Impatiently he tapped the saddle with the reigns. "Lady, next time you can explain to the sheriff. Now get off my property."
Rachael was impressed with his self-control. Her little voice told her Abigail Hanson was extremely lucky woman to be able to leave under her own power. There was more involved in this situation than just the sale of a house.
Furious, Abigail threw the house keys in the dirt. "I’ll drive you back to the office." She turned heel to toe and marched to the sedan, yanking the door open and slamming it shut behind her.
The house seemed to call her; it was lonely. She picked up the keys, but felt reluctant to turn them over to their rightful owner. It wasn’t fair. They wanted to destroy it; he refused to live in it. It would be a perfect home for her and her feline kids. Looking up at the figure in the saddle, she hesitated. The keys were warm and comfortable in her hand.
"You’ll miss your ride." His voice held a hint of amusement. "And it’s a very long walk. Especially in those shoes.""
"I’d like to talk to you about the house."
"It’s not for sale." The harshness quickly returned.
Nervously, she sucked the front of her teeth. "It’s lonely."
Startled, his left eyebrow arched and he leaned forward in the saddle; it squeaked beneath him. "Aren’t you afraid of devils?"
"In the Wicca religion there are no devils."
"Are you sure?"
She looked up directly into the blueness. They were warm, yet distant, unreachable to the mere mortal. "Positive."
So began the battle of wills. He was trying to impress her; she refused to look away. His pupils narrowed, exposing a narrow band of brown. She leaned forward, placing her open palm on the mare’s neck. The muscles beneath quivered. The tail switched. A hoof stomped impatiently.
A fly landed on his cheek. Involuntarily the muscles twitched: he didn’t blink. She reached up and brushed it away.
Abigail blew the car’s horn. The horse snorted and danced away from the disturbance. Rachael jumped back. The moment was broken; the duel was a draw. The horn blew again, a long blast of frustration. The horse reared. He fought for control of the frightened animal both with the reins and with soothing words. Rachael dashed to the car. Through the open window, she grabbed Abigail’s hands and yanked them away from the steering wheel.
"You trying to kill us?"
"Get in the car!" Abigail snapped.
"Not even if my only other option was walking barefoot on broken glass!"
Abigail pulled her arms free, one bouncing off the back of the seat, the other banged against the inside of the door. Quickly she threw the car into reverse. "Find your own way back!" The wheels spun, kicking up dirt and gravel as the car shot backward out of the driveway and disappeared down the road in a huff of dust.
Coughing, Rachael tried to wave the dust away from her face. I’d done it again, she thought, me and my mouth. It truly was going to be a long walk back. Hitchhiking at my age, she laughed at herself, some day I’ll learn. But obviously not today.
The horse had calmed and he had dismounted. Gently he ran his hands down one of her legs then moved on to another, checking for injuries. He wasn’t as tall as she expected; slender build, but not so much he didn’t fill those jeans quite nicely.
Now, now she chided herself. Nearly run over. Finding herself in the middle of a holy war, deserted, and still having lusty thoughts. She smiled, that’s what happens when you approach your sexual prime. Pushing the stray strands back over her head and tucking them behind her ear, she crossed the distance between them. "Is she okay?"
Without looking up, he crouched. With a gentle tap of his finger, the mare allowed him to pick up her leg and he examined the hoof. Resting it against his thigh, he reached into his back pocket and removed a jackknife. Opening it, he used the larger blade to remove a stone jammed into the hoof. Carefully he cleaned away the remaining dirt, inspecting for damage. He smiled and slowly returned the foot to the ground. Experimentally she tested it by shifting her weight on to it. She stomped twice and her ears went forward. "Good girl." He straightened, patting the back of her neck.
Rachael released the breath, she hadn’t realized she was holding. "Is she okay?" She repeated.
His hands still holding the bridle, he turned to face her. "Seems so. How ’bout you?"
"Dusty."
