CLITTER HILL ON FUR TOR
by Cheri Crystal

Rain or shine, sleet or snow, Roseland went walking on the moors, ready for anything. For beating the winter blues, nothing compared to a strenuous trek over hill and dale. In her youth, she’d avoided sports as she would an infectious disease. One of those people who never had an issue with her weight, diet and exercise hadn’t ever even entered her stream of consciousness. Why work out if she didn’t have to, she had reasoned. Spending precious time engaged in intellectual pursuits far outweighed physical activity on her priority scale. But the combination of time, age, and bad genes could easily land her immobile in a dribble chair, like Gramma, and she didn’t want to end up like dear old dad either. One minute he was finalizing his dream vacation plans that he’d “…spent the best years of my life saving for and as a surprise for your mother,” he had confided, and the next, he was dead of a massive coronary at only three years older than she was now. Finding him that way, slumped over in a kitchen chair, had been a major wake-up call. Her dad liked an occasional whiskey for celebratory purposes, and he didn’t smoke or eat too many puddings, but look what had happened to him anyway. The shock had spurred her into action. She had vowed to get out there and move her body while she still could.

Roseland had begun her fitness regimen because she didn’t want to leave Mum the way her father had. What began as just parking a distance away from the entrance to her job led to walking to and from work, three miles there and back. Eventually she found herself looking forward to hiking on the moors and coastal paths, and even walking the six to eight miles into town. Roseland was fitter and genuinely happier at fifty-two than she had been in her entire life. It was funny that the girl who had invented excuses to get out of gym class in order to spend extra time in the library would now be practicing physical fitness on purpose. No use in having a sharp mind in a sluggish body.

Roseland opened the Ordinance Survey of Dartmoor and spread it over a large space on the floor. She had to move the coffee table for additional room, knocking off a few books and journals as she did. Last night’s half full teapot fell off also, but luckily the pot survived the fall and the tea was the same colour as the carpet. She read the words Clitter Hill, then laughed herself silly. It figured that the closest she would get to anything that conjured up images of that neglected part of her anatomy in decades would be charting a path to Clitter Hill. The good laugh lifted her spirits. Then she spotted Fur Tor. Whoever had named these landmasses was a pint short of pissed.

Wiping an errant tear, she Googled Fur Tor. The pictorials on the web painted a picture of a desolate area. Still, whenever possible, she liked to judge people, places, and things for herself, not relying on the evaluation of others. As a scientist, she was loath to believe things she couldn’t prove through her own devices. The day God—Him, Her, or Itself—came to visit for afternoon tea was the day she would know, without a shadow of a doubt, that there was indeed a Supreme Being. Failing that certainty, she insisted on hard evidence and absolute facts. Until then, Roseland didn’t buy into any of this blind faith bunk. It seemed to her that it was primarily a strategy for controlling the masses or lining the pockets of the clergy.

She jotted down notes as she mapped out her route, starting at Postbridge. From there she would continue towards Fur Tor, despite the foreboding weather forecast that threatened to make the trip across the most northerly part of Dartmoor difficult and unpleasant. Wind and rain always seemed harsher on high, open spaces. Regardless of all that, she was looking forward to staking her claim, so to speak, on Clitter Hill, and planned to snap a selfie for her album to record the accomplishment. It amused her every time she thought about the personage who had first called a collection of boulders and stones the “clitters,” and subsequently named the tors “Mis” and “Fur.”

Through the years, she’d hiked most of the coastal paths from Devon to Cornwall. Roseland rated the South West Coast Path National Trails as her favourite route, followed by the Thames Path and Hadrian’s Wall. She still had much of Dartmoor and The Lake District to explore. Someday she hoped to plan a proper trip that would include the centremost part of the northern moor, which was surrounded by treacherous terrain and ensured the penultimate isolation. Today’s hike was a lot less ambitious, but would be satisfying both for scenic reasons and exercise potential. First she had to eat breakfast and pack a lunch.

Preferring hard copy to electronic versions, Roseland read the morning paper while chewing on a toasted tea cake with a sprinkle of chopped walnuts. She’d added walnuts to her diet, after she’d read a study done by an institute she trusted about the heart benefits of consuming walnuts. It was an added bonus that she quite enjoyed the nutty flavour, as it complemented the sweet cinnamon tea cake.

Since she’d lost her dad, she’d made other changes as well—reducing her consumption of fish and chips, crisps, and her favorite puddings. The latest recommendations by nutrition experts no longer designated the simplest form of high quality protein, the egg, as a taboo food based on fear of increasing blood cholesterol. This was an adequately referenced study that Roseland was excited to accept. She enjoyed eggs. After reading about the importance of high quality protein in warding off sarcopenia, especially as one aged, Roseland ate a hard cooked egg at least three times a week. She wished the experts would stop changing their minds about whether eggs were good or bad for you, and conduct a definitive study once and for all. She popped the last bit of yolk into her mouth, then followed it with a last swallow of tea. She’d be damned if she was going to allow a decrease in her muscle protein synthesis without a fight.

Periodically glancing out the window as she washed the breakfast dishes, Roseland envisioned the walk ahead. It was a dress rehearsal of sorts. She often found that when she was utterly absorbed in thought, such as when rehashing complicated theorems and hypotheses, she often lost track of time and place. Losing track of the “where” and “when” was not something Roseland welcomed, but rather something she endured. It also sucked to have a poor sense of direction, another thing she had inherited from her dad. She shrugged off the thought and turned her attention back to the small TV set on the counter by the table.

BBC News droned on in the background. BBC was her constant breakfast and dinner companion when she wasn’t watching Sky News for their spin, Eggheads to test her trivia recall abilities, or some documentary. In tandem with the paid commentator, Roseland voiced her opinions as if the newscaster could hear her as she shredded a nice portion of Tickler vintage cheddar onto thick slices of multigrain seeded bloomer. Savoury cheese sandwiches and sweet biscuits were indulgences she only allowed herself when she was out hiking, as she’d need extra fat to keep her fuelled over the long haul. Even using care, Roseland still managed to get some cheese and crumbs on the floor. That never used to be a problem, she thought with a heavy heart.

It had been hard, but she had finally donated Trixie’s bed and bowls to a co-worker who had adopted a puppy. It was too painful to see them both sitting empty. Not one to dwell on sadness, she decided her sandwich needed relish. She spread Lurpak butter on one side of the bread and Branston pickle on the other, added diced spring onions and peppery rocket leaves, and closed her sandwich. She then washed red seedless grapes, fixed carrot and celery sticks, and, as a special treat, threw in a few Jammie Dodgers. The luscious jam-filled biscuits always hit the spot. No sense in avoiding treats, as long as she didn’t eat them to the exclusion of more nourishing foods.

“That should do it,” she said aloud, clapping the crumbs off her hands.

BBC repeated the weather forecast. The newscaster painted an awfully bleak picture. The southwest of England was usually spared the brunt of winter weather as long as winds came predominantly from the westerly or south westerly direction. Apparently a mid-Atlantic chill was sweeping down from the north.

She stepped out onto the backyard terrace. As if in testament to truth in forecasting, a brisk wind whipped her shoulder-length bob right off her face. Roseland glanced toward the grey skies thick with clouds and their threat of rain, sleet, or hail, but the idea of staying in with a good book and a box of chocolates, while it sounded heavenly, was just not an option for the new her that thrived on her love of the outdoors. In her youth, she’d had no idea what she was missing while she read volumes indoors. Now when she planned a walk, there was no changing her mind. She assured herself she wasn’t fussed about a bit of weather. She would bundle up, pack a lunch, head out, and be just fine—a brave soldier marching off to battle.

As she ran up the stairs two at a time, Rosalind smiled at her seemingly boundless energy. Flinging open the door of the antique wardrobe that belonged first to Gramma at the farmhouse and then to Mum, Roseland paused. She missed them, and wished they were both still alive, but there was no use shedding more tears. Loss was inevitable. Homo sapiens, animals, all living creatures were born to die. It was a fact of life that could not be escaped, but still Roseland couldn’t help feeling more alone in the world, especially since she had also lost her beloved pet—dear, sweet Trixie.

Dwelling on sadness was an indulgent and wasteful pursuit, and she quickly redirected her thoughts to concentrating on gearing up. She knew exactly what she’d wear. The dire weather prediction was nothing that couldn’t be countered by a good set of thermals, lined hiking trousers, two layers of heavy gauge socks, and four layers on top—thermals, cotton shirt, fleece, and body warmer. Weighing the pros and cons of wearing a down insulated ski-jacket for extra warmth or the shell jacket for more breathable protection against wind and rain, Roseland couldn’t wait to get out on the moor.

