Mystic Hearts
Authors: Cait Jarrod
Evernight Publishing ®
Copyright© 2014 Cait Jarrod
ISBN: 978-1-77233-143-1
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: JS Cook
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized
reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.
No part of this book may be used or
reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All
names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To my dad, thank you for always
being there.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Special thanks to the awesome
critique duo: Norma Redfern and Neva Brown. Their support has been invaluable.
To my beta readers—Patricia Smart, Susannah Hutchison, and Julie Fowler—you’re
awesome!
Cheers to my friends and
confidantes, DC Stone and Lea Bronsen, for your endless encouragement.
To my editor JS Cook and the rest
of the Evernight Publishing team, thank you. A special thank you to Jay Aheer
for a fantastic cover.
MYSTIC HEARTS
Band of
Friends, 2
Cait Jarrod
Copyright © 2014
Chapter
One
Charlene
Smith gaped at the two-hundred year-old plantation house as she sat parked in
the driveway. Reports of flying ghosts, peculiar noises, and floating hands
surfaced, making her decision to stay at the eerie, menacing Greenwood Manor
not only questionable, but her actions desperate.
When
a member of the Band of Friends, Paul England, asked if someone could watch
over the place on Halloween to ward off any vandalism, she’d volunteered. She
believed if she could stay in a spooky place, the terrifying sensation she’d
held onto since she was kidnapped and rescued would disappear.
She
gazed at the back porch, her grip tightening on the steering wheel from the
apprehension creeping up her spine. Her knuckles whitened as her stomach
churned.
Two
lights installed on the corner of the porch illuminated the outside. One angled
toward the driveway, highlighting two outbuildings, while the other spotlighted
a one-room schoolhouse in the opposite direction, closest to the field.
During
the day, the white house with green trim had been welcoming and magnificent. At
night, a totally different description came to mind…
ominous
.
What had she
gotten into?
“Confront
your issues.” Her grandmother’s words replayed like an old record. Her wisdom
had helped lead her through troubled times on more than one occasion.
If
she could stay the night in the haunted house, she trusted her edginess would
subside. No more looking over her shoulder whenever a car drove past her home.
No more flinching when a friend touched her shoulder. She’d be cured of the
trepidation the abduction had caused.
The
jury was still out if her idea to come here was brilliant or plain stupid. For
her sake and her son’s, she hoped the former. For that reason, she would follow
through with her plan. She had to. Henry couldn’t have a mother scared of her
own shadow.
She
sucked in a deep breath, shoved open the driver’s door, and stepped onto the
gravel driveway. A gentle wind brushed her skin and tumbled her hair over her
shoulders. Crickets chirped. A cow bellowed in the distance.
Comforting
sounds she recognized.
No
heavy footsteps, no angry voices like in the mountains.
From
the driveway, the sidewalk led to the back steps, and farther, past large
bushes and the corner of the house. She had to walk by a tree and twenty yards
of grass before reaching safety.
Not hard
to do
.
She
bent inside her compact car and snatched an overnight bag and purse.
A
coyote howled.
Dark,
black panic shot through her system. She jolted. Hit her head the car’s roof
and her hand landed on the door.
She
straightened, rubbed the top of her head and scanned the area, wide eyed.
Coyotes rated up there with ghosts. She didn’t like them. None were in sight, but
she hoped they didn’t lurk behind the buildings, watching her.
After
slipping her overnight bag’s strap over one shoulder, she closed the car door
and dug into her purse for the house key.
Oh, no!
She
eyed the car’s lock pushed down to her keys dangling from the ignition.
When
Paul gave her the house key before he left town, she’d put the key on the ring
so she wouldn’t lose it.
She
went to the passenger’s side and jerked on the handle…
locked
. Her next breath slid through gritted teeth with a hiss and
a throaty growl. She had to get her act together.
A
hide-a-key had to be stashed nearby. Most people had them nowadays.
Right?
Hers was under the rock near her
back door. Haunted houses shouldn’t be any different. An odd awareness someone
watched her wriggled down her spine. Each stride brought on more goosebumps.
She
managed to reach the back steps without flinching, and smiled.
One step closer
to attaining my goal
.
Each
rock and brick she looked under had worms, dirt, or cement. No hidden key.
Disgusted, her vivid imagination making her flinch and causing a troublesome
situation, she slumped onto the porch. Her bag and purse dropped to the boarded
floor with a thump and echoed.
