CHAPTER 9
This time, when he awoke to see the figure of Milo Anderson seated in the chair by his bed, Robert didn’t even allow himself to be startled.
He groaned, throwing an arm over his face.
“Go away. You’re a dream. I’m only dreaming.”
“You’re not dreaming. And Christmas is coming.”
“Great. Christmas comes every year.”
The apparition was silent for a minute, then Milo said quietly, “No, not for everyone.”
“Sorry. Really. No, I’m not. Hell, this is ridiculous. I’m apologizing to a dream.”
“Look, you did well today, but not well enough.”
Robert drew his arm from his eyes to stare at his dream visitor with indignation. “Not well enough? I hurtled across a highway, threw myself from a racing horse and caught Jillian before the sled could go crashing into the truck.”
“I said you did well. But did you look at the license plate of the truck and get the number? Did you inspect the fence to find out what really happened to it?”
“It was an accident.”
“No, not everything is an accident.”
“You sound like Douglas.”
“Of course. Douglas is involved.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. You’re not ready to understand.”
“I understand that I’m having a nightmare. What more is there?”
“The book. I’ve told you, you’ve got to read the book. She is in danger. It will come again—unless we can change things.”
“Great. So someone—apparently in Jillian’s own family—is out to kill her. Before Christmas. And I’ve got a ghost haunting my dreams, a know-it-all ghost. So if you know it all, just whisper the name of the guilty party in my ear so when I wake up, I’ll know who it is.”
“I don’t know who it is,” Milo said, looking perplexed, shaking his head.
“You’re dead, you’re a ghost, you’re omniscient—”
“I’m dead, I’m a ghost, yes. But I’m still here because she’s in danger. I don’t have access to any more information than you do. Except that I’ve read the book. And I believe.”
“You believe in what? Miracles? I don’t mean to be cruel, but after all, this is my nightmare. You’re dead and buried. There won’t be a miracle. Unless you’re thinking of making a comeback?”
“Don’t be gruesome,” Milo said with a shudder. He leaned forward. “I’m not coming back. It wasn’t meant to be. But I was part of it, and I left too soon this time around. I guess that had to happen. But you have to wise up, Marston, or you’ll lose her again.”
“Look…”
In the darkness of his room, Robert sat up. He had spoken aloud.
There was no one there.
He groaned and crashed back to his pillow. Why in God’s name was he having such bizarre dreams? He hadn’t been drinking tonight, except for a single beer with dinner.
He rolled over, pulling his pillow over his head. He needed to get back to sleep.
He started to drift. Don’t dream, don’t dream, don’t dream, he told himself.
But he did dream again, and though he knew he didn’t want to dream, he was aware that he was doing it.
In his dream, he was rising, slipping on his robe and padding barefoot out into the hall to the second floor landing.
And he was walking…down to the library.
Inside, on the huge desk that was the centerpiece of the room, was a book. He walked over to it. Ran a finger over it. The book was very old. Hundreds of years old, he thought. He looked at the cover, looked at the spine, at the pages.
Then he sat down to read, telling himself it was a remarkably vivid dream.
January 3rd, 1661
We fled today, though we did not flee so much as a result of the war, the impending death of the King, or the new regime. We fled because of the burning. Because of the horror we inflicted after the burning.
Because we were too late, and should not have been.
He wanted death.
Michael could not endure what had happened, and not even the vengeance he extracted could allow him to stay. We headed to the North Country, and will fly far and fast. He thinks, I believe, that he can outrun the horror.
Who could have known?
I should begin from the beginning.
I will never forget the day they met, though it was long before the tumult began. She was the daughter of Lord Alfred, the kindliest of men. Tolerant of her headstrong ways, and knowing, of course, that she adored him in return. She was a lady, to the manor born, and she used her positionoverMichael, nose in the air, words ever teasing, haughty, yet filled with a laughter that wound him quickly around her little finger, though he would not let on. I warned him when first we saw her by the spring that she was Lord Alfred’s daughter. But he paid no heed. She accosted him to do her bidding, and he complied, yet whatever she asked, he overdid, bringing water, helping her to drink so that it spilled over her, setting her upon her horse with such a flourish that she slid from one side to the ground upon the other. She but laughed, promising him that he should pay, and he told her that he would pay forever, that he was forever her servant, spellbound.
They parted ways then, of course. But I saw the way they looked at one another.
