have stayed with him. After that threat from Mark…
It had been such spoiled-juvenile bluster. I’m gonna tell my grandfather that you’re trespassing out here, and he’ll call the sheriff to put you in jail.
Reece, dripping wet, eyes huge and still shaking from her near-drowning, had gotten in his face. You say a word, and I’ll tell him you tried to kill me.
Mark had put on a good show of bravado— He’d never believe you over me. He loves me, not you!— but his voice had quavered and a look of pure panic had come into his eyes before he’d run off through the woods.
None of them had believed he would really tell, or have the nerve to confront either Glen or Jones again.
The whisper of cushions and a grunt from Mick drew his attention back to Reece, shifting to a more comfortable position. As soon as she settled again, so did the dog, looking utterly content.
“Did I mention that I had a visit from a ghost tonight?” she asked, the lighter tone in her voice signaling the end of the other subject.
“It must have slipped your mind. What happened?”
“Just light. Footsteps. A book moved from where I’d left it a few moments before.” She paused. “A note written on the mirror telling me to leave.”
“Not a very friendly ghost, huh.”
She shrugged carelessly, though Jones wasn’t too convinced by it. “Maybe he doesn’t like sharing my room with me. Or maybe he thinks if I couldn’t bother to visit while he was alive, I’m not welcome now that he’s dead.”
“He? Your grandfather?”
She shrugged. “I smelled tobacco. Though I doubt he’s the only Howard who liked his cigars.”
The presence at the creek that morning had smelled of tobacco, too. Arthur Howard had dominated the place while he lived. It was no surprise he’d hang around now.
“You planning to spend the night out here instead of inside with him?”
She made a pfft sound. “If Grandmother had a chaise with a nice thick cushion on it… He didn’t waste any time on me when he was alive. I doubt he’ll give me much more of his attention now.”
“That would be my guess.” Jones yawned, then nudged Mick. “Come on, boy, I need to get some sleep.”
He half expected the dog to open one eye, give him a blank look, then close it again. Instead, Mick stepped lightly to the ground, stretched, then trotted for the cottage. Reece laughed at his fickleness. “Yeah, good night to you, too, Mick. You’re welcome for all the scratching.”
“Sitting with you is comfortable,” Jones said as he stood. “Stretching out on the bed, though, is his idea of the way to spend a night. See you tomorrow.”
He crossed the road into the shadows that hugged the other side, listening for some sound that Reece was going inside, too. It didn’t come. When he stepped inside the cottage, he turned back to fasten the screen door and saw her still sitting there.
He intended to lock up, strip down to his boxers and crawl back into bed, but the sight of her held him there. She seemed so alone and vulnerable. She was alone: no family that counted, no man to stand beside her, just friends back in Louisiana.
That wasn’t too different from his life, the cynic in him scoffed, and he wasn’t alone or vulnerable.
But no one had abandoned him. No one had ever wanted him dead.
After a few minutes, she stood and, like Mick, stretched. Her back arched, her breasts pushing against her thin shirt, the hem of the shirt rising up over her middle. She held the position long enough to make his mouth dry, then straightened, looking at the house for a time before finally walking to the door. She really didn’t like the place. But why should she, when all the memories were bad?
He stood there in the dark, just watching, until she disappeared inside. A moment later the patio light came on again. Soon after that, a shadow appeared in the only room lit up, then those lights went out, too.
Rubbing at the unease cramping his neck, Jones closed and locked
It had been such spoiled-juvenile bluster. I’m gonna tell my grandfather that you’re trespassing out here, and he’ll call the sheriff to put you in jail.
Reece, dripping wet, eyes huge and still shaking from her near-drowning, had gotten in his face. You say a word, and I’ll tell him you tried to kill me.
Mark had put on a good show of bravado— He’d never believe you over me. He loves me, not you!— but his voice had quavered and a look of pure panic had come into his eyes before he’d run off through the woods.
None of them had believed he would really tell, or have the nerve to confront either Glen or Jones again.
The whisper of cushions and a grunt from Mick drew his attention back to Reece, shifting to a more comfortable position. As soon as she settled again, so did the dog, looking utterly content.
“Did I mention that I had a visit from a ghost tonight?” she asked, the lighter tone in her voice signaling the end of the other subject.
“It must have slipped your mind. What happened?”
“Just light. Footsteps. A book moved from where I’d left it a few moments before.” She paused. “A note written on the mirror telling me to leave.”
“Not a very friendly ghost, huh.”
She shrugged carelessly, though Jones wasn’t too convinced by it. “Maybe he doesn’t like sharing my room with me. Or maybe he thinks if I couldn’t bother to visit while he was alive, I’m not welcome now that he’s dead.”
“He? Your grandfather?”
She shrugged. “I smelled tobacco. Though I doubt he’s the only Howard who liked his cigars.”
The presence at the creek that morning had smelled of tobacco, too. Arthur Howard had dominated the place while he lived. It was no surprise he’d hang around now.
“You planning to spend the night out here instead of inside with him?”
She made a pfft sound. “If Grandmother had a chaise with a nice thick cushion on it… He didn’t waste any time on me when he was alive. I doubt he’ll give me much more of his attention now.”
“That would be my guess.” Jones yawned, then nudged Mick. “Come on, boy, I need to get some sleep.”
He half expected the dog to open one eye, give him a blank look, then close it again. Instead, Mick stepped lightly to the ground, stretched, then trotted for the cottage. Reece laughed at his fickleness. “Yeah, good night to you, too, Mick. You’re welcome for all the scratching.”
“Sitting with you is comfortable,” Jones said as he stood. “Stretching out on the bed, though, is his idea of the way to spend a night. See you tomorrow.”
He crossed the road into the shadows that hugged the other side, listening for some sound that Reece was going inside, too. It didn’t come. When he stepped inside the cottage, he turned back to fasten the screen door and saw her still sitting there.
He intended to lock up, strip down to his boxers and crawl back into bed, but the sight of her held him there. She seemed so alone and vulnerable. She was alone: no family that counted, no man to stand beside her, just friends back in Louisiana.
That wasn’t too different from his life, the cynic in him scoffed, and he wasn’t alone or vulnerable.
But no one had abandoned him. No one had ever wanted him dead.
After a few minutes, she stood and, like Mick, stretched. Her back arched, her breasts pushing against her thin shirt, the hem of the shirt rising up over her middle. She held the position long enough to make his mouth dry, then straightened, looking at the house for a time before finally walking to the door. She really didn’t like the place. But why should she, when all the memories were bad?
He stood there in the dark, just watching, until she disappeared inside. A moment later the patio light came on again. Soon after that, a shadow appeared in the only room lit up, then those lights went out, too.
Rubbing at the unease cramping his neck, Jones closed and locked
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