Autumn Thorns (8 page)

Too much to contain in one body . . . there's more of him
that you can't see—more than appears on the surface. This man has secrets and they run swift and deep.

Where the hell had
that
come from? Startled, I moved back a step. “Come in.”

Taking the flowers, I carried them over to the sink. They were obviously fresh-picked, not from a store. “You have a garden over there behind the castle gate?” Flashing him a smile, I pulled a vase out of the cupboard and filled it with water. Bryan's house was more like a mansion, and his yard more of an estate, with a high stone fence that surrounded the huge lot. There were at least two gates in the fence—the front one, and one dividing his yard from mine.

He settled into a chair at the table and leaned back. “Yes, I do. A rather extensive series of gardens, actually. I have a green thumb and it relaxes me.” With a glance around the kitchen, he added, “You haven't changed much around here.”

“Not yet. Remember, I've only been back for a few days. The reality of how much I have to do is just starting to set in. I've uprooted my entire life for the second time, and coming back . . . it's going to take some adjustment to figure out how I fit into this town again.”

Readjustments like . . . what was I going to do with my days? Would I find a job or—perhaps—start my own business? Being spirit shaman might be a heavy responsibility, but last I looked it didn't come with a monthly salary. I had money thanks to my grandparents' inheritance, and the house was long paid off, but I didn't like the idea of just sitting on my ass doing nothing.

“I imagine it's not going to be easy. Your grandmother had heavy responsibilities on her shoulders. You will, too.”

So he knew. Not that Lila being a spirit shaman was any secret. The whole town knew, just like they would know why I had returned. It was only a matter of time before the word got around, and then I expected to have a string of people at my door, asking for help. It had been like that when I'd been growing up. Lila had constantly been intervening with the dead for people.

I set the vase on the table and leaned over to inhale deeply. The zinnias were brilliant colors—the colors of autumn: yellow and gold and copper. The flowers were full and lush, and the heads had a faint but rich floral scent that played on my nose.

As I fingered one of the velvet soft petals, I let out a soft sigh. “You're very sweet to bring these over. They're beautiful. I haven't had a chance to garden over the past fifteen years. I lived in an apartment in Seattle, and my cats eat indoor plants, so I never kept any around. And speak of the devil . . .” I paused as Daphne padded in softly. She was the socialite of the group. Gabby and Agent H were friendly but it took them a while to warm up to strangers. Daphne, however, was a flirt.

Bryan paused, eyeing her cautiously. He had that look of someone who wasn't sure of cats—and that, in itself, bothered me. I had discovered that people who didn't like cats tended not to like me.

“You allergic?” It was the easiest opening into the question.

He shook his head. “No, but I'm not used to cats. I used to have a dog, though, when I was young. He made it to fourteen, a good span for dogs. I've . . . been on the road a lot over the years, so I decided to wait until I was ready to settle into one place for a while before getting another pet.” Hesitantly, he leaned down and held out his hand—slowly so that he didn't spook her. Daphne cautiously edged forward. She sniffed his fingers, took another look up at his face, and then leaped into his lap.

Well,
that
was a surprise. She started to purr, rubbing her chin along the sleeve of his jacket.

“She's friendly but she seldom warms up so fast.” Some people thought I was nuts, but I let my cats guide me in terms of trusting people who came over to the house. Inevitably they shied away from the ones who had issues or who were hiding a mean streak. Which meant, whatever else he might be, Bryan was safe enough to have inside my home.

Relaxing, I moved to the counter. “Would you like some coffee? A latte? A cappuccino? I've got the goods and I used to be a barista.”

A whisper of a smile flickered across his face. “You're a caffeine freak like your grandma, aren't you? And sure—I was going to ask you out to the Broom and Thistle, but this works fine.”

“The Broom and Thistle?” I turned on the espresso machine. “What do you want and how many shots? And yes, my grandmother taught me when I was fourteen how to appreciate the benefits of a good caffeine buzz.” I didn't add that she told me it helped her focus on her work.