She glanced at the wall clock. Ten past nine. She was ahead of schedule. According to her plan, she would park at the Moor Sheep and Dartmoor Pony Inn and pop in for a quick hot chocolate, hike starting at ten-thirty, the latest, and pack it in around three that afternoon in order to get back to her car before dark.

Roseland checked and rechecked her backpack, filled the water reservoir about three quarters, hoping it wouldn’t freeze, and decided against the heavier down-filled jacket for something less bulky. She’d be walking at a brisk pace and doubted she’d need extra warmth. Next she slipped into hiking boots and laced them up snug but not too tight.

The driving route from Princetown towards Crazy Well Pool should be uncrowded this time of year. There was a weather-beaten, barren farmhouse at Nun’s Cross she planned to find, so that she could tick off another landmark she wanted to see. By half nine, she was on the road, arriving at her destination at precisely ten-thirty. There was already one other car parked in the area she had chosen to leave her car. She cut the engine and pocketed her keys. At first she wondered whether the pub was closed, but as she drew closer to the inn, she spotted signs of life within.

The bartender took a fiver and handed her a few quid change as he signalled a waitress to make a hot chocolate. She collected her drink from the bar and sat at a table by the window. As soon as the chocolate was cool enough to not scald her tongue, Roseland drank up. The creamy, steamy mixture was oh so thick and chocolatey, but not sickeningly sweet. It was just what she needed to warm her up and fuel her fire for a brisk walk. She loved it when the moors were virtually empty, as she preferred to enjoy the solitude in peace.

A bitter wind blew right through her the moment she stepped out of the toasty inn. It was bloody cold outside. With each step, staying indoors by a cozy fire grew increasingly more enticing. Only the bright rays of sunshine when they managed to poke through the clouds for more than a few minutes at a time cheered her up. Having lived in England all her life, she never took the sun for granted and wasn’t bothered in the least about having to squint against the intense light, but it was a shame the winter sun wasn’t effective at warming her. Even on the short walk to the car for her woollen scarf, she hurried along, just to warm up. It was a good day to go at a quick, steady pace.

Roseland shut the boot and glanced up in time to spot a middle-aged couple headed back down the mountain with an ambitious stride. They must have set out at first light to be finished this early. Two Scottish terriers caught her eye as they ran to join their owners. One white and the other black, they were both wearing plaid coats. Roseland felt a sharp pang in her chest. She wished her beloved golden brown labradoodle hadn’t succumbed to Addison’s disease just three short months before. When the symptoms became more than Trixie and Roseland could bear, Roseland held her best girl in her arms, sobbing when Trixie took her last breath. At the recollection, a tear escaped the corner of Roseland’s eye, but fond memories helped push aside some of the pain—Trixie wagging her tail exuberantly, always trying hard to please, and splashing around in the water as Roseland walked along the rivers Dart, Avon, or Thames. Her beloved pet was no longer suffering. Still, life was much lonelier without Trixie. Sure, Roseland had her job at the chemical research plant, but she didn’t work seven days a week. She used weekend hikes to fill the off hours, but winters seemed longer and drearier without her trusted four-legged-friend. She should probably get another furry child, but it was too soon. Her heart wasn’t in it. She knew that whoever she adopted would one day leave her. Better to relive the precious memories rather than risk another broken heart.

Checking her cell phone pedometer app, Roseland noted the number of steps she had done puttering around the house getting ready so that she could subtract them from the steps she would accomplish on her walk. At the beginning of the hike she could key in the starting place, which would show the exact time she began. The pedometer app would then allow her to calculate the total miles walked later that night. In four or four-and-a-half hours, she could easily walk a looped circuit of eight to ten miles, stop at Nun’s Cross to eat her picnic lunch, and get back to the carpark before nightfall.

Spence preferred working weekends and packed out holiday seasons to working on ordinary days when business was steady but much slower. She liked to keep busy, the busier the better. She grew restless and bored if she became too idle. In addition to her studies, she tended bar at a popular inn with a pub and restaurant that had accommodations for holidaymakers. The luxury bedrooms had remodelled en suites and were in high demand on Dartmoor. Spence had been hired as bar staff, but she soon was filling in as a hostess, waitress, and in a pinch she wasn’t above stock work, reception, and getting rooms ready for guests.

“Hey, Spence, we need a hot chocolate.”

“Sure thing, Colin. One sec.”

Spence had just cleaned out the expensive, commercial hot chocolate machine and had to run clear water through once more before filling the requested order. She was meticulous with the equipment. It was well worth its cost, as it ensured repeat customers and high scores on Trip Advisor. Some people remembered their beer, coffee, and even hot chocolate better than they did the food. How many times had she heard “Moor Sheep and Dartmoor Pony Inn has an excellent selection of locally brewed Dartmoor ales, their specialty coffees are memorable, and they make a hot chocolate you’ll never forget”? Too many to count. Spence was very proud of the way she did her job, and went to great lengths to insure customer satisfaction. She had enrolled in a course on Hotel Management, as she knew she would someday own the place. As soon as it was hers, she would change the name. At the moment, it was more than a mouthful.

Had she not been busy in the kitchen, Spence would have seen more of the woman who’d ordered the hot chocolate. She made a point to ask guests how they were and if everything was satisfactory, but the blonde-bobbed woman had finished her hot chocolate and was out the door so fast, Spence only got a glimpse of her as she exited the pub. She was pulling on a woolly cap beneath what looked like a double layer, or perhaps even a triple.

Returning to the kitchen, Spence swiped mist off the window with her sleeve and turned on the taps. While she scoured baking trays, her gaze followed the lone woman out to the carpark. Spence could make out a thick vapour trail in the woman’s wake as she dashed to her car. Her clear view didn’t last long, as the ovens were on full whack, crisping up sausage rolls for the staff’s mid-morning snack. The window repeatedly fogged, and when Spence wiped it clear, she could see that the woman had added a thick scarf as well. It seemed like overkill, especially in addition to the hoodie she has already been wearing, but it was raw out. The blonde shut the boot, and then headed straight for the path. Seldom did a woman venture out on the moors alone. Even rarer was finding one who was apparently planning a hike when inclement weather was on the way.

The food orders were coming in at a faster pace as more hikers were showing up after turning back. Why would this crazy woman be heading out instead of staying put?

Spence figured the woman must know what she was doing. Maybe she wasn’t going very far. Serious hikers just couldn’t pass up any opportunity to get outside. Maybe she was a hiking fanatic. She looked fit, so that must be it. Spence sized her up. Her gear didn’t scream sport enthusiast, but she had a nice figure under all that outdoor clothing. If Spence had had her binoculars handy, she would have loved to get a closer look at her features. From a distance, all she could tell for sure was that the hiker was an unusual woman, and that made her interesting.

Colin called out, “A pot of English Breakfast, two cappuccinos with extra chocolate sprinkles, a treacle tart with clotted cream, and two scones with butter and jam, Spence.”

“Sure thing, Col.” Spence lost track of the hiker, but not before she saw that the only car left in the lot was a purple Picasso Citroen.

Roseland strode on. Blood pumped through her veins, warming her core, but her extremities were still a bit chilled so she picked up her pace. Long walks in complete solitude were excellent for both physical and mental exercises in soul-searching, but they also left room for ruminating on things that might have been. The cows weren’t the only ones chewing their cud, she often mused when introspection carried her off into oblivion or regret. What did she have to regret, exactly? Nothing too earth shattering. Perhaps that she had moved around so much for work…

Research demanded funding and without it she’d have been unemployed for long stretches of time, waiting for her next job, so she gave up the sponsored variety of cutting edge clinical trials and settled in the Southwest for a permanent position. While the work was not as challenging, the money was reliable.

She credited her dad for her thirst for knowledge, inquisitive mind, and perseverance in uncovering truths. Back when she should have been in the market to find someone, she was totally engrossed in her work and had few interests aside from discovering something important like designing less toxic drugs to treat Cancer, AIDS, or any number of diseases, drugs which would be as effective but with fewer side effects. Any advances in chemical toxicology would surely make a difference in patients’ lives, especially those with compromised immune systems. Now even small accomplishments were enough to keep her excited and fulfilled.

Had she been more social, perhaps she might have had a deep and meaningful relationship by now. Prospects had dwindled as the decades whizzed by at an accelerating rate, but Roseland had always thought she would have plenty of time for love. So why did she suddenly feel being single in her fifties meant she’d be alone for life, and honestly, did she really care? At her age, she was too set in her ways to adapt to being accountable to another human being. If being single was meant to be, she’d get on with it, as she had always done with things beyond her control. She couldn’t dictate the outcome of her research studies without fail either.

