Nash appeared a few moments later and stood at the sun porch entrance. He glanced at her as he walked over and stood looking out of the French doors leading to the garden. “I had a call from my foreman. He said that New Orleans was under the gun for an unexpected severe thunderstorm. A bit odd, but with the way things are going with climate change, not too surprising.” He turned around, eying the ceiling and walls. “This old girl survived Katrina. I imagine she can handle a little rain.”

She eyed him, trying not to let her gaze linger too long on his muscled torso.

“My shirt’s drying. I hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

She averted her eyes to the journal sitting in her lap. “I always felt women were at a disadvantage in that regard.”

“How’s that?” he asked.

Outside, the rain had been falling off and on throughout most of the day. It had provided a calming background as she leafed through the woman’s diary. Now it seemed only to conjure images of tangled sheets and stolen kisses. She shoved those thoughts aside and faced him, keeping her eyes level with his. “The fact that it’s acceptable for men to walk about without a shirt and think nothing of it.”

He raised a brow and smiled. “I’m all about equality, Doc. Feel free to do the same.”

Her face warmed.

“Sorry, didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable.” He shifted in his chair and leaned forward, clasping his hands over his knees. “However, we do need to talk.” He raked his hand through his hair. “You know how I said I didn’t believe in ghosts and shit?”

Somer watched him, aware of his unease. Clearly, something had happened. “I do. Has something happened to change your mind?”

He let out a snort, leaned back in the chair, and looked up at the turquoise-blue wainscoting. “Yeah. That’s putting it mildly.”

A palpable tension rose suddenly in the room, very similar to what had happened between them last night. She fought to keep her head clear. Somehow the remnant energies of this scandalous affair she’d been reading about were still at large in the house, searching for one another—landing, it would seem, on any viable energy they could find. “Keep talking. Tell me what happened.”

He nodded and continued. “I finished my work upstairs and was talking to Mickey on the phone when, I swear to God, I thought you’d come into the room and brushed your hand over the back of my neck.”

“And you saw no one, right?”

He nodded. “I thought, you know, it was the heat and humidity getting to me. Maybe I was dehydrated. So, I drank some water, but I felt like I was burning up. That’s why I stripped and got in the shower. I thought it’d help.”

Somer took a quiet breath, hoping to still the wild thrum of her heart at the thought of Nash standing naked in the shower, water cascading over his work-honed body. Smoke curled low in her belly.

“I heard a sound, saw the curtain move and then…” He glanced away and then back at her. “I turned around and saw you get in the shower.” His gaze grew dark. “At least, it looked like you.”

Somer’s heart jumpstarted to a full gallop as she held his stormy gaze. She found it hard to swallow. “There’s no need to go into detail. I can figure out the rest.”

He swiped his hand over his mouth, pausing to let it linger there, as though debating his next words. He straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “I sure as hell would like to know what’s going on.”

“I understand your concern.” She held up the book. “I think I’ve discovered at least part of what’s happening.” She considered one theory that had taken shape in her mind as she’d been reading. “I believe this is Lucille Chapman’s diary. The woman who once was the resident tutor in this house.”

His gaze narrowed. He was listening and, though she’d never experienced anything like this before, she needed to find a way to explain that what was happening between them might not be “them” at all.

She squared her shoulders and flipped through the book, trying to organize her thoughts. “According to Lucille’s journal, there was once a great deal of turmoil in the house. She’d been trying to avoid a scandal—to avoid getting caught with her lover.”

“Teach was engaging in a little hanky-panky?” He frowned. “Isn’t that kind of weird.”

“Well, it seems she was having a secret affair with the owner’s oldest son from a previous marriage. He was old enough that his father had urged him to enlist in the ‘war of northern aggression.’ But it seemed that his son had not wanted to leave.”

“And I’m guessing papa didn’t approve?”

Somer shrugged. “That’s what I’m getting from the entries. The son apparently lived in the garçonnière—which, if my research is correct, was originally the cabin I’m now staying in. Lucille lived in the bedroom upstairs.”

Nash frowned and tipped his head. “Did the old man have a thing about Lucille?”

Somer sighed. “She eluded to that in a couple of passages. Nothing overt. Apparently he showered her with small gifts, saying they were tokens of appreciation for her work.”