He laughed and offered his hand. "Thanks. Kevin Mitchellson."
Accepting it, she stepped closer. "Rachael Franklin."
"New in town?"
"Month and a half."
"Why here?"
"I’ll answer your question if you answer mine." She indicated the house and the settling dust leading down the driveway.
"Long story."
"It’ll give me a chance to talk you out of a long walk."
"I’ll be having one of those as well. Belle has a bruised foot." Smiling he removed his hat and pushed back his auburn hair. It was damp and thinning at the temples. "This was my Grandmother’s home. She built it when my Grandfather died and my Father took over the lumberyard. She didn’t think it was right we live in a small house and she live alone in the big one. But she didn’t want to leave the grounds. She designed it herself."
"She used Feng Shui."
With a flick of his wrist, he snapped his hat back on. "You know the terminology. I’ll give you that." He turned on his toes and took the reins, heading toward the path he arrived on. "No comment. Have a nice walk."
"No comment. What does that mean?"
He stopped. "It means. You’re not the first reporter who’s tried to get me to admit my Father committed matricide then suicide."
"Wait."
"Why?"
"I’m not a reporter."
"Then why are you so interested?"
She searched for a reason to give. She found none. "I don’t have a reason beyond I‘m looking for a home. Before you ask. I don’t know why I like it. I just do." She hesitated briefly. "I’m not looking for trouble. I suspect I’ll get that when my bookstore, Dragon’s Den, opens on Beltane."
He halted in his tracks. Slowly turning, a smile replaced the sneer. "Good thing you didn’t mention it earlier. No telling what she’d done to the owner of the new devil store."
"Your sarcasm isn’t appreciated." Angrily Rachael decided she preferred to walk. She turned and towards the driveway.
"Where you going?"
"For a walk."
"It’s five miles. But only a half mile to the main house. I’ll drive you."
"Not enough room for me and that red wood size chip on your shoulder."
"Ouch!"
"Have a good life." She continued down the driveway.
"Don’t you want to talk about the house?"
It was her turn to suddenly stop. She pivoted on her toes, placing her hands firmly on her hips. "It’s not for sale."
He shrugged.
"Jerk me around and you won’t like the results."
"Do what you will, but harm none." He countered.
"So your Grandmother taught you."
"Who taught you?"
A breeze blew her bangs across her face; she tucked them back behind her ear. "None of your business."
"Now who has a chip?" Leading the horse, he walked closer. Would you like to see the inside? You might not even like it."
"Been there; done that."
"You got in?" The surprise in his voice raised the tone an octave.
She nodded.
"You lie!"
"That’s it!" She spun on her toes and marched down the driveway.
"Wait! Wait a minute!"
The horse whined. From behind, she heard the scuffle of boot and hoof dancing around each other. He swore. The horse snorted. Running feet came toward her. He grabbed her from behind. Her self-defense training kicked in and he went flying into the dirt, landing face first. Smugly she stepped over him. He caught her ankle. She stopped.
"Let go of me." The anger welled up in her. His moods changed faster than anybody she’d ever met and frankly, she wasn’t inclined to indulge him. "Or you won’t like the results."
He spit out the dirt and blood. His lip continued to bleed. "Are you always so violent?"
"I don’t believe in violence."
"Is that why I have a bloody lip?" Without releasing her ankle, he sat up, sliding his hold up her right leg. "I just want to know how you got in."
"The front door." She punctuated each word with anger. "We did have a key."
"Did Savannah go in?"
"No. She wouldn’t."
"Aren’t you curious why?" He released her ankle to wipe away a trickle of blood from the center of his bottom lip. "Only three of us have been able to go in since the coroner took Grandmother‘s body out. Myself and two of her closest friends. The house wouldn’t let anybody else in. Dad even tried breaking a window. The rock bounced off, nearly hitting him in the head."
"Maybe it doesn’t like bullies."
"Seems to like you well enough."