They met again the following day, in her father’s own hall. For her father would be riding off in support of the King, and Michael, the finest of soldiers, would captain the troops he had raised. Within the hall, she taunted him. He called her spoiled, willful and a silly child. She said then that he should stay away, and he told her that he could never stay away, for he was enamored. Indeed, he was certain he loved her.
There had been some talk of a marriage between her and Sir Walter, distant kin, a man well versed in the way of the soldier, the churchman and the politician, for he had, at one time, befriended the King, and at another time he had sat with Cromwell and agreed with his position that the King and the church had become corrupt. Already there was talk of treason. Alas, the King was arrogant, oh, indeed, arrogant. He was, in his mind, God’s anointed, incapable of treason. He was the state, and the state was him. Michael had ridden with his son, had served the Prince, and therein found his loyalty. The King was beloved by his family, was an educated man, with great dignity. His son was charming and more. Brave.
Sir Walter had been appointed sheriff of the county and had come at Lord Alfred’s request. Lord Alfred knew Sir Walter to be crafty and cunning, a man to straddle a fence, but he thought that best for his daughter, his heiress. Should things go badly for the King, the fact that Sir Walter straddled fences so well would be in his favor. He had a way about him. He was the law in a lawless time, was judge and jury. This could not be a bad thing in such hazardous days, Lord Alfred thought.
Lord Alfred was a good man, a man who loved his daughter. But it is truth to say that he did encourage a match between his daughter and Sir Walter. The latter was an extremely handsome man, powerful, determined. And he had coveted Morwenna for years by then, waiting, biding his time. He had been her friend; she had, perhaps, cared for him.
Until Michael.
I was not with him the day that love first created madness between them. But I had seen that look in their eyes, and later, being with the two of them, it was impossible not to see the passion that had risen between them. There was a war to be fought, but they had time together. Long days by the spring. Nature made their bed, sky and air were witnesses to their love. Yet, as Michael watched the change of things, he feared for her. He still had to go to war, for that was a soldier’s duty. He was her father’s man, defender of her father’s honor.
Then, when they rode away, when banners were flying and the stirrup cup had been drunk, Lord Alfred so innocently lent fuel to flame, telling Sir Walter that he must guard all in his absence—his home, his law, his daughter. Sir Walter assumed then that she was both his ward and his betrothed. He loved her, in his way. Loved her with a sickness. For he suspected her affair with Michael. She made her feelings evident.
Once, when the soldiers had leave while the conflict raged, I don’t remember the date, but it was while hope still stirred in the hearts of all Royalists, Michael took her secretly to wife.
I remember the night. I see it clearly in my mind’s eye, and itwasclear, for there was a full moon, no cloud in the sky. They stood together in a copse of blossoms, she so beautiful, he so tall and powerful, the knight triumphant, the soldier who would not fail. She did not want him to go to war. She was afraid for him, afraid he would fail, because it became more and more evident that Cromwell would prevail. But a man could not turn his back on his beliefs; she would not love him could he do so. And at first, she was merely scornful of her father’s warder, Sir Walter, for remember, once he had been her friend. He loved her. She thought herself safe.
They met, through it all, infrequently. He was there for her when her father fell to a grave illness and was returned to recover at his ancient estate. Lord Alfred was wounded in body and soul; many a day he did not gain consciousness. When he did, he was aware only of the past; he did not remember the war, nor the King’s plight, nor the soldier who had risked his own life to save him and bring him home.
Sir Walter held power. Tremendous power.
But she ignored the dictates of the man who was now her guardian and thought he would make himself her husband, lord of the castle, and powerful, even in the Protectorate that Cromwell would lead. On the first night of her father’s return, she slipped away to be with her husband. It was then that Sir Walter went to her chambers, ready to tell her that there would be a marriage now, that she would be safe with him, whichever way the wind should blow.
She had friends within the castle. Jane, her maid, Garth, the groom. Jeremy, her father’s old assistant. Jane, hearing that he was coming, made a figure in the bed of blankets and pillows, and when he came, she told him that her lady slept, deep in grief at her father’s condition. And Morwenna did grieve his illness, greatly, yet found solace in the arms of her husband. Who better to wipe her tears?
That night, Jane’s ruse was respected.
But Michael had a few days to tarry, and one night, when Morwenna was gone to his arms again, Sir Walter pushed past Jane, entered the room and found that his ward was gone.