“And the wife? What did she think of these little ‘tokens’?” Nash asked.

“He was a widower. The younger children were from his second wife who died shortly after their arrival here. As to the tokens, she doled them out, never letting the son know what was going on, fearful that there would be a feud. So she passed them out among the servants, making them vow never to show them to the master.”

Nash chuckled, but shook his head with a look of disgust. “This is better than any novel.”

“I’m afraid there’s more. And this is where it takes a strange turn.”

“Believe me, nothing would seem stranger than what happened in that shower.”

She shot him a look.

He seemed flustered. “Meaning, had it really been you—that wouldn’t have been so bad. I mean, well, you know.”

“Stop while you’re ahead, Nash,” she offered. “What I’m about to read may change your view.” She found the page and began to read. “My mind is befuddled.”

“Befuddled?” he asked.

“It means confused,” she answered.

“You just don’t hear that word used much.”

Somer looked at the date of the entry. “It reads, May 16, 1864. My mind is befuddled,” she started again. “Every time he is near I find myself completely enamored. Due to our indiscretions, I am no longer a lady, but a scarlet woman. Scarlet because I cannot wait until our next liaison.”

Somer paused, images of what had happened between her and Nash—how demanding she’d been with him, how nothing mattered more than having him buried inside her—flashing across her mind. She closed her eyes, shoving the emotions aside, then opened them again and continued with the passage.

“I cannot with any of my education, express in words what happened between us last night. I was not myself, lost in the heat of lust so powerful that, even as I write this, I feel my face warm at the memory. I barely recognize the actions of this woman—wanton with desire—that I’ve become. His wicked smile, those haunting eyes, and his hands—oh, his expert and exquisite touch! The rapture of when he took me then and there on his writing desk.”

“Stop.” Nash held up his hand. “This just got weirder.”

Somer searched his face. “Then you recognize the similarities?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, but it makes no sense.”

“There’s more,” she said, and turned the page. “I see him daily. See the way he looks at me, then pretends not to. He is but a year my senior, and I know that his father wishes him to join the cause. There is trouble brewing near Atlanta. His father says that the war requires the good sense of every responsible young southern man.”

Somer glanced up to see Nash looking outside. She continued to read aloud.

“He claims we must be careful, that his father wouldn’t approve. I fear he may be correct. I see how his father looks at me when I am with the younger children. The man, a widower now, has been seeking a new wife. The servants speak amongst themselves and it is rumored that he has found favor with me. I could not, simply could not, marry him. I refuse to be wife number three—nay, any number, as my heart belongs to only one.”

She flipped forward to the entry that had prompted her to head upstairs, stopping just short of climbing into the shower with Nash. Fortunately, a call from Devin had distracted her and she’d found her wits. Somer read on.

“I think about him constantly. How dangerous this game of deception is that we play. The other day, one of the servants nearly caught us together in the bath.”

“What the hell?” Nash looked at her, narrowing his gaze.

Somer had realized the dreamlike state she’d been in just before Devin interrupted. “What happened, did it feel real?”

He stared at her a moment as though trying to make sense of it. “Hell, yeah. It felt real,” he said. “I began to feel dizzy, the heat was suffocating me. I was standing in the shower and…” He looked at her. “It was you, Doc. And it was just as hot as what happened between us in the guest house.” He pushed out of the chair, paced the length of the porch, and blew out an audible sigh. “Hell, Somer, you’re the one with the degree. Can’t you figure this out?” He held his arms out, imploring her for help. “Find some way to fix it?”

Somer closed the journal. Of course, he had every right to be agitated. But he needed to understand they still had control. “Nash, it isn’t as though you’re being possessed by something,” she said with a shrug. “Other than by your own passion.”

He swiped his hand over his mouth, crossed his arms, and looked away. “You’re trying to tell me it’s coincidental that twice”—he held up his fingers— “what has happened to us in reality has already happened in that book?” He shook his head and pinned her with a dubious look. “Lady, I’ve been in a lot of old houses in my day and not once has anything like this happened to me.”

“Nor has anything like this happened to me, Nash. I can only assume it’s because the conditions weren’t the same. You being here. Me being here. The budding attraction that’s started between us.” She shrugged. “I’ve read cases where a restless spirit that has similar unresolved issues at times attaches to that person’s energy.”

