Eternal (7 page)

Even saying his name in my head sent a rush of warmth spiraling through me. I didn’t really fear him as much as his existence intrigued me. And yet, I wondered if, on some level, I intrigued him. After all, I thought as I gazed at the apple, he’d left me a gift.

Another idea occurred to me. Briar obviously assumed I’d done something to her car. Had the ghost done it instead? I bit my bottom lip, unable to pick apart my own reaction to the idea of a spirit getting revenge on someone who’d been mean to me. On the one hand, I found it flattering.

On the other, it was alarming.

But if he intended to hurt or frighten me, I deduced he wouldn’t have offered me an apple from his orchard. Still, knowing he had the ability to physically move an object made it hard for me to close my eyes and go to sleep.

Was he here now?

My heart rate accelerated at the thought of it and I lay perfectly still, trying to determine if I sensed that tingling indication of his presence again. I
wanted
to see him again. I wanted to talk to him.

Steeling myself, I drew in a deep breath. “Jeremiah Ransom,” I whispered into the darkness.

My heart pounded. My palms broke out in a sweat.

The floor creaked as if under the weight of a footstep. I bolted upright in bed.

Peering into the darkness, I searched for him. The skin on my arms and the back of my neck crawled with spectral energy. “I know you’re there.” I breathed the words.

Although I couldn’t see him, I felt him. I scooted back against the headboard, dragging one of my pillows in front of me. “I know you’re there,” I repeated. This time, my voice sounded small even though it echoed in the big room.

My gaze darted in and out of the shadows, suddenly stopping on a swirl of glittering energy in the center of my room.

Darker than the dark, it moved toward me and began to thicken and take shape. I held my breath.

By the time he reached the side of my bed, he stood as whole in appearance as if he’d been a flesh and blood person.

I tried to tell myself that ghosts weren’t real. He shouldn’t be there. His presence railed against everything I’d been taught. I clenched my fists to keep from recoiling in frozen horror. A voice in my head told me to scream but I refused to give in to it.

If he’d wanted to hurt me, he could have done it already.

And yet, terror exploded in my skull at seeing the image of a man I knew had died in this very bed over one hundred-fifty years ago.

He appeared as he had the first time I’d seen him and, more opaque than I would have guessed possible for a ghost, he looked at me with the same fascination I held for him.

At nearly six feet, he was tall but with the slender build of a young man. Bearing the strong, almost harsh features of a model, his face bespoke another time and place. Impossibly high cheekbones lent him a striking gauntness that only accentuated his brooding black eyebrows and the inky lashes framing his eyes. In person, he was even more handsome than his picture. His sensuous lips parted. “You can see me.”

Dumbly, I nodded.

The tension seemed to melt out of his body—or rather what appeared to be his body. Seeming somewhat confused, he turned and sat on the side of the bed. My stomach flipped when I felt the mattress sink with his weight. Unable to unscramble my brain, I watched him. After what seemed like an eternity, he glanced back over his shoulder at me.

“No one has ever seen me before,” he drawled, his accent alluringly old world.

In the dim light of the room, he reminded me of an angel. A soft light emanated from his being so that he looked more like a faded photograph than an actual…person.

“The lady who lived here before me…” I said, finally finding my voice. “She couldn’t see you?”

He shook his head. “You are the first,” he said, his gaze roving over me as if I was as much a curiosity to him as he was to me.

A tumult of emotions roiled inside me. Fear, pity, excitement—and something else I couldn’t identify. I wondered what it must have been like for him, watching his family grow old and die not knowing he was there with them. In fact, I wondered a thousand things at once.

“Are you Jeremiah?” I asked, immediately feeling stupid because I knew the answer.

He shot to his feet so abruptly that I gasped. “Forgive me,” he said, his old South accent honey-thick. “I should have introduced myself. I am Jeremiah Ransom of Company B of the Twentieth Tennessee Infantry Regiment.”

For a heart-stopping moment, I feared he intended to shake my hand. Instead, he gave me a low bow. Any fear I still harbored fled and I bit my bottom lip to keep from laughing at the absurdity of being formally introduced to a ghost.

“I am—” I began but he cut in.