She was not the type to hang out in pubs hoping to meet a girl with similar interests, and gay-friendly pubs weren’t exactly abundant. Well-versed in technology, she could at least find like-minded women with the help of the internet at her fingertips. If she wanted to join a lesbian hiking group, no problem. Do a search and voila — walks popped up within a ten to twenty mile radius.

Whatever the case, Roseland wasn’t completely disillusioned with the way her life turned out thus far. Nope, it wasn’t her lack of romantic attachments or stagnant professional aspirations in exchange for steady work that were eating at her gut. Then what was it? Midlife crisis?

Her musings were interrupted by the appearance of a hiking group on another track. As they were wearing red, yellow, blue, or green winter jackets, they were hard to miss. A sprightly bunch of seniors with lots more spring in their step than one would expect at their age, they swung their walking sticks in time to a longer than average, steady stride.

Roseland found satisfaction in observing older adults engaged in athletic activities. It gave her profound hope. Perhaps if her father had exercised more and eaten better, he might still be around, enjoying old age. A quick glance through her binoculars showed that the eldest had to be in her nineties, at the very least. Either that or she was prematurely wrinkled, possibly due to years of exposure to the elements. They marched on, heading in the direction that would take them back to the main road. In forty or so years, Roseland hoped she would be as fit as they seemed, and vowed to never slow down if she could help it.

After an hour or so, the moors were more desolate and devoid of human life than Roseland had ever seen them. Even the sheep not herded and holed up by their owners were lying huddled together on the ground in an effort to keep warm. When the moors were empty, it was as if they belonged to her alone. The last vestiges of warmth from the open fire and steamy hot chocolate at the inn dissipated as a sudden shift in the weather nipped at her nose and chin. The only positive element was how the swift rush of air at her back pushed her up the gradient.

The ground wasn’t muddy, but walking along the uneven terrain was no picnic either. Sometimes the path narrowed, presenting a challenge to not twist an ankle or get a boot caught in a deep crevice, but mostly it was manageable. When it was time to turn back, she would be walking against the wind. It would be a bitch with the bitter cold directly in her face. As if proving her point, a powerful gust of air instantly made her eyes water and her nose run. She dabbed at both with a tissue which was soon too damp to absorb more. Stopping to take a clean Kleenex out of her pocket, she noted that the storm clouds were headed her way at a brisk pace. One thing about the moors, the weather could turn on a sixpence.

Tired and peckish, she realized she would have to stop for lunch soon. Surprised by how quickly she had developed an appetite, she searched around for suitable protection from the elements. Some of the sizable masses of granite had natural overhangs that were large enough to sit under to get out of the rain and wind. It was amazing what a difference four or five degrees made to the perception of temperature on the moors as compared to Teignmouth, for instance. Not surprising with elevations at Princetown at 417 metres compared with 35 metres in Teignmouth.

Roseland sat on a plastic grocery bag while she ate. Something about enjoying a picnic made the slim pickings delightful, despite the miserable weather. She lingered too long and had to force herself back to her feet. The moment she stood, the orange plastic—leave it to Sainsbury’s to select a shopping bag that stood out—took off towards the sky like a kite off its string. It shot up so quickly, there was nothing she could do but watch it fly away.

She sucked in a breath of extremely cold air and turned to face the direction from which she’d come. She could turn back now or keep going in hopes that the conditions would improve so she could finish her hike. She chose to keep going. A short while later, snow, sleet, and rain were pelting her so hard, unforgiving actually, that she couldn’t see a millimetre in front of her. One thing she knew for sure from sheer exertion alone, she was heading toward higher ground. The other thing she knew was that she was hopelessly lost.

She didn’t bother digging in her bag for her cell phone. It was unlikely that there’d be phone service on Dartmoor. She knew she’d already walked over 30,000 steps, and now the path was totally obliterated. Strong winds blew copious amounts of snow around her, while the clouds continued to drop enough of the fluffy stuff to cover the frozen ground in a blinding white. Roseland had never in her life had a greater longing to be sitting on her settee, wrapped in a warm blanket. She pulled the straps of her rucksack tighter, which somehow lent a false sense of security. Panic shook her when she could not get her bearings. If she became even more disoriented as to her direction, she could go down with hypothermia before she found her way back to the inn. Cursing her stubborn resolve to hike under such conditions, she vowed to join a gym rather than hiking on the moors for her exercise if she made it back alive.

Despite the bitter cold, not being able to see, and the weariness that accompanies worry, Roseland toiled on until she’d expended her last ounce of energy. Her muscles simply would not take one more step. She had no idea where she was, but she had to stop and find shelter. It would be dark in a couple of hours, and if it kept snowing, she wouldn’t be able to see the North Hessary Tor BBC transmitter located in the centre of Dartmoor, not far from the prison. It was already impossible to see the satellite aerial—a landmark which helped even the most directionally challenged find their way if they had any sense at all. What a welcome sight it would be! She could walk towards it and know for certain that she wasn’t heading off to the ends of the Earth. Of course she was entirely aware that the Earth was round and it was utter nonsense to think about falling off the “edge.” Maybe delirium had already clouded her judgement.

She drank the last drop of water. Why hadn’t she filled the water reservoir in her backpack to capacity? Or had she drunk her fill whist she wasn’t paying attention? Why hadn’t she brought more high-calorie snacks? The Jammie Dodgers were long gone, a sweet memory, already metabolized. Never mind. “No worries” became her mantra until she felt like kicking the stupid useless words to the curb, had there been a curb. There was always melted snow to drink, so she wouldn’t readily dehydrate. Her teeth chattered at the thought. Roseland forced her legs onward, fearing that if she found a semi-secluded spot to sit and wait out the storm, she might not be able to get up again. As much as she’d welcome a rest, she was too fearful of falling asleep in a blizzard and risking being buried alive.

Glad for the business, she had a stake in it after all, Spence readied the rooms for the elderly hiking group. As luck would have it, some of the guests from the previous night had checked out early, making room for the senior hikers. They were a spry bunch, who knew how to get the most out of life, and as they registered, their stories had made her laugh. They were glad they turned back when they did, and just as happy that there were vacancies at the inn so they could stay the night, as they were parked a fair distance away.

Spence scrubbed the last countertop, wiped the fog off the kitchen window for the third time that day, and glanced out. She had been so busy with unexpected guests, she had not noticed before now that the purple Citroen was still parked in the lot. Spence frowned. The hiker who owned that car should have been back long before now.

“Hey, Colin, have you seen the lady from this morning?”

“Who do you mean?”

“The blonde who ordered hot chocolate. Hers was the only one this morning.”

“Oh, yeah. She was an odd one—very quiet, a serious type, not adventurous like you’d expect for someone who hikes alone.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Have you seen her?”

“No.” He scratched his bald head. “As far as I know, she hasn’t been back here.”

Spence threw her rag on the counter and removed her apron.

Colin tilted his head in confusion. “Where are you going?”

“To look for her.”

“You don’t even know if she’s still out there. She could be holed up in another pub, miles from here. Even if she is still out in the storm, you’ll never find her in this weather.”

“Maybe not, but nobody knows the moors better than I do. If something bad happens and I haven’t at least tried to find her, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Regret flooded over her with a gripping vengeance. She forced the painful thoughts from her mind.

He nodded, wiping the sad expression off his face. “You go on then. I’ll finish up here.”

“Thanks, Col. I hope I’m back in an hour.”

“If you’re not, I’ll send Forensics.”

“Very funny, but it won’t come to that.”

“Be careful.”

“Cheers,” she said. “And bloody behave yourself.”

He laughed at her remark, and she let him get away with it this once as she was in a hurry to collect her gear from her room. As a teen, Spence had joined the rescue unit, where she learned respect for Moorland and developed a deep appreciation for hiking. Her disaster bag was always packed. She had lived in the inn for six years. If she found this woman, it wouldn’t be the first time she had saved some unsuspecting holidaymaker who found him or herself waist high in a bog, suffering from overexposure or sheer exhaustion. People tended to overestimate their capabilities, but they should never underestimate Mother Nature. Moorland was notorious for conditions turning treacherous with little warning.

Using her sleeve, she rubbed snow off the driver’s window of the Citroen so she could peep inside. She had to confirm the owner wasn’t inside, snoozing or worse. It was empty. Stickers affixed to the windscreen told Spence that the woman was a member of the National Trust and English Heritage organizations. Neither membership made her either an avid or brilliant hiker. Spence couldn’t imagine how she could be making any headway in this awful wind without getting blown off the hills.

