*Mark followed Lauren up the steps to the mustard-green monstrosity then checked that his cell phone was on silent while she had her back to him.
He was still sweating. He hadn’t expected her to turn up at the bar with an inquisition, and it hadn’t been easy keeping up that humorous demeanor while having to ask her if Donaldson’s had contacted her. Or some strange guy with a booming Texan accent.
It hadn’t taken him long to figure she’d been the one to instigate the overwhelming assistance and the chili though.
It made him smile. In her shoes, he’d have done the same thing.
“Nice,” he said as he looked up at the wooden boards of the veranda ceiling, painted a light cream that stood out like a ray of hope next to the other drab, Victorian colors.
It was another place that needed a good polish. Perhaps a miracle.
He followed her through heavy wooden front doors, with lead-glass windows on either side, and looked around the hallway.
He had so many questions he didn’t know where to begin.
“I ought to tell you straight away they say this house is haunted by my great-grandfather.”
“Do you see him?” he asked, relieved she hadn’t asked for an opinion on what he thought about the house so far. It was either imposing or impressive; he hadn’t seen enough to make up his mind.
She shook her head. “I don’t even feel his presence here. Do you?”
“Haven’t been inside long enough.”
“I’ll give you the tour.” She headed off, perhaps not wanting to know what his first impression was.
He followed her through the rooms, absorbing the atmosphere.
There were glass door handles, and antique light fixtures everywhere. The real deal. He pushed a button and a chandelier lit up. “They work.”
“Electricity and plumbing were upgraded a few years ago.”
“Your renos are mostly cosmetic then. Well…” He paused. She hadn’t mentioned the plastic sheeting covering the gaping hole in the outside wall or the broken banister on the wooden staircase next to it, so neither would he. He’d already gotten the idea she was only going to give him information she thought he needed and she’d give it in her own time.
He looked up at the ceiling. It was covered in fancy plasterwork, hand-painted and stenciled. Elaborate enough to be on a wedding cake. Perhaps that was what she was going to do—open the house up for weddings.
He followed her to the kitchen, which had a pressed tin ceiling, then back down the hall to a dining room and a couple of reception rooms, with more cake decoration ceilings. The doors and frames throughout the house were solid oak, as were the built-in cabinets. He’d counted seven fireplaces so far, all oak with cast-iron fireboxes and grates.
There were plenty of windows letting the light in, and any number of fancy lamps and light fittings, but the ambiance was oppressive in some way. As though a heaviness shrouded each room, regardless of the natural light pouring in.
He shook the sensation off. It was probably just the stress in his life making him feel like he was trapped.
“The atrium,” she said as she showed him a glassed room with a black and white tiled floor.
This was where the potted palms and dainty teacups would fit in.
He smiled. He didn’t know where he’d gotten the notion of coolness the first time he’d met her. She’d been under pressure, having just lost her business, although he had no idea how that had happened, but of course she hadn’t been open to a guy’s apparent flirting. Although she’d been comfortable with him, eventually.
He’d charmed Scarlet, but now that he knew more about Lauren, he liked the real woman.
In other circumstances…yeah. He’d make a play.
“Why do you keep smiling?” she asked.
“Just taking it all in. What’s in there?” he asked, nodding at closed double doors in the hallway.
“The ballroom. I’ll show you later. This,” she said, indicating the solid wood broken staircase and the cavernous hole in the wall, “is where the Buckners come in.”
“You certainly need them.”
She didn’t offer any explanation and he didn’t ask. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know how the destruction had happened. Cannonball was the first thing that came to mind, but given this house was a Mackillop residence, it was more likely to be the ghost of her great-grandfather sending down his wrath with repeated lightning strikes from the barrel of the devil’s shotgun.
Normally, he’d be at the computer by now, using all the stories he’d learned and plotting for a book. Someone else’s book, but he thought of it as his while he was writing it. It only ever became someone else’s property when he handed it over and got paid.
And now? He swore to God, he’d never write another book as long as he lived.
“You don’t use these stairs, do you?” he asked as he gripped the remaining banister rail, testing its solidity. The entire bannister on the gaping-hole side had fallen in one piece to the floor.
“Of course I do. My bedroom’s up here.”
“It needs a structural engineer to check it out.”
