Haunted

She twisted her jaw slightly. “I didn’t tell you that anything materialized or floated by me. I merely said that I had a nightmare.”



“Right. And the great ghost buster ran out screaming.”



“It was a very bad nightmare.”



He walked over to her and she was startled when he set his hands on her shoulders, and his eyes, very dark in the shadows of night, were hard focused on her own. She was again aware of something evocative in the mere nearness of the man. He carried a richly masculine and seductive scent, and the simple touch of his fingers seemed like a caress. She told herself that it had been a long time since she had been this close to a man so vital and arresting, and so, it was natural that her senses should be jumping. It was a hard argument. They didn’t jump that easily.



“Darcy, I do believe that something is going on. But something real. And I don’t want you hurt.”



His words were honestly, sincerely spoken. The edge of hostility was gone between them, fallen off like a cloak.



She needed it back. She was standing in a bedroom in a flimsy nightgown, body brushing that of a striking male in his prime, clad in no more than boxers and a robe. If she moved just a little bit closer…half an inch, she’d know firsthand if she had an equal effect upon him.



“I’m…I’m not going to get hurt,” she assured him. Her voice was thick.



It seemed as if eons passed in which he didn’t reply. In which they just stood there. Her mind raced in a fury of thoughts. He wasn’t going to let her go. He was going to take that step closer. She should, of course, step away, but she wouldn’t. She’d feel the force of his arms enwrapping her again, but carefully this time, pressing her against his length. The palms of his hand would come to her face, fingers would caress her chin. Then they’d be fused together, tangled in a web of touch and taste and sensation, and—



He stepped back.



“I’m right next door. You didn’t disturb my sleep. Feel free to scream at any time.” He offered her a wry grimace, then took another step back. She wasn’t sure his stride was as confident as usual.



Or maybe she just wanted him to be a bit shaky, too.



“Seriously, at the least disturbance, please, scream your heart out. I’ll be right here.” He smiled. Then his knuckles lightly brushed her cheek; for a moment, time passed again, with endless electricity and thought.



Then he was gone.



Admittedly, Matt was tired.



Still didn’t help the way that the morning completely sucked.



It started out with a desperate call from one of the area’s three middle schools. The sheriff’s department rushed in, prepared to deal with a possibly deadly, serious situation. It turned out that Brad Middleton, tall, lanky, fighting a case of acne, but usually a decent kid, had come in to class saying that he had a gun. Not a soul in the world was going to have a sense of humor about such a situation these days, which Brad couldn’t understand, since he had come in packing a water pistol. After a discussion with the psychiatric counselor, the police counselor, the principal, and then his parents, he was shaking like a leaf by the time he reached Matt, and Matt wasn’t feeling much better about the situation himself. The kid was going to have to go to court, and Matt didn’t lie about the fact that he was facing consequences. Since Brad seemed truly repentant, he was certain that the boy would receive leniency, and he could make him feel somewhat better. But in the middle of his conversation with Brad, there was a holdup at one of the gas stations on the highway, and when they chased down the perp, he wasn’t packing a water pistol. Still, surrounded by law enforcement vehicles, the man turned himself in. Thankfully, no one, including the perp, was shot.



That was all before noon in a town where days could go by, totally uneventful.



He wondered why he had ever wanted to be elected sheriff in the first place. But he knew why. He was like one of the ancient oaks that filled the forested area, born and bred to Stoneyville. He felt the responsibility of his family’s claim to the place, almost as if he was rooted there as well.



And still, though he was worn and weary, he knew how to be sheriff. He knew how to handle juveniles, gun-wielding thieves, and even the older populace who complained that their neighbors were playing rock music or rap too loud.



What he didn’t know how to handle was what he couldn’t see, touch, hear, or stand up against, face-to-face. The other night had disturbed him deeply.



Just as Darcy Tremayne disturbed him.



She could appear as unruffled as the most dignified queen, and yet last night, when he had first seen her after she’d fled the Lee Room, she had been terrified. She had conquered her bout of fear quickly, and with a steely resolve that truly brooked no argument. Last night he had known that he wanted her out, far away where no harm could come to her. And yet he had respected something about her determination as well; hell, he was afraid every time he faced a lethal weapon—he’d seen what they could do. Didn’t alter the fact that he meant to be just what he was, and be first in line to face any situation that arose.



He didn’t believe in ghosts. Didn’t matter. Something had scared her badly.