She set off in the direction she had seen the woman take. Although snow-covered, the gorse and brambles outlined a route she knew by heart, and Spence followed the well-travelled path. Three miles out, there was still no sign of the missing blonde. Determination made her trudge on. After another mile or so, Spence sighted a wobbly entity, seemingly on the brink of falling over. Spence blinked to see through the frost clinging to her eyelashes and, sure enough, the form took on the shape of a human. It had to be the person she was looking for. All the other hikers had turned back. The woman staggered, her body bent over into the wind but barely moving.

Spence ran toward her, calling out, “Hey there. You all right?” But her words were ripped away by the storm.

No answer.

Spence didn’t want to startle her, but she had to reach out and grab her sleeve to get her attention. The woman’s lips looked as if they’d crack if she spoke. How did the elements get to her so quickly? she wondered. She knew she’d have to get her into shelter quickly. If she didn’t, she’d end up carrying her, and that wouldn’t be easy.

She looped her arm around the woman’s waist and hoisted her up on her hip. “We must warm you up. Try not to bend your knees.” She tightened her grip. “I’ll help, but you have to do your part.”

If Spence hadn’t known it was extremely unlikely, she would have thought the woman’s vocal cords were frozen, because she didn’t so much as grunt. Surely there were colder places on the planet, but right then Spence couldn’t think about those. She continued with the monologue.

“I know of a place nearby. It’s boarded up at the minute, but I can get us inside. We’ll make a nice fire to defrost your frozen hands and feet. Are you okay?”

When there was still no answer, Spence filled the quiet. “Forget the cottage, I have a better idea.” Her main concern was to get them indoors before the woman’s legs gave out. Spence kept her voice even, reassuring, like a proper paramedic encouraging a patient. “Twenty minutes more. Go on, you can make it. We’re almost there.”

Spence supported her until they were up on the porch. She sat the weary traveller on the step and propped her up against the building. “Wait here. I’ll go in through a window and be right back.”

Spence was only gone two minutes, but when she opened the door the woman looked to be suffering shock, and Spence literally had to drag her inside. She needed to start a fire, but first she had to get the hiker out of her cold, wet clothes and wrap her in blankets. She removed the outerwear, thankful to find that the clothing beneath was mostly dry. The woman murmured a weak “thanks” as Spence wrapped her up in a woollen blanket which smelled of sheep, dust, and smoke. It would have to do.

When the kindling flared into flickering flames, Spence added logs and soon had the sitting room aglow, and infinitely warmer than the vast outdoors. She found a kettle and wiped it out with a tea towel as there was no running water. The house hadn’t been plumbed. There probably wasn’t a need, as the most likely visitors would just be there to spend a night before continuing their trek.

She filled the kettle with snow to melt for tea. In addition to tea bags, her food ration bag was filled with Digestive biscuits, energy drinks and bars, nuts, seeds and dried fruit, coffee granules, and dried milk. As the water heated, she did a brief inspection and found that the last group to use it had left a bag of crisps that were well within the “use by” date. They must have left in a hurry, because they had left a few bottles of ale behind. Those will come in handy, Spence thought. Although she didn’t really like to leave Colin on his own overnight, she knew he and his wife Jean could manage without her. She just liked to think they couldn’t.

Spence took two mugs from the cupboard and cleaned them out as best as she could without running water or Fairy dishwashing liquid. The antique gas stove was only good for show, so she made do with the fire. When the tea was steeped, Spence raised the steamy brew up to the hiker’s mouth. Her lips parted eagerly. The woman appeared to be thawing nicely. “Careful, it’s hot.”

“Thank you.” She tentatively accepted a sip and then reached out to take the mug into her own hands. Their eyes met and held while Roseland took tiny sips. “Thank you, this is wonderful.”

Spence offered a few Digestives. They ate and drank in silence. Once finished, Spence held out her hand. The woman’s fingers were like ice, but her smile was warm.

“I’m Spence, and I have to say that you’re looking much better than when I first found you.”

“Thanks to you, I’m feeling much better. I’m Roseland by the way. Very nice to meet you, Spence.”

“What possessed you to go hiking alone in this weather?”

“Well, I could bore you with my life story, but it was all down to stubborn pride as much as me not wanting to miss out on my walk. I suppose I thought I could weather any storm.”

“You probably could, but the moors can also be an unforgiving adversary.”

“How ever did you find me?”

“I used to volunteer with Dartmoor Search and Rescue. I followed a hunch, and lucky for you I was right.”

“Lucky for me, indeed. I don’t know what happened, really. One minute I was fine, and the next I had lost my bearings. Dizziness hit me quite quickly, my vision blurred, and I found it impossible to concentrate. I was cold and hungry. My blood sugar plummeted at the worst possible time, making me feel colder. And to top it off, I had a hot flash, which heated me up, but the resultant sweat cooled me down fast.” Roseland flushed deep red. “Oops, I apologize. Too much information.”

“No worries. I’m getting them too. Symptoms started in my late forties and weren’t too bothersome, but now I’m fifty-six and they give me quite a start at night. It’s a nightmare waking up soaked. I hope it’s gone long before I turn sixty.”

“Tell me about it. I’m fifty-three and hoping it ends much sooner than sixty. Are there any more Digestives please?”

“Plenty.” Spence handed her a package of biscuits.

“Did you know Digestives were first developed by two Scottish doctors in 1839 to aid in digestion?”

“No, I didn’t.” Spence smiled as she chewed, listening to more facts about the UK’s most popular biscuit than she’d ever cared about knowing. “You are a walking, talking encyclopaedia.”

Roseland blushed again. “You’ve caught me out for being a bore.”

Spence was captivated by the fact that Roseland’s flawless light skin made it impossible for her to hide her embarrassment. Captivated by how lovely a blush looked in contrast to the blonde hair, Spence found it impossible to imagine that Roseland could ever be a bore.

“Stop me before I really get carried away,” Roseland teased.

“No need. I’m enjoying these biscuits a lot more now that I have this wealth of fascinating facts at my disposal. Thank you for that.” She deliberately chose “fascinating” instead of “useless” to describe the information, as she did not want to offend her companion. Spence typically didn’t care about things such as tact, but Roseland made her want to keep her curt remarks to herself.

“Had I planned ahead,” Roseland said, “I’d have brought more food, but I didn’t expect to be gone quite so long. It’s like I ate my sandwich and snacks hours ago.”

“You did, unless it was dark when you had lunch.”

“No, it was still light out, but… Wait, what time is it now?”

“It’s gone seven. Been dark since half-four at least.”

“No wonder I was knackered and famished.”

“Amazing you weren’t unconscious.”

“You just barely saved me before that happened.”

“Someone left beer and crisps. We could share.”

“Goody. The sodium chloride, er…salt in the crisps will help. Can’t say the same for alcohol, but hops come from plants and are sometimes used in medications. Sugar is fortifying too.”

“Who says ‘goody’?”

Roseland blushed again. “I guess I do.”

They ate and drank, and merriment rising from relief filled the room. Drinking alcohol on a nearly empty stomach combined with swapping stories and jokes soon had Roseland yawning, unable to stop. Yawning was contagious. Spence and Roseland were soon in a fit of giggles whilst having a yawning competition. It was no contest; Roseland proved to be far sleepier.

Spence added more logs to the fire, thankful that there was a healthy supply, and then she joined Roseland, who was lying on her side, barely able to keep her eyes open but obviously trying her best. The sound of crackling flames and the way it made Roseland’s eyes glisten as the fire slowly turned the logs to ash just moments before she fell fast asleep touched a romantic chord in Spence. She was not usually a mush, but Roseland had that power over her for reasons Spence tried to ignore. The first rule of rescue was to not take advantage of a damsel in distress.

She laughed at herself for comparing Roseland to a damsel, as well as knowing bloody well she herself wasn’t exactly the knight in shining armour. In this particular situation, anyone would have done the same. The salacious thoughts had to be the result of the beer, and the close proximity to a woman who, under ordinary circumstances would intrigue her. There was a secret part of Roseland that Spence could easily infiltrate, given the opportunity. But Spence held little hope of that. Besides, she had to finish her BSc in hotel management and concentrate on the inn rather than putting her energy into a relationship.

Spence knelt on the blanketed floor, surprised to find that Roseland had drawn her knees up close to her chest in the perfect spooning position, as if they had done this a million times before. At first Spence felt awkward about it, but in no time at all it seemed natural that they share the woollen blanket, lying bum to tummy for warmth—two strangers doing what was needed to survive the long, cold night. The last sound Spence heard before succumbing to sleep was the unrelenting howling of the wind.

When Spence woke, she gazed down at Roseland, taking in her features as she slept. She fought the urge to smooth the tangles of her blonde bob and touch her wind-burnt cheeks and red-tipped nose. It was lucky she had found the woman in time. Had hypothermia set in, there was no telling whether she could have been saved.