The next day he threatened her.
She would not be threatened. She did not see the danger. She told him that though she cared for him, she would never be his wife.
It was from that night on that he began to call her witch.
Subtly, he spread rumor. Aye, she was a witch. What else but magic could give a maid such compelling beauty that she should so entice men? He was a good man, a Godly man, and she made his mind stray again and again. Aye, it was a pity that so many could be so fooled! There had been a time, a Christian time, when the old ways had been tolerated, when wiccans had still peopled the hills. For though we were a land known as England, we bordered that country which was Wales. The people there were filled with fancy and superstition, and it was a way of life, one that they enjoyed. But when James of Scotland became James I of England, he brought with him a fear of witchcraft, and suddenly, in the midst of war and sadness and bloodshed, the country was filled with witch finders. They were not the King’s men, nor Cromwell’s, they were the law. It remained the law that a man should not steal, nor commit murder, though Cromwell sought to murder our King. But witches! Mostly pathetic old women, they were tortured into admitting to pacts with Satan, to dancing with him, bearing his young, selling their souls to kill a neighbor’s pig or put a pox on an enemy. They were used most heinously, prodded, broken, dunked, and yet it was all within the ways of the law, or what remained of the law. Sir Walter, you see, was both sheriff and master of the castle, and half convinced himself that he was like God, doing God’s work and, when the tide began to turn, doing the work of the country. He was Cromwell’s man, and therefore, when the King’s cause began to fail, he could accuse her of treason and heresy as well as witchcraft.
It was England, after all. By the law, witches were hanged.
Heretics and traitors could be burned.
Morwenna loved her soldier, her knight. She made light of her situation, saying that she would not desert her father. He wanted her to come away; she wanted him to quit the army. He could not desert the King’s cause until he was so ordered by the King. She would not leave her father.
But when Michael had to ride to war again, she begged him not to go. She was so fearful. Still, her fear was for him. He promised her that he would come back to her. He swore that when she needed him, he would be there for her. “Always,” he said to her. And I heard it myself. “Whenever you need me, I swear, I will be there.”
He and Sir Walter had crossed paths many times. Sir Walter claimed only to care for Morwenna’s welfare. Naturally, Michael was welcome in the manor. He was Lord Alfred’s captain, and his champion. Yet, subtly, Sir Walter warned him away from Morwenna.
“You cannot help our lady in these difficult times,” Sir Walter said. “I see that you watch her. You had best forget her.”
“Ah, but, sir, she is the daughter of my dearest patron, Lord Alfred. I will never forget her. I will wage any battle for her.”
“You think you can fight battles, win wars, that are lost.”
“I think that I am steadfast, and I will always serve my lady, as I have served her father.”
“You must take care, sir, because the wind begins to blow in one direction now. If Cromwell’s forces find victory, you, sir, will be a traitor, and you will not be welcome here.”
But as always, his wife slipped out to be with him, and she was angry when he spoke about Sir Walter.
She lay with him, and he with her, and they were man and wife. No matter what the words they exchanged, they were happy with one another. She leaned upon an elbow, watched his beloved face and shook her head. “Maybe we underestimate him.”
“Your father still lives.”
“Poor father has no mind.”
“He would not dare seize power while your father lives. Still, you should come with me now,” he told her gravely. “Tonight. We’ll ride tonight. Across the snow. The Prince will flee soon to Scotland. We’ll follow, adventurers in the night, riders of a fierce storm.”
She touched his face. “My love, I cannot, will not, leave my father.”
He took her hand, holding it to his cheek. “Is your love for him greater than your love for me?”
“My love is as steadfast as your loyalty—for you both,” she told him.
He rolled, taking her into his arms. “If I did not think him a pompous ass, I would force you with me now. Ah, wife, dearest wife. I find no fault with your love for your father, but he is not truly with us anymore. Still, to know that I am loved with that same sweet devotion is something I take with me in my heart, wherever I go.”
“Why must you still go?”
“We have argued this—”
“The King loses.”
“I will not be the greater cause of his loss.”
“And I will not leave my father.”
“Stubborn wench,” he accused.
“You are the arrogant fool, my husband.”
“Still, lady, no evil shall touch you. I am your husband, your fool, and I will let no evil touch you. When you need me, I will be there.”
“If Cromwell does take this war—”
“Then he will understand that a soldier has fought with loyalty. When the King disbands us, I will be a good citizen of my country.”