He’d be damned if he could figure out just what was going on, or who was causing it. The seance could be chalked up to childish antics. As to the rest…



Pranks as well. Had to be. Or the imaginations of those who just wanted ghosts to exist so badly that they could create them. That worked with Penny and their streaking bride. But Clara? She was as down to earth as could be.



Why worry about it so much? He taunted himself. Half of humanity wanted to believe in ghosts, in anything that gave credence to a life after death. Let Melody House be haunted.



Ah, but there was the rub. Clara had either slammed herself into a door, or been hurt somehow. But he still had to question how the hell someone was playing games in the house. He’d gone through the Lee Room endlessly, and had found nothing. No wires, no taps, nothing.



He’d spent plenty of time in the Lee Room himself. Once, when Lavinia had been in love with the place. She considered the room exciting, for reasons he’d never really fathomed. Clint, he knew, had taken a number of women to the house. Carter, too. Maybe for the thrill of being intimate with a woman when there was an element of fear. The point was, not one of them had ever been bothered by anything in the least amiss.



He realized he’d been sitting at his desk at the station, staring down at a form, pen in hand. He gave himself a mental shake and concentrated. The true reason police forces lost so many good cops. Paperwork.



He forced himself to finish up, then called out to his secretary that he was calling it quits. It was well after six and he’d been in for almost twelve hours.



He felt a sudden uneasiness.



It was too long to have been gone from Melody House.



Stoneyville might be a small town, but it had one of the most impressive and charming public libraries Darcy had ever seen.



Mrs. O’Hara, tiny as a wren, but sprightly and quick with beautiful dark brown eyes peeping out from behind her bifocals, evidently loved books, and apparently felt a need to create comfortable and aesthetic surroundings in which they might be enjoyed. Beautiful plants and flowers adorned the numerous tables, and she proudly told Darcy that she’d found the inviting, overstuffed chairs set about the library at various yard sales throughout the county. The library was entirely user-friendly, with signs to direct youngsters to their section, and adults to where they wanted to go as well. “A library should be educational, of course,” she told Darcy cheerfully. “But the point is that reading should always be a pleasure, and when one learns to read and love it, all kinds of knowledge just becomes available so easily. I do go on, but then, I do love books!” She wasn’t obtrusive, however, and quickly brought Darcy to the section on local history.



Luckily, many local writers had been intrigued with chronicling events around them. In the 1870s, a woman named Murial Moore had written about the sisters Darcy and Matt had discussed on her first day at Melody House. The family had been the Claytons, and their home had been located just outside of town. A Barry Brewster had been engaged first to marry Ophelia, the oldest of the brood, but had fallen in love with young Amy, the baby of the family. Amy had last been seen with her sister Ophelia as they walked through the east forest, ostensibly to visit neighbors on the far side. Amy had not been seen again alive. Barry had returned, and on the day that the majority of Amy’s bones were discovered by a farmer walking through the woods with his dog, Barry had hanged himself from a tree near the brook. Ophelia had later gone insane, but lived out her life to the ripe old age of eighty-eight, prisoner of her family, kept in the barn. The barn, and family property, had burned to the ground.



“How are you doing, young lady?”



Darcy started and looked up. Mrs. O’Hara was standing by her side. “I was about to make a cup of tea. Would you like some?”



This was definitely a different kind of library.



Darcy smiled, then glanced at her watch. She hadn’t gotten very deep into the history of the Stone family at all, but she felt as if she was carefully treading water between legends, truth, and experience as it was. And she was anxious to get back to the forest.



“I’ll take a rain check on the tea, Mrs. O’Hara, if I may,” Darcy told her. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”



She handed the book she’d been reading to the librarian. Such an old volume wasn’t allowed out of the library.



Mrs. O’Hara assured her she was quite welcome, and told her that she’d go through some of their old books and see what she could show her that might be important regarding the history of Melody House. “I warn you—any difficulty on research regarding Melody House and the area is not because there hasn’t been a lot written. There are many, many books on the subject.”



“Thanks so much for your help.”



“Absolutely. I’m quite convinced myself that the area is haunted. In fact, I have a friend you might want to talk to. Her name is Marcia Cuomo. She started working at Melody House right after Matt’s grandfather died. And she quit in one day. She was convinced that she was grabbed and rousted about and nearly killed when she was thrown down a stairway.”

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