Spence didn’t have the heart to wake Roseland, who clearly needed her sleep. Roseland’s chest rose and fell peacefully, her breathing rhythmic, and Spence soon found her own breathing slowing to match. It would have been nice to wait with her until she woke, but Spence had to get back to the inn. She couldn’t leave Colin and Jean with all those stranded hikers depending on them for breakfast. She started a small fire, figuring it should burn for a while. After the breakfast rush, she would come back to collect Roseland.

The next morning, Roseland woke with a start. She had a vague recollection of eerie images that had flickered in the fire light on the paint-chipped walls, but not for long. Her lids had been too heavy to remain open. Now that she was awake, she became painfully aware of her pounding headache, and that she had no idea where she was or how she had gotten there. She didn’t even know what day it was. The embers of the fire smouldered, close to extinction. She saw a stack of logs and rose to fetch one, shivering when the blanket fell to the floor. She hefted two small logs, placed them in the hearth, and fanned the embers. The flame quickly caught on the dry bark, and soon the fire was blazing. Her memory came back like a light coming on. There was a woman, Spence, and she had saved her from frostbite…and worse. And it was the woman’s comforting embrace that had sent her off to dreamland.

“Spence?” she called. When there was no answer, Roseland went to look for her. She checked out the kitchen and two bedrooms, each of which was outfitted with Army issue style bunk beds. Spence was not in the house. Perhaps she had gone outside to fetch more snow for the kettle. Roseland heaved open the solid oak front door and peered out. Blinding sunshine reflected off the snow, and she squinted until her pupils could adjust. In the distance, she saw a farmer.

“Hello. You there, hello.” Her warm breath condensed in the cold air.

He turned to face her. His scruffy white beard and weathered face resembled those that appeared in photos in news clippings from days gone by.

“Have you seen a woman about my height, medium build, with dark hair and eyeglasses pass by? She’s wearing a dark jacket, navy, I think, and her name is Spence.”

“Nope. Nobody here but me and the sheep.” He turned and continued checking his stock that had spent the night outside.

Belatedly, Roseland thought it very odd that there weren’t any prints in the snow, not even the marks of sheep hooves. Weird that. She turned to go back into the house, then stole one last glance at the farmer. A shiver ran along her spine. Standing as still as a stone, she blinked. He was nowhere in sight. It was as if he had vanished, just like Spence.

Why didn’t Spence leave a note, or wake her up to say goodbye? That was downright rude. Why had the woman rescued her only to leave her there alone? It didn’t make sense, and Roseland liked things to make sense.

Back inside, the house felt cold despite the fire. She dreaded going back outside, but she needed to gather more snow if she was going to have a cup of tea before she tried to hike back to her car. Luckily there was one tea bag remaining. She polished off the rest of the Digestives and drank her tea, knowing that before long, she would have to relieve herself. Outdoors. She shivered at the thought. The farmhouse wouldn’t have a working indoor toilet with the main water supply shut off.

She washed out her mouth with snow and yelped at the pain it caused her sensitive teeth, another badge of honour of aging. Then she rinsed out the mug, threw the empty biscuit and crisps wrappers in her bag to dispose of later, folded the blanket, snuffed out the fire as thoroughly as she could, and left the farmhouse as close as she could to how they’d found it. Only the smell of smoke lingered. The sun had melted some of the snow that had obscured her pathway back to the car. She could have used sunglasses, but didn’t have any with her. She rarely thought about that when hiking on the moors, since it was more often than not cloudy, foggy, or raining.

The path was now detectable, but still she found it odd that there were no footprints in the pristine snow. Roseland trudged towards the carpark, recalling how much better she had felt once she’d thawed out. Talking with Spence had been the highlight of the adventure. The woman had an infectious smile and a carefree attitude, and seemed capable of performing miracles. It was a shame she took off before Roseland got to thank her properly. A different type of loneliness descended upon Roseland. It was as if her heart swelled at the mere thought of Spence, but then that buoyancy was closely followed by a suffocating sensation. Something wasn’t right. She had to stop to catch her breath. Roseland didn’t remember the last time she had longed for or needed companionship, certainly not the company of another woman, but Spence had sparked an interest she had long ignored.

By the time Roseland dug out her keys to unlock her Citroen, the carpark was chock-o-block. Moor Sheep and Dartmoor Pony Inn was heaving with patrons, and they were spilling out onto the snow-covered lawn adjacent to the carpark. It wasn’t until she noticed a blushing bride shivering by the gazebo that she realized a wedding reception was underway. The unfortunate bride had bright red cheeks from the cold, but she looked radiant. Roseland decided against stopping in for a quick meal, or even a hot drink. Truth be told, she wasn’t in the mood for being surrounded by a party of revellers while she was all alone, feeling deflated over not seeing Spence. All she wanted was the comfort of her own home, a hot bath, and a long sleep in her own bed.

Roseland toyed with the idea of taking some time off. It had been a year since she had been on holiday. Weekend excursions were usually enough to rejuvenate her, but quite unexpectedly, Roseland found herself suffering from an overwhelming weariness. She blamed her sudden fatigue on a drastic reduction in the stress hormones that had kept her going during her overexposure. She needed a break. She would go home, regroup, and then come back to find Spence. The least she could do was to appropriately thank the woman who had saved her life. She would not be deterred by the fact that she had no idea where to find Spence. Roseland didn’t know anything about her other than her first name, and that stirrings rose in her intimate places just envisioning her hero, Spence. Medium length dark hair, dreamy dark eyes behind fashionable glasses, strong jaw and angular features all combined with a strong personality and potent sex appeal to make for an unforgettable woman. Her most alluring attribute of all was her seductive lips. Kissable lips…capable hands…sharp wit…

Stop it, right now, Roseland, or I shall have to spank you, she scolded herself.

 

First thing Monday morning, she requested a private moment with her line manager.

“Hiya. You asked to see me?” Becks looked up and waved her inside. “Come in, and do sit down.”

Roseland sat next to her boss. She appreciated the fact that Becks trusted her staff to do the right thing and only interfered when necessary for the benefit of the team.

“I know it’s short notice, but I was hoping to take some paid leave.”

“Well, it’s about time Roseland. You are looking a bit rough around the edges. I dare say you could do with a rest. When do you want?”

“As soon as possible, please.”

“Not a problem.” She took out the annual leave binder and opened to Roseland’s blank sheet. As Becks shuffled through the pages, she briefly glanced over at Roseland, who immediately sat up straighter. “Can you wait a fortnight, okay?”

“Yes, that will be perfect. Thank you.”

Roseland’s spirits lifted. She was going to find Spence.

When her vacation began, Roseland spent three days on the trot, driving to Princetown. She was repeatedly disappointed to find that nobody had heard of Spence, and when she’d finally come upon the farmhouse where they had stayed, it was still locked up. Roseland vowed she would never quit searching. Maybe she could find something helpful at the local library. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? There was bound to be some information about the farmhouse that she hadn’t already learned off the Web. It made sense that the farmhouse was rented out to visitors, mostly teen tours, as a place to stay along designated hiking routes. That explained the ready supply of logs, matches, and simple amenities including unopened beer, no doubt left by hikers lightening their loads before resuming their walk. There were bits and pieces of the house’s history to be learned online, but it would be helpful to check the local library for more in-depth, perhaps even insider information.

During the week, Roseland stopped at a reputable hiking shop for thermal underwear, a new pair of hiking boots, heavy gauge socks, hand-warmers, and a spare pair of waterproof, lined trousers. The following weekend, she filled her backpack to full capacity. When she found Spence, she would impress her with how well-equipped and ready for a hike she was as compared to the day they met.

She could not stop thinking about Spence, wondering what she was doing at that moment. Was Spence thinking about her, too? Would she ever see Spence again? Of course she would. She was on a mission to find the mysterious woman who had saved her life and captivated her mind, and possibly her heart. Surely somebody knew who Spence was. But whom?

 

Dartmoor was much less travelled in the winter, especially on weekdays. The weather was milder, but some snow still lingered and there was a damp chill in the air. Each season featured a diverse assortment of vegetation with Gorse the only constant, its vibrant yellow flowers forever in bloom. She enjoyed the drive to Princetown when it was unspoilt by traffic. While it was a photo opportunity to occasionally find cows or sheep lounging on the tarmac, the novelty quickly wore off when it proved difficult to get them to move out of the way.

Driving conditions were less ideal when she shared the road with tractors, caravans, SUVs, lorries and hesitant drivers unused to the winding and narrow lanes. Oversized vehicles, bikers and hikers made traveling along single-track country lanes frustrating and dangerous. It was unusual for the roads to be as empty as they were on this trip, but she didn’t want to jinx it by being too grateful.