“Miss Darby,” he said, the hint of a smile forming on his lips—those lips that were far too beautiful to grace a man’s face.

Warmth infused my cheeks. I should have been concerned that a spirit knew my name. Instead, I found I was flattered, even pleased.

His head cocked to the side. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Miss Darby.”

I’d only heard stilted greetings like that in the movies but somehow it didn’t seem silly when he said it. “Wren,” I corrected. “Like the bird.”

“Wren,” he repeated, his voice as soft as a feather. “And you may call me Jeremiah.”

The sound of my name on his lips made my stomach somersault as if I was suddenly plummeting from a great height.

An awkward silence ensued. I didn’t know what to say to a ghost and I imagined he felt the same lack of ability in making conversation with a twenty-first century girl.

Finally, he tilted his head to the other side. “Are you not partial to apples?” he asked, his gaze never wavering from mine.

Embarrassment flooded me that I’d been afraid to eat it. “Oh…yes,” I stammered. “Very much. Thank you.”

My suspicions were correct. He
had
left it for me. I knew it! “How did you know I wanted one?” I asked.

A totally disarming chuckle emitted from deep in his chest and then his eyes held mine in such a way it made my toes curl. “I saw the way you looked at it hanging from the tree.”

I gulped. “How was that?”

His long fingers curled lazily around the bed post. “Determined…as if it suddenly occurred to you that you wanted it above anything else at that particular moment in time and would do almost anything to have it in your possession.”

That about summed it up. But there was an underlying implication in his assessment that spoke to me on another level. I quickly realized the awkwardness of having an attractive guy in my bedroom—even if he was a ghost. “So…you…you can’t read my thoughts?” I asked. I had to know.

When he smiled, dimples deepened at the corners of his mouth. The rigid pose in his portrait had not accurately portrayed just how striking he really was. “No, Wren. I can
feel
your thoughts but I cannot read them.”

“Is that how you knew I was thinking about you the first night I was here?”

He nodded. “I suddenly knew that you were aware of me. I’d suspected it when you looked up and saw me standing at the attic window.”

The idea that all my wildest imaginings were true sparked delight in my heart. “I
did
see you.”

Emboldened, he moved closer to where I sat at the head of my bed. Gingerly, he sat on the edge again. I noticed his trousers were made of some sort of gray wool. I’d heard the term homespun before and wondered if his snowy shirt had been made from fabric fashioned from cotton grown on this very land.

“Am I taking too many liberties, Wren?” he asked.

I shook my head, becoming uncomfortable under his steadfast gaze.

He squinted slightly. “Why do you think it is, Wren?” he mused.

“Why what is?”

“Why can you see me?”

The look in his eyes was so sincere, my heart ached for him. “Maybe it’s because I…because I’ve been able to see things before they happen since an accident I had not long ago.”

“An accident?” he asked. “That’s how you got your scar.”

His statement held no condemnation. I was self-conscious just the same. I hated that he’d noticed it but at the same time, I felt relief that I didn’t have to explain it to someone who would gaze at me with pity-filled eyes. Doubtless, he’d seen worse during the Civil War than my stupid scar.

Even given that fact, I’d practically refused to talk about the accident with anyone, even the high dollar therapists to whom my parents had forced me to go. Certainly, I’d never mentioned my ability. Not to anyone! So, I couldn’t believe how easily I confided in a stranger.

Nevertheless, I didn’t want him to know everything that had happened that night.

“This frightens you,” he said. “To talk about your accident.”

I sucked in a breath. He could feel that? I had nothing to gain by denying it so I nodded. “Yes.” And then for some reason unknown to me, I blurted, “I died that night.”

His gaze assessed me. “There are worse things than dying.”

I knew he spoke the truth. Not a day went by that I wished Kira and I could switch places.

“And now you are sad,” he said apologetically.

The fact that he sensed my feelings unnerved me. I’d just as soon not have anyone be able to discern whether I felt happy or sad or afraid or even angry. I didn’t want him to see through me because my emotions revealed far more truth than my thoughts or words.

Not even my mom read me so easily.

An uncharacteristic lump welled in my throat as traitorous tears pooled in my eyes. Holding my breath, I looked away, my gaze fixing on the dark shape of the apple on my dresser.