“The Broom and Thistle Coffee Shop. It's on the corner of Fifth and Cedar streets, and Michael and Nelly Brannon own the joint. Nice place. I'll have a triple latte, thank you.” He was softly stroking Daphne's fur. She turned to gaze up at him and then, satisfied, bounced down and ran off into the living room.

As I pulled the shots, I sought for something to say, feeling awkward. I wasn't good with small talk—not unless it was somebody like Peggin. Bryan made me nervous, mostly because I couldn't get a good read on him.

Oh, be honest with yourself, woman. He makes you nervous because he's so ruggedly handsome and totally the type you go for. Quit kidding yourself. You're interested and you know it.
Irritated—sometimes facing reality sucked—I searched for something to say while the machine was heating. But I had no clue where to take the conversation, and he certainly wasn't filling the awkward silence. I turned slightly, so he couldn't see me, closed my eyes, and reached out to see what else I could sense about him.

A rush of mist surrounded me, and I caught a glimpse of the rain forest, towering firs swaying in the night against a raging windstorm. I could smell the rain, thick and chill, and even though I could not see her, I knew the moon was dark and hiding. A rustle in the bushes told me something was near—something dangerous, with sharp teeth and a vicious nature. Something like what he'd been chasing when we met on the road. As a swift sense of self-preservation raced over me, my eyes flew open.

The light on the espresso maker flicked to ready and
without thinking, I began to pull the shots, but my hands were shaking. Whatever had been hiding in the bushes was dangerous, and I could still feel the hunger behind the shadow. It wasn't a ghost . . . and I didn't think it was one of the Unliving. But whatever was there had a gnawing ache in its belly and whatever it was, it was trailing Bryan—that much I knew. It shadowed him, like a lurker, or maybe . . . they were stalking each other. As I prepared our drinks, I tried to calm my nerves, reminding myself that Daphne liked him.

At that moment, Bryan joined me. “Need any help? Milk from the refrigerator?”

“Thanks, yes. I have creamer in there.” Grateful for something to say, I added, “And there are cookies in the cupboard. Several varieties, actually.” I blushed. “I like sweets. Choose your favorite and set it on the table.”

He laughed. “I don't usually eat sugar, but who doesn't like cookies?” And then the shadow around him lifted and he was just my neighbor again. Wondering if I had been imagining things, I carried our cups to the table as he opened the bag of cookies. He had chosen Oreos and I melted just a little bit more. Truly, a man after my own heart.

“So, what are you up to on this blustery afternoon?” He sipped his drink and let out a satisfied sound. “You really are good at this.”

“Told you.” I grinned. Then a thought hit me. “Actually, I was about to head back upstairs to the attic when you knocked on the door. I found a trunk that I need to get into, but I can't carry it down by myself and I'd rather not open it up there. Would you mind giving me a hand after we finish our drinks?”

He arched one eyebrow. “Sure thing. I'd be happy to.”

I glanced at the clock. It was two
P.M.
—plenty of time before Peggin was due back. As much as I was embarrassed to admit it, and as much as I liked Peggin, I wanted to get to know Bryan a bit before introducing them. She mesmerized men without trying. I usually turned them off because I was so blunt, and because I could see through them so easily. Actually, I had the same effect on women, too, which was probably why I had so few friends.

“So, Bryan, what do you do? And hand me one of those cookies, please.”

He passed me the tray. “I dabble in this and that. I own a couple of international businesses. Boring stuff, really.”

“Oh, I'm easily amused. Try me.” I was horrible at flirting, really, but I gave it a try.

He shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Antiquities . . . trips . . . nothing I feel like discussing right now.” He wasn't encouraging follow-up questions—that much was obvious.

I regrouped. “When did you move to Whisper Hollow?”

He toyed with his cup. “Let me think . . . five years back? Six? But I had visited a few times before that. I liked it so much that I decided to make this my home.”

I shook my head. “Why on earth would you choose to live in this town when you don't have to?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” His tone of voice was friendly enough, but I caught the edge beneath it.