"I’m not a--" She stopped in mid sentence, realizing her words didn’t match her actions. "Sorry. I’m not usually so aggressive."
"Really?" His eyebrow arched. "You seem so well practiced."
Nervously, Rachael sucked the front of her teeth. She took the class for a reason and his behavior was it. She was sorry for hurting him, but didn’t regret protecting herself. You simply don’t invade a person’s body space without an invitation. She offered her hand to him. "Let me make amends."
"He wiped his lip with the sleeve of his shirt. "Will you help or hurt?"
"Who grabbed who first?"
"Point."
"I’m not keeping score." She again extended her hand. "Are you?"
Taking her hand, he pulled her to the ground. "I’d call us even."
Rachael lay on her side next to him, admiring his profile. With it tied back, you couldn’t tell how long his hair really was from the front. She guessed it fell past his shoulders. His features were angular. She thought he was attractive in a direct sort of way. She liked his ability to maintain eye contact without being intrusive or threatening.
Kevin looked down at her. At first, he cocked his head to the side. An expression of wonder crossed his face, adding a new dimension of light to his eyes. He blinked and smiled as his shield rose.
She didn’t know if he was protecting himself or hiding behind them. But what did he have to hide? For a moment, the battle of wills threatened a rematch, but only for that instant.
He gently clasped her hand and brought it to his lips, carefully wiping away the blood first. "I’m Kevin Mitchellson."
"I’m Rachael Davis Franklin. I’d like to buy your house."
"I’d love to sell it to you. But it’s not up to me."
"What was all that before?"
Laughing, he released her and fell back into the dust. "Oh, legally it’s mine. I pay the taxes. I still come twice a week to water the plants. Occasionally I even dust. But it’s not really mine."
"Unique perspective. Very Native American."
"With this hair color?" Kevin lifted himself onto his elbow. "What brought you to Coyote Springs?"
"A dart."
"A dart?"
Sitting up, Rachael pushed the stray strands back over her forehead, once again tucking them behind her left ear. "I was born sixty miles from here. I wasn’t happy. Family stuff. I worked my way though college at a small shop making incense and essential oils. It was owned by Beverly Franklin. She was like a mother to me. I earned my MA in business."
"She was your teacher?"
"Beverly taught me more than the arts. She taught me unconditional love. Because of her, I was able to release my anger and guilt, but mostly my fear."
"Fear?" He leaned closer, resting his folded arms on his bent knees. "You don’t seem to be afraid of anything."
"Even as a child, I saw things others didn’t. Now I know how to deal with them."
"Grandmother taught me how to use my gifts. She was an herbalist and a healer. She cared about everyone."
"Beverly never turns anyone away." Rachael smiled. "I’ll be carrying her line of products. She’ll also be teaching a class this fall. Anyway to shorten a long story. I won a lottery, which provided the prosperity for the store." She hesitated. "I asked the Goddess where she wanted me to go, then threw the dart. This is where it landed. Two out of three. Three out of five."
"Didn’t want to come back. Got the picture."
"Too close to the family."
Slightly nodding, he stood and offered her his hand. "I understand. Completely. If it wasn’t for Grandmother and my promise to care for the mill’s workers, I’d boogied on out of here long ago."
"It’s amazing what we’ll promise in the name of love." She nodded, but stood on her own and started brushing the dust from her jeans. "We all have free will."
"In any case. On to the next step."
"Which is?"
"You opening the front door and going in by yourself."
"Any particular reason?"
"Humor me."
Rachael held out her open palm. "Keys please. Unless I’m suppose to use open-says-me."
"Good trick if you can do it." He reached into his shirt pocket, taking out the keys the agent threw to the ground. He held them out. "If that doesn’t work, use these."
She took them. For a moment, their fingers touched. A shock went through her. It wasn’t sexual exactly, but the strong electrical impulse of his life force. It wasn’t light; it wasn’t dark. The color was gray. At sometime, he had been tempted, leaving footprints on the dark path. But what or when, she couldn’t read. She curled her short fingers around the keys and walked around him toward the house.