Roseland arrived at her destination sooner than she’d expected and parked along the road outside a local convenience shop. Inside, it was overcrowded with aisles of food, sundries, beer and wine. There was a small post office in the back, but the clerk was nowhere in sight, so Roseland asked the young man at the till if he knew a local woman named Spence, and where she might find the library. It was odd, but he had no idea about either, so she purchased a bottle of J2O orange and passion fruit juice and returned to the car. There was a couple having a drink and a fag at a picnic table. She stopped to see if they could help her.

“Excuse me, but do you happen to live around here?”

“Not far. Why do you ask?”

“I’m looking for a woman named Spence. Do you know her?”

“Can’t say that we do. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. By any chance, do you know where the local library is?”

They shook their heads, and Roseland thanked them for their time and moved on.

After speaking to a third person who hadn’t a clue whether there was a library and had never heard of anyone named Spence, Roseland began to believe that no one knew where the library was, or how to give her directions that she could easily follow. She had begun to doubt its existence when she stumbled upon a dated building that looked like an old house but functioned as the public library, town hall, and meeting centre all in one.

The librarian could have been a throwback to the last century, and the books were rife with mold, dust, and mildew. Roseland sneezed a few times, but soon her immune system quieted down.

“Hello. I’m interested in the history of the farmhouse not far from Nun’s Cross Farm.”

The man looked at her over the rim of his spectacles, eyeing Roseland suspiciously at first and then letting down his guard a notch. He cleared his throat, but when he spoke, Roseland wondered whether he had sandpaper for vocal cords.

“I’m George Hariford. What is it you’d like to know?” he asked.

“Hello, Mr Hariford. I’m Roseland. Pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m after general information, mostly about the local inhabitants. Who owned the farmhouse, when it changed hands and ended up a lodge for hikers, that sort of thing.”

“I can tell you the Nun’s Cross Farm is the last remaining structure of a property that was farmed…in the 1950s, I believe. The Royal Navy later took it over for training purposes, but it now belongs to the Duchy of Cornwall, which leases it out to private organizations. But that’s not what you’re after, is it?”

“No. I read about that on-line. It was dark when I first saw the farm, but actually I’m thinking I may have come upon another house in the vicinity, maybe not this one. Is there more than one farmhouse nearby?”

The man’s thoughts appeared to retreat to some faraway place. It seemed ages before he returned to continue their conversation.

“You say it was dark when you walked past it?”

Roseland didn’t want to admit that she had spent the night in case she and Spence would be considered intruders. “Yes.”

“It’s possible that the place you mean is the old warren house. It was owned by a woman named Spencer.”

Roseland couldn’t believe her luck, finally a mention of someone named Spencer. “Do you know where I can find her?”

“In the old graveyard by—”

“Pardon?” Roseland sputtered. “What do you mean, graveyard?”

“She died of injuries and exposure six years ago. She was lost in a storm, and Search and Rescue failed to find her in time.” He shook his head. “Tragic. Such a shame, really. She was very well liked and is sorely missed.”

Roseland gasped. She collected her emotions, and when she could trust her voice, she said, “How sad. What happened to the house after that?”

“The house is rented out, much like the Duchy’s but not as often. It’s leased to private adventure type groups as an alternative to Nun’s. There’s hearsay from those who have stayed there that it’s haunted, if you believe in such things. Myself, I have my doubts, but Dartmoor is rife with legends.”

All this time, Roseland had thought she had spent the night at Nun’s Cross Farm, but actually she had stayed somewhere nearly three kilometres away. No wonder she hadn’t been having any luck finding Spence. She had been searching in the wrong area.

It was a long shot, but she had to ask. “Would you happen to have any articles or maybe the local newspaper report of the circumstances surrounding Ms Spencer’s death?”

“As a matter of fact, we keep archives dating back to the eighteen hundreds. Most of the local newspapers are stored on microfilm, but those were sent off to Exeter to be uploaded using modern computer programs. We’ve kept the original newspapers. They aren’t in the best of condition, mind, but you’re welcome to have a look. This way, Miss, please. Watch your step.”

Roseland followed him to an overstocked storage room underneath a set of stairs. Roseland’s heart sank. She couldn’t imagine finding anything in all of the mess. Mr. Hariford hadn’t exactly employed a suitable filing system and his care of the archives was less than impeccable, a lot less. Thick dust wafted up as they walked, which started a new sneezing fit until her eyes and nose were running faster than she could wipe them with a tissue. She mostly ignored the nuisance as she anticipated what she was about to discover, if he could locate what he was looking for. She was determined to remain hopeful.

Using an old woollen cloth that was lying on the table, he wiped off the cover of an old scrapbook that held clippings, some tattered and others in better condition. After a while, when Roseland was beginning to think that she’d die of impatience, he produced a torn clipping of the obituary of Olivia Elizabeth Victoria Spencer, 8 April 1959 to 31 January 2009. As the person was reportedly well thought of, it was strange they hadn’t protected the copy.

Roseland examined it closely. The paper had yellowed, but thankfully hadn’t faded beyond readability. Unfortunately, all that was left of the original obituary was a photo, the deceased’s name, and the years of her birth and death. There in black and white was a picture of Spence—the spitting image, only younger. She hadn’t changed that much. Only now she was just a little sadder around the eyes. Roseland glanced at the dates again. Had Olivia Spencer survived, she would have been fifty-six, the same age as Spence.

Chills ran down Roseland’s spine. The woman in the photo and the woman she had met in the warren had similar names—at least if the Spence she met went by a shortened version of her surname, and they shared a likeness, plus, they were the same age. This was too many similarities to be coincidence. If Olivia Spencer was dead, then who was Spence? Of course she could be a relative. But then why, other than looking in the wrong location, was Roseland having such a job of tracking Spence down? If she was still alive, then unquestionably somebody would have known her. And people claimed the house was haunted…

Surely this train of thought was preposterous! Then she remembered the eerie noises she’d heard before she fell asleep that night in the warren, and a shiver ran through her.

“Thank you so much for your trouble.” She handed back the clipping and then hastily climbed the stairs.

Roseland couldn’t bring herself to believe the unbelievable. Reviewing the facts once more in her mind, she sorted through them, intent on finding a reasonable solution. A fool proof explanation. A scientific deduction.

Spence had saved her. They had spent the night together but, come morning, Spence had vanished without a word or even a note. Why would she leave without at least saying goodbye? That made no sense at all. There was another explanation, but surely a scientifically minded person would be hard pressed to even entertain the remotest possibility that she had actually imagined the entire thing, or, even more improbable, that Spence had been a ghost.

Roseland knew she had been suffering from dehydration and possibly a touch of hypothermia that day, definite hypoglycaemia, and a bothersome hot flash, but surely she hadn’t been hallucinating. Conjuring up an alluring, entertaining and unforgettable woman sounded wonderful, but fantasies were something she rarely, if ever, engaged in. Besides, she was lucid that night, once she’d gotten warmed up and had food and drink in her belly. Which was all thanks to Spence.

A ludicrous thought insistently pushed its way through her native practicality and clamoured for consideration: What if the warren house was indeed haunted? Plenty of observers had reported such sightings. Had she been saved by a ghost?

Suddenly spooked, she tried to shake away the notion, casting about for a rational explanation as to how she had ended up in that safe harbour and why her saviour was now proving difficult to find. Maybe it was because she was dead.

Roseland made her way out of the library in a daze, tripping over her own feet on the bottom step. She had to locate the right house this time, had to see if she could have gotten inside on her own. Wishful thinking also had her imagining that Spence would be there. It was another silly thought, but there was no harm in trying to establish facts. She had to prove to herself there was no such thing as ghosts, but it wasn’t like she could conduct a controlled study on the matter that would definitively say there were or weren’t spirits. That would be like trying to prove the existence of God.

There was a chance, whether she cared to believe it or not, that she had been so delirious she had hallucinated being rescued by a fetching woman who made her blush. It wasn’t the sort of thing that happened to her, ever. She would go home and do another search in the Ordinance survey to find the Spencer house. She would start at the Moor Sheep and Dartmoor Pony Inn.

The next morning Roseland parked in the same exact spot where she had parked before beginning her hike that fateful day. She gathered up her fully loaded Osprey backpack and set off. The weather was pleasant, and the ramble was a lot less difficult than the last time she had ventured there.

When she arrived at her destination, she was truly amazed. The house was similar to Nun’s Cross Farm, but in the light of day, now that she was paying attention, there were noticeable differences. The morning she had trekked back to the parking lot, she hadn’t registered the details of the warren, as her mind had been focused on why Spence had left her without a word, and on getting back to her car.