“I was just curious,” I started to say, then stopped. I wasn't going to defend myself when I had just been trying to be friendly. So, he didn't give out information easily and he didn't like people asking questions. That alone raised questions. I understood the need for privacy, but if he wanted to talk, he had to give me something to work with.

Another awkward pause while he finished his drink. “Come on, let me help you with that trunk.”

Feeling a little less friendly now, I considered telling him not to bother. But before I could speak, he was on his feet and waiting. If I said anything at this point, he would object and then I'd counter and it would devolve into something far more awkward than it already was. Plus the truth was, even with Peggin's help, I doubted she and I could lug that trunk down the stairs without denting it or ourselves. The wood was heavy and solid, and we just didn't have the muscles that he did.

“Follow me, please.” I didn't smile, didn't say much of anything as I led him up to the attic. All business, I pointed to my mother's trunk. “Here . . . this one.”

Bryan knelt down, running his fingers over the top. “This is beautiful workmanship.” His voice was soft, almost awed.

The shift in tone threw me. I frowned. “It was my mother's. I never knew about it till now.”

He glanced up, meeting my gaze. A flicker in his eyes and the wariness seemed to back away. “I'm sorry I sounded so brusque. I'm afraid I don't get out much and I'm not one for small talk. I'm not used to being diplomatic and the truth is, I don't like talking about myself all that much. I'm a private person and like to take my time getting to know someone before I give away all my secrets.”

Once again, I could sense the shadow behind him. Whatever it was, it was definitely stalking him. I wanted to ask him about it, but after the way he had responded to my other questions, I decided to leave well enough alone. However, his apology went a long way toward easing my irritation, especially since I understood exactly how he felt.

“I'm pretty closemouthed myself. Here, let me take one end of that.” As I reached to pick up one of the handles, he motioned me back.

“I've got it. Don't strain your back. Just make certain there's nothing on the stairs for me to trip on, please.” As he followed me down out of the attic, with me guiding him to the bottom, my attention returned to the trunk. Bryan Tierney was handsome, but this trunk had belonged to my mother, and now all I could think about was what I might find inside. Maybe Avery's ring? Or some clue as to where she had gone.

“Now I have a question for you,” he said as he lifted it onto the table. “And if you don't want to answer, feel free to bitch-slap me. I deserve it.” He was laughing with his eyes again, their blue intensifying.

“Ask, then.” I pulled the key out of my pocket, suddenly feeling a bit shy.

“Why did your mother run away? Your grandmother told me a little about her—that she disappeared, leaving you behind.” He was standing close enough for me to feel the warmth radiating off his body and it sent a tingle up my spine . . . a good one that made it hard to think about anything else.

I stared at the key in my hand. “I don't know. I'm hoping
to find something in this trunk that will tell me what happened. Why she abandoned me. My father vanished before I was born. His mother told me that he went out to Timber Peak on a hunting trip and was never seen again. He wanted to marry my mother, but . . .”

Bryan motioned to the table. “Do you want me to step away while you open that? Or leave? I can understand this might be a private affair.”

I considered his question. There was always the chance something in the trunk would make me burst into tears. Or maybe . . . maybe it was just garbage, or old memories that I wouldn't relate to. After a moment I said, “No, stay. I barely knew her. I was three when she left.”

As I fitted the key into the lock and turned it, the air grew thick. Mist began to rise around me—the kind that always signaled some spirit near—and I opened myself up, searching for where it came from. As I creaked back the lid, I saw a light jacket, folded and sitting on the top of whatever else was in the trunk. I recognized it—my mother had worn it the day when she spun me around in the grass. As I slowly pulled it out of the trunk I noticed there was something on it. Spread across both sides of the chest was a reddish brown stain surrounding what looked like a bullet hole. As I stared at it, a faint cry rose up and I glanced over to see a young woman squatting beside the table. She was weeping, her hands raised to ward off something. Bryan was watching her, too.