“It will be a miracle if we are to be together, to live a normal life, to see a family grow, to love forever.”
“There are no miracles, my lady. Just the strength of our wills, our convictions—our love.”
She smiled. “I, beloved, will believe in miracles. For us both.”
When the cock crowed, it was time to part. She to the manor. He to the war.
It was after that day that Sir Walter began to turn.
He had loved her so much. Wanted her so much.
And he was bitter. Very bitter. He came to her room again one night, demanding that she accept his proposal. She would marry him within the week.
She rejected him flatly. She wasn’t afraid. Her father was still alive.
Sir Walter was like a rabid dog. She would marry him. If she did not, he would have her killed. Publicly. That would bring her lover, and then he would kill Michael, as well.
She was amused. He would never kill Michael. Michael was stronger; Michael rode with soldiers. Sir Walter might have a few men in his employ, he might be sheriff, but he wouldn’t kill her. And he couldn’t kill Michael.
“You mark my words, my beauty,” he told her. “You will change your mind. I will see that you burn.”
“For what? Despising you?”
“You are a witch.”
“You’ll hang me, then.”
“You’ll die for whatever crime I say. I can make it happen.”
“Never. Michael will come for me before he’ll let you kill me.”
“We’ll see, won’t we, my dear. These things will happen. Unless you determine to love me. I will see you dead by Christmas, unless you change your mind.”
“I will not change my mind. You don’t understand. I love Michael. I will love him forever.”
“I will arrest you tomorrow.”
“For witchcraft?”
“For witchcraft, heresy and treason. You will burn. Unless there is a miracle.”
“Arrest me. Light your fires. There will be a miracle.”
But there was not to be….
* * *
“Robert, there you are.”
He heard her voice from the depths of sleep. He was cramped, cold, uncomfortable. Too many dreams. They came back quickly. He didn’t think he liked sleeping in this house. He opened his eyes and saw his own fingers, lying on wood.
A desk.
Pages.
A book.
“Robert? Are you all right?”
He looked toward the voice. Jillian was there, dressed not for riding but for church. She was wearing a long woolen skirt and a matching sweater, and her hair was shimmering, her eyes brilliant, curious, as she watched him.
“What on earth are you doing in here?”
What on earth, indeed?
He thought he had been dreaming. Dreaming a ghost, a book, a story. The library. If he hadn’t been dreaming…
A ghost had come to his bedroom and then told him he had to go read a book.
And here he was.
He shook his head, trying to get the cricks out of his neck. “I, uh…”
Simple, he thought. Milo on the mind, Jillian in danger, Douglas worried, me keeping silent. I dreamed up a ghost. Power of suggestion. I walked to the library. Picked up a book with a story about star-crossed lovers during the English Civil War. Fell asleep again…
“Robert? I just thought I’d tell you we’re leaving now.”
“Now? How about in five minutes?” he queried. “I’d like to come with you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
She smiled and shrugged. “Great. We’ll wait.”
Agatha and Henry went, as well. Douglas didn’t comment on the others, but he made Robert welcome.
The church was beautiful and very old. The stones in the cemetery in the churchyard dated back to the sixteen hundreds. Robert found himself staring at them, looking for people named Michael or Morwenna.
The sermon was about miracles. Life itself was a miracle. Faith was a miracle. The most important miracles were those created every day, little miracles, miracles of caring. It wasn’t a long sermon but short, sweet and uplifting. Douglas commented as they left the church that he liked the priest.
“I always like a guy on the positive side,” he told Robert. “Too many fire and brimstone fellows out there. Everything is bad, nothing is good. Hell, yes, we all need help now and then. But life is what we make it. Don’t you agree?”
“Definitely,” Robert told him. “We’re all responsible for ourselves.”
“By the grace of God, here I am,” Douglas said. “Now, there’s a miracle.”
Jillian was smiling. “Robert doesn’t believe in miracles, Grandfather.”
“When there’s a miracle sitting right next to you? Shame on you, son.”
Robert smiled, amused by the way they teased him. “I stand corrected,” he said. “You, sir, are a miracle. You’re also an example of hard work and taking the bull by the horns.”
Douglas sniffed but seemed pleased. In a few more minutes, they were back at the house.
In the kitchen, they had pastries, coffee and juice, and then Jillian said she was running up to change for riding.