Climbing the front steps, she wondered why here, why him? She opened the screen door and inserted the key. It turned easily. The door swung open. Suddenly she felt nervous; more than she knew was at stake
She stepped in, closing the door behind her. It still smelled musty. No not musty, but the dusty settleness of a lonely house. The sun cast patterned shadows of the lace curtains across the floor and up the opposite wall. Plants were everywhere. Most needed transplanting. On the table in the corner, an asparagus fern had begun to wilt as the roots cried for more room. Rachael remembered seeing larger pots and soil in the kitchen. She picked up the fern and carried it down the hall to the back of the house.
The kitchen was cooler and darker than the more sun exposed front of the house. It was also the definitely heart of the house. Even in the shadows of the day and the tree, the room had a light of its own. She placed the fern on the counter next to the sink. Taking the largest pot from the shelf next to the back door, she filled it half-full with soil. Returning to the sink, she taped the clay sides of the fern's pot, pulling it free. With her available hand, she dug a hole in the soil of the new pot adjusting the depth and width to fit the root base. The soil was dry, leaving a find dust on her fingers and under her nails. Turning on the water, she rinsed her hands and adjusted the temperature. She watered the fern allowing the water to fill and flow through the pot, continuing down the drain.
She felt gratitude from the plant. A random act of kindness. She leaned forward and looked out the window. There was so much that needed to be done. Trimming. Pruning. Transplanting. Suddenly she felt as if she was no longer alone. Looking around the room, she saw no one, yet the feeling persisted. "Who’s here?"
The sensation lessoned, but remained.
Rachael knew she was being watched. Sensing the ones, who had crossed, was one of her families talents, but she was the only one of the last two generations who chose to develop it. Running her hand along the counter top, she sensed the love that had once filled the room. Not only in the food that had been prepared here, but also the intimate chats between loved ones around the small oval table in the center of the room. The woman who designed and had the cottage built was a strong, loving soul who knew how to find the good in the darkest shadow. Rachael wondered if that is what killed her. She smiled to herself looking at the hard on the eyes wallpaper.
"What are you doing?"
Startled, Rachael spun around, her fingers catching with the spindly shoots, partially uprooting it. "It needed transplanting." She felt defensive and angry with herself for being so caught off guard. She patted the plant back into place. "It was going to die."
His voice softened. "I'm sorry. When you didn't come out, I got worried."
"Why?" She shook her head, the long strands dancing around her waist. "There's nothing wrong with the cottage."
"That's not it." Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the flowered-papered wall. "It's the house. Some places have energy of their own. Most can't handle the level here. It's too intense. For me I can last a couple of hours. After fifteen minutes, my skin begins to itch. After about a half-hour, my head begins to ache and it only gets worse. Most people can't handle it that long."
"I don't know what you mean."
"An energy vortex--"
"I know what that is." She snapped, not meaning to. "Sorry. But you're implying there is something wrong here. Miss Abigail," she motioned quotation marks around the name, "implied the same thing. I haven't found problem one. The water works. It tastes good. No bare wires that I can see. I haven't tried the furnace."
"You are comfortable here." The surprise was evident in his voice. He relaxed his arms, allowing one to drop to his side; the other he tucked in to his front pocket. "You've been here almost a half-hour. It hasn't affected you."
"Earlier it was longer than that."
"The energy hasn't changed.
"Without a good airing, it never will."
"I open the windows twice a week and keep it clean.
"Short term it works." She softened her tone, sensing he was doing his best. "The house would eventually accept you."
"It’s been over ten years. It doesn’t want a master; the cottage wants a mistress. But not just any woman. A specific woman who knows how to channel the energy of the ley lines that interconnect in the back yard." He looked away. His gaze slowly drifted along the floor to the back door. "I also have other reasons."
