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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781509223916 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Wild Rose Press |
| Publication date: | 01/09/2019 |
| Series: | Ladies in Time , #3 |
| Pages: | 232 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.49(d) |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
June, Present Day, the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, Victorian Farmhouse on the Lavender and Lace Herb Farm
The closet. It had always been about the closet, and Evie McIntyre strove to delay the nightly trek to her room.
Still wearing the Victorian styled gown Grandma G. had decreed for helping in the herb shop or giving garden tours, Evie hugged the tufted mauve couch, darting uneasy glances at the doorway. Mounds of violet sprigged cloth overflowed the velvet upholstery, nearly engulfing the cat. She wasn't exactly comfy in a full skirt and corset better suited to Gone with the Wind, but changing clothes meant going upstairs.
Chimes. The ornately carved, hand painted mantel clock struck eleven. She tensed, inhaling the voluptuous sweetness of the peachy pink roses in the etched crystal vase by the clock.
Maybe Grandma G. wouldn't notice her parked in the parlor this evening?
Yeah, right.
Sure enough, the indomitable Gladys McIntyre padded into the room on the last chime. Ever elegant, she'd changed from her Victorian dress into a frilly lilac robe and satin slippers. The light from a stained-glass lamp played over her long silver hair.
She surveyed Evie and the purring gray tabby at her side, her ample chest heaving in an impatient sigh. "Figured you'd be down here with Tiddles."
Evie met her grandmother's narrowed gaze, the same blue-gray hue as her own, staring back at her with weary annoyance. "He has too much sense to go upstairs."
"For heaven's sake. This isn't a bedchamber." Puffing in exasperation, Grandma G. swept her dimpled hand at the frilly room, papered in tiny bunches of lavender, and decorated much as it might have been a century or more ago. The decor was frou-frou feminine, but many of their visitors were female, and the strong- minded widow did as she liked.
The random collection of several lifetimes crammed a large glass cabinet, spilling out onto tables and book shelves. A porcelain Jack and Jill skipped up the hill beside figurines dressed for a ball. Petal-filled jars of potpourri wafted a spicy floral scent. Vintage valentines and beribboned chocolate boxes covered in anything from hearts to flowers, to oddly enough kittens, kept company with framed photos from bygone days.
All very charming, Evie supposed, except for the presence she sensed upstairs. Visitors didn't stay long enough for that shudder-worthy experience. A braver soul would march up there, swing open the closet door, and face whatever summoned her. But Evie didn't feel particularly courageous, quite the opposite, actually.
Another huff escaped her grandmother. "Evelyn Louise, you cannot camp on the couch like some passerby caught in a snowstorm." She waved at her. "Wearing that."
"It's my favorite," Evie lied.
"It'll wrinkle." Grandma G. was nuts about these historic costumes.
"I have six more. Plus." Evie's Victorian wardrobe reflected her grandmother's preference for fashions of the past.
"Don't be ridiculous. That's not night attire." Grandma G. paused, her plump face creased in thoughtful lines. "Besides, the whispers never hurt anyone ...much."
Evie startled. "What?" There was something the secretive woman wasn't telling her.
"Nothing." Grandma G. waved her off like a buzzing fly. "I haven't even heard them lately."
She didn't hear anything as well as she used to, and Evie almost envied her. "I have," she muttered. "The creep factor's enough to make me go Goth, and the Victorian era suits the darkling fashion perfectly."
Her grandmother rolled her eyes. "No. It doesn't." She stepped further into the room. "When did you last hear them?"
"Now. They're louder than usual." Even admitting that out loud made Evie want to squirm.
"Really?" Grandma G. sank into a fat flouncy chair patterned in pink roses. Gray brows drawn together, she tilted her head, cupping a hand behind her ear. "The only sound I detect is that hoot owl in the oak tree outside the window."
"They're indistinct, like the fragments captured on the Electronic Voice Recorders," Evie clarified, reciting an explanation from the supernatural based TV shows she'd seen. "And my room is the worst for the whispers, especially the closet. Maybe it holds some dark mystery and the local ghost hunters could help. They've asked to come. More than once."
A derisive snort intruded on her suggestion, and Grandma G. shook her head. "I am not having that paranormal bunch setting up their equipment in here and staying the night. All we need are people saying the house is haunted."
"They already do, Grandma. Hasn't hurt business any."
She shrugged. "Even so, we don't want to invite more gossip. We're a happy place folk want to visit, have tea parties, and hold weddings. Not conduct séances or ghost tours."
"True. But if the house is trying to tell us something, the paranormal society might help us figure it out."
"Not my kind of society, girl. The house will just have to tell us what it wants. Likely you, as you're picking up the chatter." The older woman gave a short laugh. "Hear that, House? Tell this young thing what you want. I'm going to bed. You best head up soon, Evie."
Her stomach tightened. "I will." Just not right now.
"Leave as many lamps on as you want, but don't light any more candles. Might burn the place down next thing."