He looked over his shoulder. “You mean, like a signal looking for someplace to land?”

She nodded. “It’s possible. I think that Lucille is trying to communicate with us through what she perceives is happening between us.”

He shot her a doubtful look.

“We don’t know what happened to her. Only that she was to have died here on the property. We don’t know what became of her lover. It’s as though she’s been caught between worlds for more than a hundred years.”

“And we can’t just…I dunno, burn the journal or something?”

Somer understood his inability to go beyond reason. “Sometimes things are left unresolved, Nash. We need to understand more about what happened so we can help her.”

He eyed her, then shook his head. “No offense, Doc, but I’m having a hard time believing all this.”

“Denial is absolutely normal,” Somer said as she stood. “I’m going to research—”

He reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her hard against him.

“Nash?” She held his gaze. “What are you doing?”

“A test, Doc.” He lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss started slow, tentatively. He held her face, brushing another kiss over her lips, softly nipping at her lower lip, coaxing her to surrender.

Her fingers curled against his firm chest, then unfurled, sliding to the back of his neck. She met his hungry, demanding kisses, her bones turning to ash at the heat rising inside her.  “No!” She pushed against him, fighting the wild desire to find any flat surface, or sturdy wall—it didn’t matter. This wasn’t her. It was Lucille desperate to be held again. Desperate to be with her lover.

She skirted around him, needing to put some distance between them, and pushed through the French doors. The light misty rain felt good on her face as she stepped away from the house. Turning her face to the heavens, she let the rain soothe her flushed skin. Eyes closed, she debated what to do, where to go. A hand grabbed her arm and she was spun around to face Nash.

He peered at her. “What are you running away from? If this isn’t—if I’m not what you want, then say so. But don’t kiss me like that and not expect me to react.”

Raindrops rested on her lashes. She blinked to clear her vision. “That’s why I left. I don’t want your reaction.”

His brows knit in confusion, then he framed her face and gently kissed her. “Tell me you don’t feel something,” he challenged.

“I do, but is it real? Or is it her…Lucille, prompting this?”

Nash studied her before he answered. “Look, I know we’ve only just met. But right now, looking at you with those damn sexy glasses”—he shook his head— “I’m lost, Somer. I don’t know what’s going on here any more than you do.” His confusion was the same as hers, but he spoke from his heart. “I think it’s worth finding out.”

Somer searched his eyes. Her entire life had been dedicated to believing in what most people considered impossible. Why, then, couldn’t she believe in what was standing right in front of her?

She grabbed his face, and he met her mouth in a fierce need. His hands snaked beneath her now-sodden shirt. In the next moment, she found herself in his arms as he strode through the sun porch and headed directly for the stairs. Somer looped her arms around his neck. “How very Rhett Butler of you, Mr. Walker.”

He paused long enough to offer her a kiss and she thought they might not make it beyond the curved stairway. He strode into what had been Lucille’s room and dropped her to her feet beside the bed. “This is me, Somer,” he said. “Tell me to stop and I will.” He held her gaze as he unbuttoned her shirt and drew it off her shoulders. His amber gaze melted her fears; the light brush of his fingers down her cheek sent her body aflame. Smoky desire flickered in his dark gaze. He kissed her forehead, following to her temple, her cheek, his gaze roaming over her face as he spoke. “Tell me what you want, darlin’.”

“You, Nash. I want you.”

In the murky darkness, barriers between them were quickly stripped away, left in a heap on the new wooden floor. Somer tossed back the vintage quilt, drawing Nash into bed with her. She relished the weight of him, surrendering to his exploration, his hot breath trailing kisses down her body, the burn of his unshaven cheek against the sensitive flesh between her thighs. Somer gripped the bedsheets as he teased insistently, pleasuring her to the point of torture until, screaming his name, her body shattered in a powerful climax.

A rolling, deep thunder rattled the windows. Bright flashes of lightning illuminated the room. Nash stumbled from the bed, grabbed a foil packet his jeans and quickly set to work sheathing himself, wasting no time returning to her outstretched arms. She welcomed him, determined to stay in control of her senses, to have no doubt that this was very real. That she would remember every moment.