“Doc will know what it needs. Just keep to the left-hand side.”
A tread groaned behind him, a few steps down, and he looked over his shoulder.
A cold chill drifted over his face and neck. There for a second, then gone. Like a puff of icy mist.
He checked the plastic sheeting. It mustn’t be properly secured to the wall, although there was no wind outside today to create a draught.
“I’ll arrange for the Buckners to fix the staircase first,” he said, continuing up. “I’ll let you have them every day until it’s done.”
“Why thank you, but I’ll make the arrangements with the Buckners,” she said from the top landing. “I’d like to arrange the town meeting, too. Tonight. Seven o’clock. Your bar.”
He held up both hands in surrender mode. “I’m at your command.” He was sure she almost smiled before she turned away. “I can even offer everyone supper. A great big vat of spicy beans with meat and chili peppers thrown in.”
Now, that was a laugh. Smothered but a laugh.
Damn it, he wanted to flirt with her. Wanted to know if she was attracted to him as much as he was beginning to think he was to her. No, he didn’t wonder about that. He was attracted.
He was also stressed to the eyeballs. Boomer wasn’t returning his calls so he had no idea when Donaldson’s would turn up. He was desperate to call his mom to see if she was okay, but that would be one call more than his usual weekly and she’d smell a rat.
But why couldn’t he take five minutes off to flirt with a beautiful woman?
There were five bedrooms upstairs and three bathrooms. She showed him each. They were furnished but not lived in. Dust had gotten trapped in the folds of the heavy curtains and on the glass lampshades.
They wandered along the hallway to the far end and the last door, which was open.
He paused outside.
“My room,” she said, and pulled the door closed.
He’d only managed a glimpse. A four-poster bed, unmade, the imprint of where her head had been still on the pillow. French doors that opened out onto a balcony, where a hammock was strung on the rafters.
“You sleep out on the porch?” he asked. “It’s not quite summer. Hope you dress warmly.” And not in the flimsy looking lightweight tee he’d spotted over the end of her bed. A short tee, not a knee-length. Maybe not even thigh-length.
Damn. That was going live with him.
Their gazes met and held.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, but it would be something soft. Something romantic like, Hey, you’re looking lovely today. Meant to tell you earlier.
“There’s an attic,” she told him. “I’d particularly like you to see that.”
Fine. She didn’t want romance. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure why he was suddenly so keen to give her some. Perhaps because they were alone, in a fairy tale kind of house.
“It’s a nice space,” he said after they’d climbed the stairs to the attic.
It was more than nice. It was great. A hideaway. Crammed with broken furniture and boxes of junk, but if he hadn’t made the decision to quit writing, this was where he’d have his study if the house was his.
There was no claustrophobic feeling up here and he took a bit of time looking around until he felt her scrutiny and turned to her. Why was she looking at so intently, as though waiting for him to pronounce some judgment on the attic?
“Where next?” he asked, taking his thoughts off the unlikely scenario of ever having a space like this to call his own.
“There’s only the ballroom. If you really want so see it.”
“Might as well. Seen everything else.”
She led him down the main staircase. He paused behind her and tested the tread of a few steps, waiting for the groaning creak he’d heard earlier.
Nothing.
He glanced at the plastic sheeting. No draft crossed his face, either. Maybe he’d imagined it all.
Downstairs, she opened the double doors to the ballroom and let him go in first.
He took his time, walking to the center of the room, examining the wallpapered and mirrored panels and the ornate chandeliers overhead, giving his heartbeat time to settle.
This was the room she’d danced in as a child, with her borrowed cloak, high heels, and a string of pearls that reached her knees. It was the room he’d seen her in in the mirror at the bar.
There had to be a feasible explanation for that. Even if it turned out to be brain damage.
“Lauren?” He waited for her to focus on him. “Do you granddaughters have this Mackillop ‘ability’ or whatever it is?”
“Molly has it.”
“And you?”
“I don’t know.”
He’d never been out with a woman who could read minds or tell fortunes. Yet he wanted to take Lauren out. For real—as Mark, not Danton. He wanted them to have a chance to see where it would go. He wanted to know what sounds she’d make as he made love to her, his hands caressing her body and his mouth pressing kisses all over that lovely, expressive face.
