sights on SEAL training even before graduating from Annapolis. And damn them, the SEALs had been quick to take advantage of his unusual gift for camouflage.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Beaudry's Ghost"
by .
Copyright © 2008 Carolan Ivey.
Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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