Performing a thorough inspection, Roseland checked every possible entry point into the building. There was no hidden key that she could find, no way she could have entered the Spencer house without someone’s help. She would have had to break a window to get in, and there was no sign of damage. Also, she clearly remembered going inside through the front door.

After many unsuccessful tries, she came to the inescapable conclusion that she could not break in if her life depended on it. That much was certain, but many unanswered questions remained.

She still hadn’t washed the clothes she had been wearing on that hike. Her outer clothes and hair had smelled distinctly musty, with lingering hints of smoke from the open fire, and the garments underneath held hints of Spence’s cologne from sleeping in her embrace. If Spence hadn’t rescued her, then how had she survived the storm? How had she ended up with Digestive crumbs in her bra when she was positive she had taken along Jammie Dodgers? It wasn’t unusual to find crumbs in her shirt or bra. She laughed, ashamed to admit that she could be a bit untidy when she ate, especially after a few drinks. Once she had found half a crisp in her bra after suffering half the night with a scratchy, low cut blouse.

Roseland wished she could get inside the warren, but she wouldn’t break in. She sat on the front step and ate her apple while devising her next move. Finally, she shrugged. There was only one course of action for her—she would keep coming back, on the off chance that one day Spence, living or dead, would be there when she returned.

 

Roseland labelled the path she ritually took “the Nun’s Cross hike” to avoid confusing it with the “Warren House Inn hike” she often took starting at Bennet’s Cross. Time and time again, she would have a picnic on the porch of the house, and then venture beyond, to check out the tors, until she knew the area like the back of her hand. Each outing resulted in the same outcome—there was no sign of Spence, not even a ghost sighting.

By that time, Roseland would have happily entertained any indication that she had, in fact, met an otherworldly being, but there was none. Occasionally she saw the sheep farmer, who offered nothing more than a quick nod before he skittered off as if he was hiding from the authorities. He wasn’t a chatty type, and if he minded her traipsing past his herd, he never said. It was a public right of way, after all; he didn’t have to like it. But still, he was polite enough.

Disappointment caused Roseland to use her spare time for reading everything she could find on the subject of ghosts. There were too many accounts to study them all, but the consistent thread of what she read was that meeting a ghost was not an impossibility. Convinced it was only a matter of time until she saw the object of her fantasies and thoughts, Roseland vowed that she would never stop searching. She opened her heart and mind to belief, hoping beyond hope that if she was completely receptive, she’d see Spence again.

The Dartmoor Sheep and Pony Inn was filled to capacity. In the midst of a Sunday carvery roast dinner rush, Spence was calmly going about seeing that each diner was happy with their meal.

“Spence, call for you,” Colin hollered above the din.

Assessing the loud buzz of conversation, clinking of silver on plates, crackling of the fire, and the groaning of a dishwasher on the fritz, Spence went into her office and closed the door.

“Spence here.”

“Miss Spencer? It’s Rachel.”

Spence swallowed the lump that formed in her throat and forced herself to ask the question to which she did not want an answer. “What’s up, Rachel?”

“It’s your mum.”

Her mum had been in a nursing care facility, receiving physical therapy after a bad fall. Her hip had mended, and she just needed to regain her strength. She was supposed to be home in a few weeks’ time. Nobody, least of all Spence, had expected the otherwise healthy woman to go downhill so quickly. Spence visited her as often as she could and had seen her just last week. Now she knew the news couldn’t be good. Why else would the senior sister be calling her from the rehab unit of the nursing home? “Is she…?”

“She’s asking for you. You need to get here as soon as you can. Her kidneys are failing, and it won’t be long before she suffers multi-organ failure as well.”

“I can be there in a few hours. Please tell her I’m on my way, will you?”

“Of course.”

Spence put the phone back on the cradle with exaggerated care, as if to not shatter the plastic receiver by slamming it down. She would not allow herself to succumb to the fear of losing her mother, her last remaining relative. She told Colin the news, and he ushered her towards the staircase.

“Go to her, Spence, and stay with her. Jean and I will hold down the fort.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, now go. Just don’t go speeding. And keep your head about you.”

When Spence arrived, she found that her mother had been transferred to hospital. Stepping into her mother’s room full of life-prolonging machines that beeped maddening brought home the reality of having death on one’s doorstep. But Spence refused to let go of her mum. She plastered on a bright outlook and breezed over to her bedside, clasping the cold metal railing to hold herself up.

A drastic change had taken place in Silvia. She wore terminal pallor and had a skeletal appearance, except for her distended abdomen. Spence wanted to look away. She wanted to cling to the vision of her mother all strong, and stoic, and indomitable, even in the face of this tragedy. Spence had never even seen her mother cry. Until now.

There were tears in her mum’s eyes, and they spilled over onto her cheeks. The paper thin skin showed the tiny veins just beneath the surface, and it looked as if her mum’s tears were following little tributaries towards the gorge that was her full mouth—the only feature Spence had inherited from her mother besides her will of steel.

Spence held it together as long as she could, but the anguish of seeing her mother cry was more than she could bear. Spence broke down and, quite extraordinarily, Silvia didn’t tell her to butch up and stop blubbering. They both had a limitless store of unshed tears to expend.

Spence visited every day, spending hours by her mum’s side. They allowed her to be at her mother’s bedside in the intensive care unit well past normal visiting hours.

 

Spence spent the rest of the winter and into early spring in her childhood home with all its memories, and its familiar scents. Her mum had not tried to persuade Spence to move back; rather she asked her daughter to sell the house and use the proceeds as she wished. Unfortunately, the building was in a state of disrepair, so, per her mother’s last wishes, she stuck around to do such renovations as she could. Spence found herself immersed in the project of getting the house and property into better shape so that it was marketable, perhaps even lucrative. The money would help Spence purchase the inn from Colin and Jean when they were ready to retire. Her mum would surely approve.

Halloween was near, and Roseland decided that the day that was notable for entertaining ghosts and goblins, even if they were fabricated using convincing costumes, was as good a time as any for her habitual hike to Nun’s Cross. Trick-or-treating on Halloween was gaining popularity in Britain. The last few years she had even bought sweeties for the children who rang the bell. Leaving an ample stash of goodies by the front door, Roseland greeted a couple of convincing “ghosts” on her way out. The twins from next door were wearing stark white sheets with holes cut out for eyes, nose, and mouth.

But she had not yet encountered her own personal ghost. It had been almost a year with no sign of Spence. While Roseland still held on to hope, she mostly continued to go just to enjoy the walks as she ventured further and further, until one day she had actually made it to Clitter Hill on Fur Tor.

She longed to share that experience. How wonderful it would be to view the incredible landscape with Spence. If only she would come back, even if it was only to haunt her. If ghosts existed, there seemed no better day to discover one than on Halloween.

As she walked the well-known route, Roseland found herself constantly talking out loud, as if carrying on a monologue with the woman who had saved her and who seemed to be with her at all times, watching over her, keeping her safe. It was irrational, she knew that, and yet she could not help believing she would see Spence again one day. Busy admiring the fungi and what a good year they were having, Roseland was surprised to look up and see the now-familiar house in the distance.

“That was quick,” she said aloud.

The sheep nearby ran away as she approached. Little lambs bleated in response to their mums’ warnings, but like naughty children, they ran off in the opposite direction.

“I’m getting fitter, I can feel it,” she told a sheep that was too busy eating grass to look up.

When Roseland was only a few feet away from the house, she stopped dead. She blinked several times, even closed her eyes for a moment to be sure her vision was clear. When she looked again, there was Spence in all her glory, busily putting in new windows. Before her mind could fully register what she was seeing, her legs took off at a trot. Her thoughts tumbled: She’s dead. I saw her picture in the paper. They don’t print obituaries about the living.

But her eyes told a different story. This woman in the house was indeed the woman who had saved her, and she was either there in the flesh or a ghost after all. Otherwise how would I have found this shelter in the first place? She brought me here, Roseland assured herself. “Imagine that!”

Roseland was not fussed. She would take Spence any way she could get her—in the flesh or in spirit.

“Spence,” she called.

Spence stopped hammering and turned to face her. She waved a greeting. Soon they were standing face-to-face. Spence was every bit as handsome as Roseland remembered. Perhaps there was a sadness around her eyes that was more pronounced than before, but she appeared to be very happy to see her.

An awkward moment ensued, as if neither knew what to say, but then Spence smiled. “Hello, Roseland.”

Roseland was dumbstruck. Spence looked very real, but maybe the sun was blinding her perception of reality, because honestly, how on Earth could she be talking to a ghost? She had to get a grip. This just wasn’t happening. She suddenly felt foolish, not only for believing in ghosts, but for thinking she was actually seeing one.