“This”—he pressed deeply— “this is real, Somer.” She met him in a searing kiss, an unspoken declaration that she believed it as much as he did. She held his gaze. People searched a lifetime for true love. Was it possible that fate had brought her here to find hers? She hugged him close, pressing her hands around him, moving down his back, feeling his corded muscles bunching and moving beneath her fingers. Oblivious to the storm, she moved with him, their bodies in perfect syncopation.

“Jesus, Doc,” he breathed. His thrusts quickened. Skating on the edge of her release, she opened her eyes and met the stormy gaze of a young woman, her blonde hair coiffed in a bun at the nape of her neck.

A scream tore from Somer’s throat.

“I’m with you, sweetheart.” Nash quickened his pace.

She pulled him close, clinging possessively to him, her gaze directly in challenge with the specter. “Mine,” she whispered, as a thunder began to roll through her body bringing the impending storm that she had no desire to run from.

“All yours, baby,” Nash repeated, unaware of their uninvited guest.

“Yes,” Somer closed around him, claiming what was hers.

The feminine specter dissolved and, clinging to each other, they rode out the storm together.

***

Nash woke with a start. He’d been in a deep sleep. Looking around, he blinked, realizing he was alone in Lucille’s bedroom. It wasn’t nearly as disturbing when Somer had been snuggled next to him. He didn’t know how long they’d dozed after a second round of lovemaking. She was an amazing lover and, more than once, she’d quizzed him on various current topics, just to be assured that neither was under the influence of restless spirits. They’d lain listening to the rain, talking about mundane things, until both had drifted off to sleep.

Anxious to find her, he got up to dress. As he shoved himself into his jeans, he noted that she’d laid his now dry T-shirt on the end of the bed. He smiled at the disappointing thought that her clothes were gone, which meant she was wearing them again. He picked up his wristwatch off the antique drum table and, much to his surprise, realized it was mid-afternoon. Dazed still from a restful sleep, he paused at the bedroom door and listened for evidence that she might be upstairs. A gentle, steady rain tap-danced on the roof. He heard the front door open, and he walked to the banister overlooking the main floor.

Somer, carrying a tray of crackers, cheese, and a teapot started up the steps. He grinned. “You weren’t beside me when I woke up.”

“Oh, I didn’t see you standing there. Good, you’re awake. We have visitors stopping by soon.” She smiled and he swore the sun had sliced through the dank skies outside.

“Visitors?” He came down the stairs and waited until she’d placed the tray on the table before putting his arms around her. “I was thinking that maybe we’d spend the rest of this rainy day upstairs.” He pressed his face into the warm curve of her neck. Yeah, he could get used to this.

“I’m not sure that Lucille would approve.”

Nash straightened. “She’s not invited.” He chuckled.

Somer didn’t.

“I saw her, Nash.” She turned in his arms and looked up at him. “She was watching us.”

He couldn’t mask his skepticism. “Honey, that’s kinky, even for a ghost.”

“You didn’t hear me scream?” she asked.

A slow grin crawled up the side of his mouth. “Well, I did, but I thought you were just enjoying yourself.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

He saw lust flash in those sexy, violet-blue eyes and knew that, in part, he was right.

She sighed. “I was…I am.” She closed her eyes as though her brain was—

“Befuddled?” he asked with a grin. He had to admit, the idea that he’d befuddled her brain was kind of sexy.

“Listen. I understand you Texas boys like to think you’re God’s gift to women.”

He raised a brow.

“What I’m trying to say is—”

“You’ve had better?” he asked, truly curious, because that little episode earlier had pretty much rocked his world…amongst other things.

She opened her mouth to speak and he tugged her against him. He felt her body soften to his. Yes, indeed, this Texas boy had struck gold in this bonny lass from Scotland via Salem, Massachusetts.

“No,” she answered, not meeting his gaze.

He tilted her chin and smiled. “What was that, Doc? I didn’t hear you?”

She searched his eyes. “What do you want to hear? That you’re the sexiest man I’ve ever met? Okay, sure. That the mere thought of you arouses me? Okay, that, too. That I can’t wait to feel your naked body next to mine again? Okay, you got me.”

It was a lot to take in all at once. He blinked, then narrowed his gaze on her. “For starters, is that true? Because”—he held her gaze— “except for the sexiest man part, it is for me.”