"Which are your own."
His eyes focused on her, the blue seemingly brighter, more alive. "I won't sell the house. I'm not ready to let it go yet." He hesitated. "But you can live here. No rent. No strings. Just take care of it. Maybe with someone living here, they'll think twice about burning it down."
"I see." Her internal alarm went off, as her own past distrust of men surfaced. She shifted her weight away from him. Taking a deep breath and centering herself, she asked the Goddess for advice for the present situation, qualifying that the sign not be too ambiguous to be useful. She closed her eyes and exhaled. She reached for her center, the place of knowing without reason; it was her place of faith. An image came into focus. It was the house. The gardens were once again cared for and lush. The roses had reached to top of the trellis. She could almost smell the full blooms. A breeze blew through the trees, changing the shadow patterns on the well-maintained lawn. A blue jay swooped through the back yard and landed on the tree stump. A deer walked out of the brush. She walked to Rachael, nuzzling her palm. Gently she scratched between her ears. It was peaceful.
Blinking she opened her eyes. Kevin still stood in the same position. Rachael never knew how long her attention would be focused inward. This time it seemed to be only moments. She looked upward to meet his gaze. "There will be rules."
"Rules?"
"No unexpected visits. Midnight or otherwise."
"Excuse me?" Confused he tilted his head, but did not shift his eyes. "Oh, if I had wanted you as a sexual partner--" He stopped himself. Glancing downward, he scraped the heel of his left boot on the toe of the right. "It'd be your idea as well. Any others?"
"I consider the house my own. I make any changes I want."
"If the house lets you. It's cool by me. You pay the cost."
"Agreed. Lastly. When you are ready to sell, I want first option. And I want it in writing."
"Agreed." He extended his hand. "Will a handshake hold until we can make it legal?"
She took his hand. Electricity shot through his palm. He would bear watching. He did have talents and the will to use them. "Works for me."
"When would you like to move in?" He released her hand. Reaching past her to open the window, his shoulder brushed against her. The light scent of cinnamon surrounded him.
He knows his stuff, she thought. "Consider it mine now. But it'll take me almost a week to move in. There are a few things that need changing."
"Like the locks."
She didn't like it; he read her too well. She'd have to set up her defense systems as soon as possible; she wasn't going to let him see one vulnerable area in her life. Gently she pushed him away from her.
Smiling he backed off. "I'll go get my car and drive you back to town. I'll have the contract drawn up. You'll have that long to change your mind or have the utilities changed over into your name."
"I won't change my mind."
He nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out his key ring and taking two keys off. "Here are my keys."
"Thanks. She took them from his out stretched hand, carefully avoiding contact with him. "I'll wait for you here. There are other plants that need my attention. I also need to make a list."
"A list?"
"Of what paint to buy. That wallpaper has to go."
He laughed from deep within. Stepping backward, he half turned and patted the flowered pattern. "Good luck. It's been here a while."
"Obviously since the sixties."
He wiggled his finger in front of his face. "Wrong. Grandmother loved it so she had it specially made in the eighties. She said she always wanted to have full blooms even in the dead of winter."
"According to Feng Shui, this is my relationship space. It'll be some shaded of pink, red or white."
"You have all that now."
She forced a smile. "They're lovely, I'm sure."
He laughed and shook his head. "Good luck. You'll need it."
Adding an Irish lit to her voice, she cocked head and leaned against the sink. "It's nota me who needs the luck blessing but anyone who comes without being invited to do so. This be a peaceful private place. I being a mind to keep it that way."
The color drained from his face. "I see."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." He staggered back, as if she had struck him. Quickly he turned on his heels and was gone.
Rachael stared at the empty doorway not knowing how to respond or what to think of his behavior. She slowly shook her head. He was too confusing to understand. She didn't want to try. Instead, she counted the empty pots and the amount of potting soil remaining. She calculated there was enough soil to transplant three
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