“By the way, Grandfather,” she said, speaking a bit hesitantly, “if you see Daniel, tell him that we’ll be a few hours. I know he doesn’t need me, but—”
“You didn’t check with him last night?”
Watching Jillian, Robert thought he saw her flush uncomfortably.
“I was going to. I, um, forgot. I fell asleep.”
She was lying, Robert thought. He wondered why.
“Well, I’m sure nothing earth-shattering can happen in a few hours. What do you say, Robert?”
“I’m not involved at this stage. When they have the finished product, I take over,” he told Douglas.
“Then, bless you, my children. Go riding.”
“Meet you at the stables in ten minutes,” Jillian told Robert.
The horses were already saddled and bridled, each in its customized tack, when he reached the stables. He started for the mottled white horse, Igloo, but Jillian stopped him.
“No, take Crystal. You liked him yesterday. And he liked you.”
“He’s your horse.”
“Igloo is a sweet guy, too. Please, I insist.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Instinctively, he checked the girth, noted that the saddle and stirrups were the same as they had been yesterday, and mounted. Jillian obviously loved to ride, and was good at it. She leapt easily into the saddle and seemed instantly comfortable. She patted Igloo on the neck. “Behave yourself today.”
“Is he known for making trouble?”
She grinned. “He’s Griff’s horse. He’s a prankster.”
“Well, now I feel bad. You should ride your own horse.”
“I’ll be fine. I like a tussle with Igloo now and then.”
“Ah, you think I can’t handle him?”
“No, I didn’t say that at—” She broke off, aware that he was teasing her. “Race you up the hill,” she told him.
And then she was gone, snow from her horse’s hooves hitting him in the face.
Laughing, he took off after her. They ran for a fair distance. Igloo was strong, but Crystal was faster. He sped past Jillian, her turn to be pelted with snow. She laughed, trotting up as he waited for her.
Then she took off again.
He urged Crystal forward. When he was abreast of her, he leapt from his horse, catching her, bringing them both down into the snow. She laughed, catching her breath.
“Are you planning on making a habit of dumping me in the snow?” she demanded.
He leaned on an elbow, keeping her pinned. “I couldn’t resist temptation,” he told her.
She stared up at him. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes incredibly bright.
“I’m falling in love with you, you know,” he told her.
She sucked in her breath, still staring at him, not speaking at first. “I owe you my life.”
“You don’t owe me anything. Besides, you might not have been killed. You might have stopped in time.”
“I might have. But you saved me.”
He smoothed a reddish-gold lock of snow-covered hair from her forehead. “Saved you, saved myself. I told you, I’m falling in love with you.”
“We’re going slowly,” she said softly.
“Fine. I’m slowly falling in love with you.”
“I’m freezing,” she said. “And if we don’t capture our wayward horses, they’ll head back without us.”
“Good point,” he said, rising, then helping her to her feet. Luckily the horses had wandered only a few steps ahead. They were easily caught.
“Need a hand?” he asked.
“No, thanks, I’m fine,” she said, shaking her head. She was quickly up, watching him as he mounted.
“Robert?”
“Um?”
“I’m…seriously, thank you again.”
“For?”
“Your daring rescue.”
“Well, according to your husband,” he muttered, “it wasn’t enough.”
“What?” she demanded sharply.
He looked over at her, shaking his head. “Sorry. I just…” He shook his head again, embarrassed.
“What?” she demanded again. “Robert…”
“Nothing. I’m just…I’m having dreams in this house. Last night I dreamt that Milo came into my room and told me I shouldn’t pat myself on the back too firmly, because I didn’t do such a great job. I didn’t get the license number off the truck, nor did I take so much as a look at the fence.”
She was frowning. “Why would you?”
“Well, if someone is out to hurt you…”
“Who would be out to hurt me? It was an accident.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Robert, don’t start in on my family again.” She swung on him suddenly. “You don’t even believe in ghosts. And if Milo were a ghost, he’d be coming to see me, not you.”
“Hey, sorry.”
“My family is not out to get me.”
She was angry, but he didn’t intend to give in. “I hope you’re right.”
She stared at him, then kneed her horse. Igloo took off, and Crystal followed.
With a lightning change of mood, she suddenly slowed her horse, turning back to him. “Come on, I’ll show you the cottage.”