Her watched her swallow, her eyes drifting to his mouth, which damn near did him in. “Somer, stop looking at me like that,” he warned before he locked his lips to hers. He was thoroughly entertaining the thought of sweeping her back up those stairs when there was a knock on the front door.

“That’s probably Savannah.” She ducked beneath his arm and hurried to answer the door.

Savannah?

“We’re so glad you could take the time to stop by,” Somer said, pulling one side of the double-wide doors open.

“Hi, you must be Dr. Ingler?” A lovely, petite woman stepped in first and held out her hand to Somer.

“I feel as though I know you so well from our phone conversation earlier,” Somer responded to the woman.

Nash walked up behind Somer and offered his hand. “Nash Walker, the new owner of Evermore.” He shook the woman’s hand and followed through making eye contact with the formidable-looking man behind her.

“Patrick O’Rourke,” he said, gripping Nash’s hand briefly. It was evident he was already checking out the place. He met Nash’s curious gaze.

“I’ve been wanting to meet Evermore’s new caretaker.”

“She does have quite a history, so I’ve been reading,” Nash said. He studied the man’s keen assessment of everything around him. Clearly military through-and-through—marine, possibly special ops, if he were to hazard a guess. He’d had a friend just after college who had served in Iraq. Nash knew the demeanor. And from the no-nonsense look in his eye, it looked like he’d seen some action. “Well, come on in. I’ll get us something cool to drink while Som—Dr. Ingler fills you in on what we found.”

Nash fixed a pitcher of sweet tea and brought it out to the sun porch. By the look on Somer’s face, the three were already deep into stories about the house.

Somer looked at Nash as he sat in the chair next to her. “Mr. O’Rourke—”

“Please, it’s Patrick.” The man smiled and helped himself to a glass of tea.

“Patrick,” Somer continued, “used to live here as a boy. His grandfather was Evermore’s caretaker.”

“Did he have something to do with that garden maze?” Nash asked. “It’s a beautiful one. I just need to find someone with the skills to take care of it.”

Patrick nodded. “Let me talk to a couple of people. I’m sure we can find you someone.”

Nash nodded, raising his glass to Patrick. Patrick responded in kind. He liked this guy.

“He was explaining that even as a child, there were spirits living here. He mentioned a little boy he used to play with when he was little,” Somer said.

Nash’s gaze darted to Somer’s. He hadn’t fully wrapped his head around one ghost wandering his property. Now there were supposedly two? His skepticism—it was quickly becoming apparent as the odd-man out on all things paranormal— could well be a façade for his denial. “Really? Uh, nope, no little boys running around.”

Somer got a quizzical look on her face, then pulled out a ribbon she’d been using as a bookmark.

It garnered Patrick’s immediate attention. “Do you mind is I ask where you got that?”

Somer held the length of taupe-colored ribbon with two thin red stripes down either side out for his inspection. “It didn’t occur to me until now that it might have some kind of connection to Evermore. A little boy—a spirit, actually—left it in my room. Do you know what it is?” she asked.

Nash listened, feeling as though he’d just entered an episode of an old Twilight Zone episode where everyone but him knew what was going on.

“When I was young, this little boy would leave this very style of ribbon in various spots around the property. I’d found it in once in one of the storage cabinets.” He shrugged. “Maybe left by a previous owner. There was a whole bolt of it. It was our secret code for where to meet in specific places.” His expression was thoughtful, but his smile sad. “There must be hundreds of these left around this house, on this property. Where’d you say you say this came from?”

“At the Hotel Monteleone,” Somer answered.

Patrick looked puzzled as he held the ribbon.

“Do you suppose there’s a reason he wanted me to bring the ribbon here?”

Patrick shrugged. “It’s possible. After I got older, I didn’t see him as much. It’s almost as though he’d served a purpose and moved on.” He stared at the ribbon, then looked up at Savannah. “Until you came hoping for a connection to me. Then he came back.” Patrick looked at Somer. “Do you believe that spirits can move from place to place, Dr. Somers?”

Somer smiled. “I’ve heard of such things. That certainly would explain how people claim to see spirits of people in various places. In my line of work, I’ve learned anything is possible.”

“And this little boy knew that you were researching this house?” he asked.