The
situation gave her limited options. Leaving the farm, for one, wouldn’t happen.
She’d given Paul her word. That, and…well, she couldn’t very well drive home
with the keys locked in the car. Another, one of the Band of Friends, BOFs as
they liked to be called, would come.
Then she remembered volunteering, how
she’d begged actually, after Paul exhausted his options with the other members.
Since they hadn’t volunteered to help Paul when he asked, then they’d be
unavailable to help her.
Not having one of them to call on left
her feeling out of sorts. She had grown close and trusted each one of the
members in the last few months. Their generosity, amazing and impressive,
caused her to grow fonder of them than she believed possible.
With
an elbow braced on her knee, she plopped her chin on her palm, and thought
about another person who hadn’t joined the BOFs despite his close ties with the
male members: the man who had saved her son on that horrendous day.
The
auburn-haired man stayed in her dreams, day and night. Her emotions toward him
were so intense she didn’t trust them, for fear they’d developed out of
gratitude. Knowing she’d have a hard time letting her guard down in his
presence, she’d avoided contact as much as possible.
That
day, before they left the mountain, he’d given her his business card and said
to call whenever she needed something or wanted to talk. She never called.
After
months without communication, would contacting him be right? He would have the
tools to unlock her car. It’d be silly not to call. She fished his card and
cell out of her purse, and spun the thin rectangle of paper between her
fingers. Once again, she pondered her choices. His driving out to the manor and
unlocking her car would force her to make a decision. Did she take control of
her trust issues and ask him to stay with her, or did she smile, say thank you,
and insist he leave?
Or
the alternative: she’d stay on the porch for the rest of the night…with the
animals …insects…and whatever apparitions might decide to appear.
The
desire to call Larry grew strong. Still, she slid her phone back in her purse.
Her attraction to him stopped her. Feelings for someone equaled giving someone
power over your life. “Been there, done that, have the scars to prove it.”
She
shook her head and searched the objects lying on the porch. Anything to keep
her mind off Larry’s honey-colored eyes that had gazed at her with such
compassion she wanted to melt.
A
picnic basket was positioned near the door, half of the top raised a few inches
over the other side. She placed Larry’s card atop her purse and lifted the lid.
A bottle of Moscato, a plastic glass, and a cork opener, all the items needed
for a romantic moonlight picnic.
Yet,
no one was around. Even the wildlife and insects had quieted. So, who had left
the basket? Paul said no one lived in the house and that he let the foreman,
who worked during the day, know she’d be staying at the house tonight. Maybe he
left the basket.
The
promising taste of fruit teased her.
This
time, the decision, should she or shouldn’t she, was a no-brainer. Tomorrow,
she’d replace the wine. She uncorked the bottle and poured some into a glass.
She savored the flavor of pears, apples, and a hint of a fruit she couldn’t
name while the liquid warmed her veins and eased the stress. She drained the
glass and refilled it.
“Whew!”
The alcohol went straight to her head. The buildings and bushes wavered. She looked
at the ground. “Hello!” The ground spun. She slid her gaze upward and fixed her
sights on a small structure.
Time
literally stopped. The buildings stopped spinning. The ground stilled. Her
hand, holding the wine glass, halted near her mouth.
A
white patch…with no shape…no defined lines…glided through the air.
Anxiety,
so heavy, constricted her throat. Barely daring to breathe, she shifted to peek
over her shoulder.
The
whiteness glided past pine trees, and the hue grew more vivid. Still, she
couldn’t make out the shape.
A ghost?
The
patch flew behind the one-room schoolhouse, disappearing.
“Oh,
jeez.” She jumped to her feet, lost her balance, and smacked a hand against the
porch’s interior wall. The wine glass tumbled to the floor. The adrenaline rush
mixed with the little bit of alcohol turned her legs and head to mush. She
wiped a hand down her face and reached for the doorknob, hoping the knob would
turn.
It
did.
Odd. Then why
did I need a key?
She
stepped into the screened-in porch, and a woodsy smell swamped her. Underneath
the row of windows, a pile of wood was stacked hip high, the source of the
overwhelming scent. An antique gumball machine rested on the corner of a yellow
cabinet. A glow of light shined out of the double doors leading into the
kitchen. She returned to the small exterior porch. Careful not to lose her
balance again, she stepped through the spilled wine and slowly lowered to grab
her purse and overnight bag. With the straps over her shoulder, she snatched
the wine bottle and glass and moved into the kitchen. She locked the door
behind her.