“Wren?”

The sympathy in Jeremiah’s voice proved to be my undoing. My throat constricted and I couldn’t reply. Instead, I twisted onto my side and dragged the cool, feather pillow up against my chest.

Part of me wanted to be left alone.

Another part of me ached to be comforted, to unburden myself on this spirit who could literally never breathe my dirty secrets to anyone.

Yet in my soul, I didn’t want him to know what a terrible person I was.

I waited for an eternity for him to say something else, to move, to do something. Finally, I blinked the tears away and composed myself. Once I had my emotions under control, I glanced back over my shoulder, fully expecting to see him still sitting there staring.

Disappointment flooded me.

I’d gotten my wish to be alone.

Jeremiah Ransom’s ghost had vanished.

* * * * *

Concentration was out of the question as I sat in my government class peeking at the magazine photo of Jeremiah. My thoughts were consumed with what had happened the previous night. After he’d disappeared, I’d been unable to sleep so I’d scanned the magazine page into my computer and printed a copy of Jeremiah. This way I could keep the magazine safely at home and stare at the printed picture all I wanted.

I still couldn’t believe I’d had an actual conversation with a ghost. The fact that he was dead didn’t bother me as much as the irrefutable truth that I found myself dangerously obsessed with him. Butterflies flitted in my stomach at the remembrance of our conversation. No one save me had seen him since his death. I bit my bottom lip to keep a wistful smile at bay.

Pain suddenly shot through my elbow, ripping me out of my reverie. Briar sauntered up the aisle between the desks. She glanced back and smirked. “Did I bump you?” she asked, feigning innocence. “So sorry.”

Her Emo friends snickered from somewhere behind me. Anger gnawed at me but I managed to keep it in check. Instead, I shrugged. “It’s okay,” I lied and turned my attention back to Jeremiah’s picture.

I’d tried to enlarge the photo but the resolution stunk. Even tweaking the restore old photo feature had not improved it much.

Perhaps today, I’d muster up enough courage to visit the attic. Maybe I’d find other photographs of him in addition to this one. Darkly, it occurred to me that this might be the only image I’d ever have of him. After all, it wasn’t like I could snap pictures of him with my phone as I could so casually with my friends.

My mind raced with questions, none of which possessed an answer. Jeremiah was dead. He wouldn’t be asking me to go to the movies. He would not be sneaking a kiss at my locker between classes. He wouldn’t be renting a tux or a limo to take me to prom.

Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, I stopped my thoughts in their tracks. What was I thinking?

I was the only person who could see him. If he wanted to talk to someone, it wasn’t as if he had a choice. It was silly of me to think I might mean anything to him other than being the chick that lived in his house more than a century after his death.

And in turn, he could never mean anything to me.

Not really.

Did I want to end up like that crazy Miss Polk who’d lived alone in my house until she died?

“Wren,” Frank whispered.

Startled, I slammed my notebook shut. My gaze collided with his.

“Page sixty-four.” He inclined his head toward the teacher.

Scrambling, I flipped my book open to the correct page. Mr. Daniels droned on, practically reading the material in the book, word for mind-numbing word. Why did teachers feel the need to read to us what we could read on our own? History teachers were the worst.

Despite Mr. Daniels’ best efforts, my thoughts couldn’t be arrested from the ghost with whom I’d had a conversation the night before. Impatient, I watched the clock until the bell rang. Another hour closer.

After packing my books into my backpack, I slung it over my shoulder and started out of the classroom. An overwhelming sense of doom settled heavily in my gut and I suddenly found myself struggling to keep from succumbing to a panic attack. My heart raced. My palms grew damp with perspiration. Despite my efforts to breathe, I couldn’t seem to get enough air. I wiped my hands on my jeans and tried to keep walking but my knees shook so badly, I feared I’d stumble. My breathing quickened dangerously.

For me, panic attacks always portended something horrible.

Trembling, I forced one foot in front of the other as I made my way through the crowd in the hall toward my locker. I gasped for air, drowning in the shoulder to shoulder throng of students. By the time I finally reached my locker, I laid my forehead against the cool metal and tried to focus. But when I did, my panic only worsened.