"Sorry about the rug." Evie smothered a small fire on her nightstand with the Oriental carpet beside her bed, and it had to be replaced.
"Lay off the matches. And remember, loads of folk will turn up tomorrow with lavender at its peak. I'll need all hands on deck." Grandma G. patted her chest above her heart, offering a smile to ease the tension. "I have a few miles left in me yet, and there's a place for you here. You'll see."
God forbid. Evie didn't want to disappoint her, but she could hardly bear to stay the summer as she'd promised, let alone indefinitely.
"Don't make me wait until your brothers are old enough to help," her grandmother coaxed.
"Alene?" Evie attempted, naming her younger seventeen-year-old sister.
"I can't have that purple haired tattooed girl assisting guests, even if she agreed to get on board. Besides, you're suited to Lavender House. It likes you."
"What?" Was her grandmother giving the home emotions now? What next?
"No need to look at me bug-eyed. I only meant you belong here. Think on my offer." She heaved herself to her feet.
"I will," Evie promised, with no such intention.
This might have to be a career option for the foreseeable future, though. College was currently a bust. No scholarships for a solid C student, and her parents weren't exactly loaded. Plus, she didn't have a clue what she wanted to do except not go into that room.
The shrewd woman considered her. "You want to know about the house? Begin by learning more of its history. For starters, this nineteenth structure was built over a log cabin that dates to the seventeen hundreds."
"That old?"
"Sure is. And it's been through a number of hands, including a Mennonite family named Wenger. They built most of what stands now and rebuilt after The Burning." Grandma G. pursed her lips. "You know, in eighteen sixty-four when Sheridan and the Union Army torched their way through the Shenandoah Valley during the Civil War?"
Evie bent forward, trying to remember what she'd learned in school, or from her history buff father. "Was this house affected?"
"Badly damaged, and the barn was destroyed, along with other outbuildings, the harvested corn, wheat, and hay crops. The Wenger family lost everything."
Disbelief swept over her. "But Mennonites are good peaceful people."
Grandma G. glanced away with a frown. "Their goodness made no difference to Sheridan. Or their pacifism. He granted few exceptions. Mennonites suffered along with everyone else."
"Why haven't I heard any of this before?"
"You have. I'm not going into all of it again now. Besides, your father told you plenty, if you think back." Smothering a yawn, the well-padded figure rose and stroked the contended tabby before padding toward the stairs. "Don't be long, and don't disturb our new arrival."
"No, ma'am." The generous woman had recently hired, Sundown, the hippified grandson of a friend, and given him the middle bedroom. Of course, Evie was stuck with the creepy one on the end.
Heaven forbid she should disrupt his beauty sleep, though it might be fun to bother him a little, give him a taste of what she endured every night. Nix that, he would discover soon enough.
Huddled on the couch with the cat, she closed her eyes, trying to block the indiscernible voices speaking in hushed fragments. This old house had far more history than she'd realized. Maybe something from the past was left undone, or someone with unfinished business lingered ... She'd bet her grandmother knew far more than she had let on.
Chimes again. The clock sounding twelve roused Evie.
Dang it. She'd dozed off on the couch. She had better brave the stairs before Grandma G. reappeared. Gladys McIntyre was a force of nature.
Rain fell, and a cool breeze blew through cracked windows. Evie took the lacy pink crocheted coverlet from the back of the couch and draped it around her shoulders, blinking with fatigue. Loose brown hair spilled down her back, the spray of lavender still pinned to the braid looped on her head. She had masses of hair to play with. Dressing up Victorian style was Grandma G.'s idea to draw visitors. She called Evie 'the belle of Lavender and Lace Herb Farm.'
Visitors wanted their pictures taken with her, especially in the carriage. Her business-minded grandmother also kept several gorgeous horses and offered carriage rides. The praise guests heaped on Evie was flattering, really, if her heart would stop pounding.
"Goodnight, Tiddles." No way would that cat come with her. She'd tried to bring him before, once, and gotten a nasty scratch. What did it mean when she was going where cats feared to tread?
Hiking up her skirts, she trailed across the room, and ascended the shadowy staircase. The pattering on the tin roof partly masked her footfall, but no matter how carefully she placed her laced shoes, the steps emitted telling creaks. She halted partway down the hall, swallowing past the lump of fear in her throat, when the voices grew louder. Realizing where she was, she sighed. What if Sundown discovered her creeping past his door like a frightened pup?
'Sunny Boy,' as she'd dubbed the ponytailed blond, had gone to bed early after a long day harvesting lavender blossoms. One of many days here, he probably thought.
Wrong. He wouldn't last. Live-in help never did. Sooner or later, the house spooked them. The final glimpse she'd had of the guy before him was a car peeling out of the driveway. He'd even left some of his clothes behind. Most of the staff commuted.
There. At the end of the hall, illuminated by a mini nightlight she had plugged into an outlet, was her bedroom. She managed to walk to the door before stopping again.