She was racing again. He rode after her. A minute later, he was thinking that she didn’t need enemies, she was reckless enough with her own life. But she could ride well, and she was leading him down a trail through thick, snow-covered trees. Then they burst into a clearing in front of a small, two-story, raw wood cabin that might have come out of a children’s book.
She reined in Igloo, leaping off the horse, starting for the door. He left Crystal tethered by Igloo and followed her up the steps to the small porch, then through the door.
“Hey, wait a minute,” he called. “Where are we? You can’t just walk into people’s houses, Jillian, no matter what last name you choose to go by.”
She was already in, shivering as she stood before a rustic stone mantel. The place was clean and neat, sparsely furnished with some old overstuffed chairs, a sofa, brass hearth tools and a few hanging copper pots. Simple stairs were built against the far wall, and the parlor stretched into a dining room furnished with nothing more than a rustic table and chairs.
“Where are we? Who owns this place?” he demanded.
“I do. It was in Milo’s family—it was his studio. Come upstairs. I’ll show you some of his work.”
The cottage was bitterly cold, but he was too curious about Milo’s work to care. He followed her up the stairs. The second floor might have been an artist’s studio anywhere. There was a daybed piled with pillows, a few chairs, another fireplace. And then there were easels, paint boxes, brushes, charcoal, all scattered in a haphazard yet still somehow organized pattern about the room. She walked over to one canvas, lifted the drape from it. The painting, done in acrylics, was arresting. It was a dining scene, with the characters done in caricature. It was Jillian’s family and friends. Griff, his features slightly exaggerated, so he took on the appearance of the perfect dandy. Daniel, so serious and gruff that he looked like Pa Kettle. Theo, in the middle, his midriff bulging. Eileen, trying to be tall. Henry was in the background, looking older than Methuselah, with Aggie, barely a skeleton, by his side. Connie and Joe were in the front, playing chess, staring at one another. Two little girls holding dolls stood on the other side; Jillian was with them. More people, including a few he didn’t recognize, were walking in and out of the far background. He recognized one of them as Gracie Janner, and another as Amelia. He didn’t see Brad Casey, and at first he didn’t see Douglas.
“Where’s your grandfather?” he asked.
“Right there.”
Douglas was in the center, looking on. “Like God at the Last Supper,” Robert mused, wondering how he’d missed the man.
“Hey, I showed you this because I wanted you to see that though he teased us all, Milo painted this with a lot of love.”
She was right. Everyone was smiling at one another, as if they had learned to tolerate one another’s eccentricities.
“Milo was quite the artist,” he said softly, looking around.
“A wonderful artist.”
Robert pointed to another easel. “Is that another of his works?”
She hesitated. “No, that’s mine.”
“May I?” he asked. She shrugged, so he walked over to it, removed the covering. This one had been done in oil. It was Milo, wearing a loose-fitting white shirt, against a blue background. He had the appearance of one of the Romantic poets—Shelley, Byron, Keats, lost as if to art, far too young.
“It’s great. You should paint more often,” he told her.
“Painting isn’t my talent,” she told him. “I design jewelry, and occasionally clothing, now. I don’t even really like to sketch anymore.” She shivered, and he realized how cold the cabin was. There was heat here, along with electricity, but since the place was apparently seldom used, the heat was kept very low, just enough to keep pipes from bursting.
“We should go. You’re cold,” he said.
She nodded. “I think I’ll have Jimmy get some people out here early this year to clean. I dress this place for Christmas, too. Differently, but it’s fun. I’ll turn up the heat.”
“Who comes out here with you?” he asked curiously.
“Well, Milo did, of course,” she murmured.
“Milo is gone,” he said softly.
“The girls come sometimes—Joe and Connie’s girls. They love this place. I have a box of their toys downstairs, but usually I set them up with easels and crayons, or give them finger paints, and they go to it. Children are wonderful artists. They haven’t gotten to where they’ve let others sway them yet, so they just use their imaginations. I still like to come here sometimes. I sketch out pieces here, and in the corner over there I have tools to work with gold and silver.”
“Nice.”
“Thanks. It’s peaceful here. As if you’re alone in the world.” She smiled, then shivered again. “I guess we should go.” She started walking toward the stairs.
“Do you want the lights off?”
“No, that’s all right. Leave them on. A beacon in the snow.”
“Don’t you worry about people breaking in?”
“You can only get here on foot, horseback or by snowmobile in the winter. And anyone that desperate is welcome to come in for warmth or rest.”