Somer appeared surprised, as though remembering something. “I came back to my room after being out in the Quarter”—she turned to Nash— “the day we bumped into each other on the square.” She looked at Patrick. “When I returned to my room, my laptop was left open on the bed, as though it had been used.”

“Technologically savvy ghosts, Somer?” Nash was starting to ease into the “restless energies” idea, but ghosts using laptops? “Come on,” he said with a chuckle.

No one else laughed.

Savannah, who’d been quiet throughout most of the conversation, spoke, her quiet, southern accent commanding the room. “It sounds to me like this little boy wanted to make a connection to Evermore.” She looked from Somer to Nash. “When I did the investigation with PROOF, I saw the little boy Patrick played with. I was able to convince him that he needed to move on, that his mama was waiting for him on the other side.” Savannah reached for her husband’s hand.

Nash was touched by the powerful love he saw between them. “Do you mind if I ask why you chose to investigate Evermore? Was it just coincidence when you were working with PROOF?” Nash asked.

Savannah paused a moment, as though the memories might be difficult. “It’s a complicated story, but the reason I got involved in the investigation was to see if I could find a connection to Patrick after he’d died.”

Nash glanced at Somer. She placed her hand on his arm as she listened to Patrick.

“In short, I was taken captive when I discovered that my commanding officer was playing both sides to his advantage in the war. I was taken captive and a ruse was planted to make it appear I’d died in battle. My family and friends were told I’d been killed.”

“How awful that must have been for both of you,” Somer said.

“I was desperate. I don’t know what I would have done without the support of friends.” She looked at Patrick. “Our good friends.” She squeezed his hand, and then refocused on Somer and Nash. “So, we’re in agreement then that Lucille is trying to communicate in some way, for some reason, correct?” she asked.

Somer nodded and handed her the journal. “I agree, and after reading some of these passages, I’m even more convinced.” Somer looked from one to the other seated around her. “If the restless energies here are trying to communicate with those with similar issues, it would make sense then—the connection you two have to this house. You came here looking for Patrick and spoke to the little boy. Lucille is trapped here, between this world and the next because she’s looking for her lover. Maybe the little boy was hoping the ribbon would connect us all to Evermore for whatever reasons.”

Savannah glanced at her husband. “When I worked with PROOF, I remember they found evidence of a young woman on an EVP recording. All they could make out was ‘my true love.’”

Nash glanced at Somer who seemed to be soaking up every word.

She pointed to the journal she’d handed to Savannah. “We found this beneath the floorboards in the bedroom upstairs. Lucille, who my research indicates was once a resident tutor here for a widowed man with younger children from his second wife. He also had an older son, a year older than Lucille, who lived here, too. She writes at great length, talking about her secret lover, and then suddenly the entries stop, as though she’d quit writing. There’s nothing about what happened to her lover, or to her.”

“The story as it’s told here is that she died suddenly,” Nash said. “Here at Evermore.”

Patrick pushed from his chair and looked at his wife. “Would you mind, sweetheart, if I take a look around while you two ladies discuss the journal?” He looked at Nash. “I’d love to see the place. I haven’t been here in a while.”

Nash was all too happy to oblige. “Sure, come on. I’ll show you what we’re doing upstairs.” Grateful not to have to listen to any more ghost banter, he looked forward to talking with Patrick, hoping to gain some perspective on the house when he lived there.

Nash followed him up the staircase and into the large room flanked on either side by doublewide pocket doors leading to two massive bedroom suites. At the far end of the room were another set of doors leading to the glassed-in sun porch along the back wall of the house. “In the original blueprints, this was the main level of the house. The ground level was used for storage and food. I surmise flooding from the river and security would have been the primary reasons at the time. I know previous owners had discussed—even drawn up plans—to chop up the rooms, make them smaller and add hallways to make it easier for tourists, but I’m glad they chose instead to create a living space downstairs and leave this as it was originally designed.”

He slid open the doors at the back of the room and followed Patrick out onto the sparse glassed-in sun porch where they’d set up their table saws and extra lumber. At each end of the sun porch were two smaller rooms. In recent years, both had been converted to full bathrooms that opened directly into each bedroom.