None of her friends believed her about the whispers, or the presence she sensed. She had no doubt ghosts were real after passing her late grandfather on the steps one evening, but friends insisted everything was in her head, citing her legendary imagination. Easy to do when they hadn't spent the night here. Somehow, it never suited anyone to stay over. Chickens.
Just wait until the whispers call you, Sunny Boy.
She took a steadying breath, turned the brass knob, and stepped into the room. The fragrance of lavender greeted her. Grandma G. had tucked sachets under her mattress to help her sleep and left small cloth bags in the drawers of an antique dresser. A sachet of apricot scented agrimony lay beneath her pillow.
This age-old herb was thought to induce slumber and offer protection against the dark forces. Other powerful herbs scented the room. Angelica, St. John's Wort, and sage were in the bunch on the bedside stand beside the antique brass lamp with an ornamental white shade.
The walk-in, but duck your head, closet at the far side of the room summoned her. Boxes of Christmas decorations, a Santa, and reindeer figures stored inside the slanted nook partially hid the steps leading to the attic and the presence she swore was there. She hadn't encountered the being in question. Yet. It wasn't cool for a nineteen-year-old to harbor terrors of a closet, but she did.
She threw her hands up after a particularly loud summons. "What do you want from me?"
There was a rap on the downstairs door.
CHAPTER 2Startled by the knock on the front door, Evie hurriedly retraced her steps, nearly stumbling in the blackness. The nightlight in the hall must have gone out. She clung to the railing to descend the stairs.
Why were moonbeams the only illumination in the parlor? She'd left the lamp on. Tiddles couldn't turn it off.
Guided by the milky light coming through the windows, she made her way to the door. When had it stopped raining?
More importantly, should she open at a stranger's knock? What if he — she sensed their caller was male — had foul play, as police dramas termed it, on his mind? She didn't even have pepper spray. Where was her grandmother?
"Open up. I need to get to cover," urged a masculine voice in a gruff whisper.
What? Who? She turned the lock and cracked the door.
He peered through the slit she'd made. "Is that you, Hettie?" Was he seeking one of the girls on staff? The name wasn't familiar, but it might be the part-timer Grandma G. recently took on. Hesitant, but intrigued, Evie widened the opening.
A tall young man stood before her in a brown wide-brimmed hat and jacket that fell below his waist. Shoulder length hair ruffled in the breeze. Dark pants met chestnut-colored riding boots, and he wore buff leather gloves. Moonlight streamed over the lean figure.
Angel light.
He didn't smell angelic, but of wood smoke and days in the saddle, part horse, part man, and the wide-open outdoors. His pungent masculine blend was unknown to her, but she recognized the elements ... wind, fire, horse, and man.
Did cowboys live around here?
From what she could see of his face, he wasn't bad looking, and he returned her stare. Clearly, he had anticipated someone else answering his knock.
The stranger shook his head as if to wake himself, a rueful smile on his face. "Are you gonna keep me on the porch until Sam Hobbs finds me? The last guide he caught was shot before he said his prayers."
Alarm rifled through her. "No. Sorry." Baffled almost beyond coherent speech, she stepped aside to allow him passage.
He shut the door behind them and locked it. A swift pivot and he had her upper arm in his grip. She gasped as he pulled her back.
His gloved hand pressed her skin where the coverlet had slipped down past her short, ruffled sleeves, distracting her. "Don't stand near the door or a window. Hobbs might shoot you, too."
Air escaped her in shallow pants. "Dear God, why?"
"Shhh." The cowboy went still, his body taut beside hers.
She was rigid with dread, her heart thudding against her ribs. Did she hear a twig snap? No. It must be her imagination.
The night was eerily quiet. Somewhere a dog barked. An owl hooted.
Seconds stretched into minutes, until she finally whispered. "Is he gone?"
"Not sure." Her companion crept to the window.
He remained motionless at the glass, watching, waiting. "Don't see anything," he said at last, pulling off his gloves.
She exhaled heavily. "Shouldn't you carry a gun, if this man's after you?" He turned, leaving his gloves on the windowsill. "What?"
"My father says you have the right to protect yourself." Wasn't that the cowboy creed?
She grew aware of him scrutinizing her again.
"You are suggesting I shoot Hobbs?" Incredulity underlay his tone.
She wasn't advocating murder. "No, but before Hobbs shoots you, or is caught, maybe carrying a gun is a good idea, that's all I'm saying." An odd conversation to have with someone this overtly masculine. "Or maybe we should call the sheriff?"
"No need, miss." He patted his left side beneath the jacket. "I have a revolver. But Mennonites object to my shooting men on their land. You're not one of the plain people, are you?"
Her jaw dropped, an ache building behind her eyes. "Not remotely. Why on earth would you think I was?"
"This is a Mennonite house."
"Was," she emphasized, confused. Who was this guy?
He jerked as if stung. "Were they run off the farm?" he asked, his voice sharp.
"No. The property changed hands legally. But it was years ago." What was this dude going on about?
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Secret Lady"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Beth Trissel.
Excerpted by permission of The Wild Rose Press, Inc..
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