So, she did the only thing that made sense; she poked Spence. Shocked when her finger met flesh and bone, Roseland poked her again.

“What are you doing?” Spence’s tone was more amused than annoyed.

“But…you’re dead. I saw it for myself. There’s an obituary with your picture in the local paper. You died six years ago.” Roseland shook her head, hope warring with disbelief. “I’ve wanted to believe in ghosts, but now I just think that I’m losing my mind.” Roseland poked Spence one more time, just to be sure.

“Stop doing that. I’m not a ghost, Roseland. Come here, you’re shaking.” Spence gently clasped her trembling arms. “Look at me.”

Roseland opened her eyes and stared, waiting for an explanation. It wasn’t long in coming.

“What you saw was a photo of Olivia, my sister.”

“The clipping had your picture,” Roseland insisted.

“My identical twin. Olivia died six years ago. I’m Leila. I tried to save her, the entire team did, but…”

Roseland shook off her shock in order to comfort Spence. She pulled the distraught woman to her, and they hugged for a long while.

When Spence had finished telling her the entire story, both women were sobbing. Her heart breaking for Spence, Roseland cried over Spence’s grief at being unable to save her sister and for the recent passing of her mum, but she also cried over the loss of her own parents and grandparents, and Trixie, too.

When the catharsis subsided, Roseland and Spence went into the house. Compared to the first time she had first seen it, Roseland thought that the little house looked more lived in. It needed a lot more work, but it was clearly looking homier.

“Care for a cup of tea and some Digestives?”

“Yes, please. I dare say I’ve become a bit of a Digestives fan.” Roseland was grateful to engage in such a normal activity to relieve the tension. There was nothing a cuppa couldn’t cure.

The two talked and talked over a pot of tea and a packet of biscuits.

“I’m sorry I didn’t stay to say goodbye that morning, but I needed to get back to the inn to help with the breakfast rush,” Spence said regretfully.

“But you didn’t even wake me. Why?”

“You were sleeping so peacefully, and after all you’d been through, I decided it was best to let you sleep.” Spence’s eyes held a faraway look, the corners of her mouth turning up subtly, but visibly, as if recalling a pleasant memory. “I planned to come back to collect you after helping my boss with breakfast. I should have figured you wouldn’t wait for me.”

“After that night, I tried tirelessly to find you, but nobody out this way knew you. How stupid of me. Now I could kick myself for not going inside that inn with the ridiculously long name.”

They both laughed.

“Don’t be hard on yourself. By the time I finished work, your car was no longer in the lot. There was no point looking for you then. I wondered if you’d come back for another hot chocolate, but you never did. A month or so later, I got a call about my mum, and left straight away to be with her. I never thought I’d be gone as long as I was, but I was happy to be with Mum until the end. I never had that with Livvy.”

Roseland frowned and forced herself to take another sip of her tea. “Why are you here now?”

“I sold Mum’s house, which was worth a lot more than I expected. Part of the money will cover renovating this place as a permanent residence. Mum received a fair bit of trade with hikers, but Nun’s Cross Farm gets the majority of lodgers, without question, so I may as well use a perfectly good dwelling that holds many fond memories, including the night I found you.”

Roseland was touched to her very core. “That’s very sweet. It was a great night for me, too. So, you work at the inn.”

“Yes, it’s what inspired me to study hotel management and get my licence. I want to own Moor Sheep and Dartmoor Pony Inn—”

“Crickey. Pardon me for saying so, but honestly, that name’s a mouthful,” Roseland interjected.

“Exactly. After I purchase the property and business, you can bet I’ll change the name straight away. I’m just waiting until Colin and Jean are ready to sell. In the meantime, it’s ideal to work and live there while I finish my course work. I can always rent this place out to friends and family rather than hiking groups.”

“What a brilliant idea.”

“I’m mostly doing this in Mum and Sis’ memory. They would have wanted me to keep the place in the family.”

“It’s a wonderful tribute. And will be a lovely home.”

“I have to have it plumbed. It’s not habitable for long term use without toilets, running water, and a cooker. I’m doing most of the renovations myself, but the major plumbing, electrical and roofing I’m leaving to professionals.”

“Isn’t it dear to get hooked up to a water supply up here?”

“Yes, but even though it will cost a bundle, getting planning permission was a bigger undertaking. I was lucky. The council granted permission as long as I leave the exterior as a proper warren house and keep the grounds unspoilt. That’s not a problem. I hope you’ll holiday here with me once it’s sorted.”

Roseland clapped her hands like a young girl whose dreams had just come true. “I would love that.” Quite spontaneously, she leaned in and placed a firm kiss on Spence’s tantalising lips.

Spence lifted Roseland right off the chair, wrapped her in a tight embrace, and deepened their kiss in a way that could only be described as “out-of-this-world amazing.”

At last Roseland said, “After you left that morning, I met an old farmer hanging around the sheep out there.” She pointed past the front gate. “I inquired, but he was adamant that he hadn’t seen you. Something peculiar, though. When I started my walk back to the car park, I noticed that there weren’t any footprints, or hoof prints, in the snow out there in the field. It was creepy. I thought I was hallucinating. I hope not.”

Spence raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Can you describe him?”

Roseland did the best she could with what she could dredge up from her memory, then Spence pulled an old almanac from the bookcase in the sitting room.

“Is this him?” She showed Roseland a photo.

“Yes! That’s definitely him.”

“Read the date, please.”

Roseland gasped. The farmer had been dead nearly two hundred years. “Did he have a twin brother?”

A gruff voice forestalled Spence’s reply, and Roseland jumped. Sure enough, there by the hearth stood the farmer, as clear as day. Spence grasped her hand and held it tightly, and they stood as if turned to granite.

“Nope, no twin, just me!” Then the farmer disappeared the way he had appeared—instantly, soundlessly.

Spence cracked a smile. “He’s been haunting my family for as long as I can remember. Harmless, though.”

“I’m a scientist. I do not believe in ghosts, but perhaps I can conduct a study on this one. I’ll have a think on it.”

“You do that.”

Spence smiled and Roseland melted all over again. “What happened to him?”

“We believe he suffered critical injuries after an altercation with a nasty cow. Farmers get killed by cows more often than people think.”

“I’ve heard that. But why would he be haunting your family home?”

“Apparently he worked for my great-great-great-great— Aw, you get the idea. One day he got too close to a cow protecting her calf. They did all they could to nurse him back to health, but pneumonia got him in the end.”

Roseland was fascinated. If she hadn’t seen and heard the old farmer with her own eyes and ears, she would have remained sceptical about the existence of ghosts, but this was just too surreal not to be true. “Having him around would give us endless conversation topics. How often does he drop by?” she asked, quite seriously, allowing that it was indeed possible to see a ghost.

“Honestly, I can’t say.”

“Does he ever stay long enough for a chat?” Roseland asked.

Spence shrugged. “He’s a man of very few words.”

“I bet if he were chatty, he’d have some interesting stories to tell,” Roseland mused. “Have you seen him anywhere else?”

“I’ve seen him hanging around Clitter Hill, particularly near Fur Tor. Maybe he’s fond of solitude.”

Roseland sucked in a breath with such speed, she sputtered, “Clitter Hill? Honestly?”

This couldn’t be a coincidence. The object of her desire, a woman she at first suspected was a ghost—no, not suspected, but believed to be a ghost—was not only living, breathing, and breathtakingly alluring in every way, but she had been on Clitter Hill!

Roseland, cleared her throat and said, “I’ve been dying to explore Clitter Hill with you. Please say you’ll come with me.”

Spence smiled so broadly, Roseland could have counted her back teeth, if she hadn’t been too busy becoming more smitten by the moment. She smiled back.

“Of course I will.”

Spence was too good to be true! Roseland began ticking boxes of what her ideal love interest would be, and so far Spence possessed most of the qualities she was looking for in a partner.

“I hike every chance I get, and Clitter Hill is a favourite,” Spence added. Once I finish the house, I’m adopting a puppy. I always planned to do that as soon as I had my own place. A puppy would be the perfect hiking companion…next to someone like you, of course.”

Spence wanted a dog too. Another box ticked off.

Roseland grabbed Spence and pulled her close, holding her tight while she snogged the air right out of her lungs. She took a brief pause from the kissing to announce, “I’m so thankful that you’re flesh and blood! I plan to do so much more than kiss you here, there, and everywhere.”

“And I plan to let you.”

 

An uncustomary smile creased the weathered face of the old man peering in the window. The house was going to be filled with love again. He nodded his approval, then left them alone together, his departure leaving no footprints in the damp ground.