“It looks like someone added another bathroom where the second cabinet room used to be.” Patrick glanced at Nash. “When I was little, the cabinet room on the east side was nothing more than a giant linen closet for cleaning supplies. I used to hide in there when I didn’t want to be found.”

Patrick took his time, now and again touching a wall, gliding his hand along a newly polished pocket door leading between rooms.

“Bet you have a lot of great memories growing up here as a kid,” Nash commented as they stood on the back sun porch overlooking the garden.

“Some, yeah.” He looked at Nash. “My grandfather took care of her like she was a princess. I never really understood why he connected so well here—more so than anywhere else.”

Nash shrugged. “Folks took ownership in what they did for a living. Pride in hard work meant more to some people back then than now, unfortunately.”

Patrick narrowed his gaze on Nash. “You see her the way my grandfather did.

He nodded. “I have a great respect for these grand dames,” Nash answered, walking up beside Patrick. “She’s weathered a lot of storms in her day.” He chuckled and glanced at his guest. “You know, if walls could talk, right?”

Patrick smiled, then looked at Nash. “Maybe that’s what you’ve been experiencing.”

Nash hadn’t considered how simple his comment seemed. “Do you think it’s possible she’s trying to get some message across to us?”

Patrick grinned. “You’re asking the guy who played with a ghost when I was little, Nash.”

“Valid point.”

Patrick shrugged. “Here’s another perspective, and sometimes that’s all it takes for things to start to make sense.” He pointed to the old oaks standing proud beyond the garden. “There’s an old legend about a well on this property. It’s out there somewhere—maybe it’s been filled in, who knows. When I was around thirteen, I was dared to look into the well by a buddy of mine at midnight on Halloween.” Patrick glanced at Nash. “The only time it worked, apparently, and you’d see the face of your true love.”

It sounded very much like the stunts he and his friends did on Halloween, along with visiting old farmhouses and scaring the girls on the cheerleading team. Nash eyed him. “And?”

Patrick got a strange smile on his face as he pulled out his wallet. “Oh, I saw a face. That night, I went home and sketched it in as much detail as I could remember. And I kept it right in my wallet, showing it to no one until the day I met Savannah.” He smiled and handed the delicate, worn notepaper to Nash.

It was the spitting image of his wife, Savannah. He handed it back. “Whoa, that’s quite a—”

“You’re probably going to say coincidence?” Patrick chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t happen to agree.” He glanced at Nash. “All I’m saying is, I’ve grown up here. Have a lot of family living around here still. And, like you, we have a healthy respect for the rich history that’s all but rooted in the ground.”

Nash listened to the man, his need to clinically justify what he couldn’t understand beginning to dissolve in light of the truth—even if he couldn’t explain it. He remembered Somer’s gentle reprimand to his skepticism. These things do not need your permission or your belief in them in order to exist.

“Whatever is happening, is happening for a reason. Maybe it’s the past needing to right itself. Maybe it’s the present trying to find a connection to the past.” Patrick shook his head. “I don’t know. But if you live around here for very long, you best get used to welcoming those who consider you as their guest.”

Long after the couple left, Nash chewed on Patrick’s words. Needing a change of scenery, he suggested they try a quaint Cajun restaurant he knew of down the road. After a short wait, they were seated in a quiet corner of the outdoor patio. He ordered a Cajun sampler plate and a couple of frosty beers.

Nash picked apart the steaming crawfish. He licked his fingers, missing home at moments like this. His mom’s gumbo was heaven-sent. “How’s the gator?” He was impressed that Somer found the new cuisine an adventure. He liked her willingness to try new things. He liked her inquisitive nature, her kind heart. He liked a lot about her, in fact.

“What is it they say?” She held up a bite and fed it to him. “Tastes like chicken.”

He took a pull on his bottle of beer. The icy brew tasted good sliding down his parched throat. “Patrick and Savannah seem like nice people.” He eyed her, deciding to tell her about what their guest had told him. “Patrick seems to agree that something–or someone—in the house is trying to contact us.”