He paused for a moment at the canvas Milo Anderson had done. “I think you’re wrong about the peace in this painting, though. I think Milo saw things in your family that he was afraid you didn’t see.”
“That again!” She flared. “Lay off my family.”
“Jillian—”
But she had already clambered down the stairs. Outside, she leapt quickly and easily onto her horse.
He called her name again, but she ignored him, turning Igloo and taking off.
Fast.
“Jillian!” he called, teeth clenched as he rode after her. “What the hell are you doing?” he roared, nearly drawing abreast.
She turned toward him, her hair whipped back by the wind. “We’re racing!”
It was then that he saw her saddle slipping, starting to slide beneath her horse.
“Jillian!” he shouted, but the wind was whirling around them, hooves were pounding, hearts were racing.
She didn’t hear him.
He spurred Crystal to greater speed. He’d already pulled this stunt once; he could do it again. Crystal drew alongside Igloo. “Jillian, the saddle!”
She turned toward him, still angry, not really listening. “Leave me—”
He leapt for her, catching her by the shoulders, bringing them both down into a deep bank of snow. She sputtered furiously at him, snow in her eyes, nose, hair, everywhere.
“Damn you, enough is enough—”
“Jillian, take a look at your saddle.”
He didn’t stay down with her but quickly rose. Igloo was trotting off, neighing in distress. The saddle was now all the way beneath the horse’s belly.
As they watched, the girth gave completely and the saddle fell from the horse into the snow.
“All right,” she whispered at his side. “I’m sorry. You rescued me again. You’re a handy man to have around in case of accidents.”
“Accidents?” he snapped. He could imagine the consequences if she’d stayed on the horse as the saddle turned. She’d have been trampled beneath Igloo’s hooves.
She was staring at him stubbornly. “Yes, accidents.”
He shook his head and started walking. He was shaking, afraid, and he didn’t want her to realize it.
“Robert!”
“What?” He spun back around.
“Robert, it had to be an accident. Think about it. I was riding the horse you were supposed to be riding. Crystal is my horse. Anyone in my family would have thought I’d be riding him. So it had to be an accident.”
He still didn’t believe it, and he didn’t answer as he kept walking through the snow to the fallen saddle.
He hunkered down, inspecting the hemp girth. He wasn’t a forensics expert, and he couldn’t tell if the rope had worn away or if it had been given a little help with a sharp instrument. Whichever, it wasn’t going back on the horse.
“Robert.” Jillian was standing stubbornly before him. “Accidents do happen.”
“Accidents and miracles,” he muttered. “Yeah, yeah.” He stood.
“Robert?” Her arms were crossed resolutely over her chest.
“What?”
“What were you doing in the library this morning?”
“Reading.”
“You were sleeping there.”
“Well, yes, then I was sleeping.”
“But…why were you there?”
He picked up the saddle and hefted it over his shoulder. “Because I was dreaming about your husband’s ghost, and he told me to go there.”
“Why?”
“To read a book.”
“What book?”
“An old book about the English Civil War.”
“Milo told you to read a book about the Civil War in England?” she enquired skeptically.
“It was a dream, Jillian, just a dream. And this thing is heavy. Let’s get back.”
“Just leave it. I can ride bareback, and we can come back with a snowmobile later to get the saddle—”
“No, I think I’ll keep my hands on it. But let’s get going, okay?”
She walked past him, waited by the horses. He set the saddle over Igloo’s back, and they walked the horses through the snow.
Silent and mistrustful.
When they finally reached the stables, she turned and quietly assured him, “If Milo could come back, he’d talk to me.”
“It was a dream, Jillian. I don’t believe in ghosts, you know that.”
“I know. You don’t believe in anything. Just what you see and touch and feel. And I’m telling you an accident happened. My grandfather is nervous in his old age. I love my family, Michael. And that’s that.”
She started to walk away. He caught her arm, frowning. “Robert,” he said.
“What?” Her brow furrowed.
“Robert. My name is Robert.”
“I know your name is Robert.”
“You just called me Michael.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I know your name, and I didn’t call you Michael. I think you’re losing your mind.”
She wrenched free from his hold, left her horse for Jimmy to tend and went racing toward the house. He thought she was crying, and he gritted his teeth.
“I’m not going crazy,” he muttered. “And I wish your wretched husband would haunt your dreams. And you did call me Michael.”
Michael.
The name of the soldier in the book.