She smiled. “Gosh, that sounds vaguely familiar.” The not-so-subtle reminder was clear that she’d expressed the same idea. Somer held his gaze. “While you were showing Patrick around, Savannah made a suggestion. But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

Nash wiped his mouth and sat back in his chair, his gaze resting on the beautiful woman who by fate—or magic, or whatever you wanted to label it—had shown up on his doorstep less than forty-eight hours ago and had already managed to capture his heart. “Listen, Doc, forty-eight hours ago I didn’t even know you. And look at us now, sitting here talking about ghosts, sharing a bed and meals, and talking like we’ve known each other for years.” He dropped his napkin on the table and took another long swig of his beer. “I don’t think there’s much you could say to me that at this juncture that I’d not at least consider.” Yeah, so, maybe he was being overly dramatic. It sure as hell wasn’t like him to jump in feet first, especially when it came to women. Yet, the truth was, he hadn’t been looking and then she was there—this strong, beautiful, smart, woman with the sexiest damn eyes he’d ever seen—on a crowded street in the middle of the French Quarter. He chuckled at the memory of that moment. “It just occurred to me, I still owe you a coffee.”

She laughed, and the sound of it made him smile. “Oh, I think you’ve more than made up for that, cowboy.”

“Yeah?” He grinned, searching her eyes, and debated finding a nice little secluded dirt road on the way back to the house. “Sorry,” he said. “Got side-tracked.”

She held up another piece of gator for him and he held her gaze as he closed his mouth around her fingertips. “Yeah, I just bet you did. But do you want to hear what Savannah had to say?”

He sat back and nodded. “Yes, I do. Go ahead. I’m listening.” Mostly. Part of him wanted to help her, part wanted to find that dirt road, while another part of him secretly feared that once the mystery of this house was solved, she might head back to Salem. She hadn’t yet made any declarations to him about her feelings.

“There’s a woman who lives in the bayou.” Somer watched him.

That caught his attention. “The bayou? Like cypress trees, gators, creepy shacks—that bayou?” This wasn’t sounding like something he wanted to delve into. He knew little about the sort of cultural beliefs in voodoo down here, but he was more than willing to let them do their thing, and he’d steer clear and do his thing.

Somer sensed his concern. She shook her head. “You can relax. She’s more of a healer, using hoodoo magic, not voodoo. Her abilities include visions, reading tea leaves, tarot, that type of thing. Savannah indicated the woman comes from a long line of seers on the matriarchal side of her family. She happens to be a good friend to an old hoodoo woman by the name of Nana Fontenot. She said that it was Nana who once predicted that she’d one day meet a warrior who would be her husband.”

“That describes Patrick O’Rourke,” Nash replied.

“She’d have suggested Nana, but the old woman has apparently been busy with folks still asking for her help in finding their loved ones after Katrina.”

Nash scratched the back of neck. “Okay, well, I’m good with whomever you think can help us.”

“She mentioned that folks around here call her Auntie Iris. Apparently a God-fearing woman with a belief that her powers are a gift to help others.”

“Auntie Iris,” Nash said with a smile. “Kind of conjures up images of that little woman in Poltergeist.”

Somer raised a brow. “Those eejits should’ve known better than to build over a burial ground.” She offered a disgusted look.

He couldn’t argue with that. Especially not with this woman. Ah, how interesting his life had gotten in forty-eight hours. He couldn’t wait to spring news of Somer on his mom.

“I’ve been thinking about this long and hard, and—”

He gave her a wicked grin. “Great minds think alike.” He waggled his brows. Maybe the dirt road idea wasn’t out the window just yet.

“This—meaning our situation with Lucille.” She shook her head. “I really believe there’s a correlation to all of this—possibly including Patrick and Savannah. Maybe the little boy was eluding to Savannah searching for Patrick—how similar their stories are. Savannah just couldn’t give up hope that Patrick was still alive, or at least able to reach her. Maybe Lucille isn’t willing to give up until she finds her true love?”

Nash leaned forward, taking her hand. “This means a lot to you, helping Lucille. Why?”

Somer looked down at her plate, then sighed. “Maybe because I understand the uncertainty she feels. It’s clear she gave everything to this man. She believed she’d one day make a life with him. And then suddenly the entries end, she dies, and no one seems to know what became of her lover.” She met Nash’s gaze.

He nodded. “I understand.” He didn’t know how it involved him, but it was clear the good ghost doctor had been burnt somewhere along the way. “Okay, I’m excited. Let’s do this.” Oddly, he meant it as he reached for her hand and gave her more than his smile.