“The house has a nostalgic feel,” he said. He wasn’t sure what he thought about the place, to be honest. It was grand, impressive, and would be immensely attractive once it had been redecorated with lighter hues and tones. But still, the oppression surrounded him.
“There’s no nostalgia here,” she told him. “Nobody’s lived here. Ever.”
Maybe not, but he still felt it. She’d been in this house as a child. Perhaps those moments had been captured in this ballroom. “The house must hold some tales.”
“It does. But it doesn’t hold any memories.”
“How come?”
Again, their eyes met and held.
She broke first, by blinking. “You’re being very good about all this, Mark. Ghosts, curses. Thank you.”
She’d called him by his name and he liked hearing it. He thought perhaps she loved this old house, probably because of her childhood years, and that she was worried he’d say he hated it—along with whatever business idea she’d come up with.
“I’m actually flirting,” he said, attempting to lighten the mood.
She blushed and his heart pinched.
Before he could stop himself, he held out his hand. “Let’s dance.”
He wanted her in his arms. Wanted to know if she’d fold against him or sink into him. Whether she’d feel right, up close to him.
“There’s no music.”
“Let’s pretend there is. Let’s make some memories.”
“Haven’t we made enough?”
“Paris? Come on. Dance with me. Let’s make new memories.” Ones where he wasn’t double-crossing her. Memories where his mom and sisters were safe, his father in jail, and Donaldson’s a distant recollection.
*
Lauren turned in the doorway and walked back into the hall. She hadn’t expected to be unnerved in this manner. Nothing weird or ghostly had happened, and he hadn’t suddenly broken out in a chilled sweat of terror, screaming because apparitions were hounding him. She’d watched for it and was sure nothing untoward had occurred. But her nerves were on alert anyway, because they were alone together.
Was he trying to catch and hold her gaze on purpose? Their eyes had met a few times, and in those briefest of moments he’d made her feel like Scarlet. As though he were trying to say, “Hey, I actually like you.” And each time, for a second, she might have admitted she actually liked him too.
“Wild Ava wants to see you,” she said when he followed her out of the ballroom.
“Is she going to tell me off for flirting with you?”
Her heart gave a little jump. Had he been flirting? For real?
“I don’t know what she’ll say to you. It’ll be between you and her. But let me tell you, she can spot a fake a mile off.”
“So can I.”
That brought a laugh. “You expect to find a fortune-teller asking you to cross her palm with silver before she tells you all about your love life? You’re in for a shock.”
“My love life is pretty dull at present. Has been for a while now. I doubt Ava will even mention it.”
Was he telling her he hadn’t had a relationship in a while in order to let her know he was free?
She really ought not to care.
He was wearing his bomber jacket again, his button-down shirt open at the collar, his throat tanned and wide, his shoulders squared with the ease of a confident man. He gave off the sense he could discern the strengths and weaknesses of those around him, but in a reassuring way, not an antagonistic one. Even Lauren, manless due to a personal decision more than the curse, had recognized his attempt at gentle seductiveness when they’d been on the upper landing outside her bedroom, and she’d almost fallen for it. And again, just now, when he’d asked her to dance.
She cleared her throat. Okay, so he was attractive. But she needed to concentrate on realities. Why he was here and his connection to Donaldson’s. Then there were the abnormalities and the unknown. Some faceoff with her great-grandfather. The ludicrous visions of her and Mark with beautiful children. She’d thought those a result of some psychological imbalance—and who could blame her for having a few kinks she couldn’t iron out, given her record, past and present? Now, she wasn’t so sure.
He’d liked the attic space. He hadn’t said so, but he’d relaxed in the room, looking out the window, studying the stored junk, and running a finger in the dust on the desk chair and chest of drawers, as though mentally furnishing the room to his taste.
It was the room she’d seen him in during her last vision. Poring over the books on his desk. The woman in that vision had understood him. The woman standing in the hallway at the bottom of her broken staircase didn’t.
“The craftsmanship is amazing,” he said, running his hand along the banister and the carved sage bushes, the sparrows, starlings, and white-winged doves. “The Buckner brothers are going to love getting their hands dirty with this. With the whole lot.”
She’d been so deep in thought she hadn’t noticed him moving. He was halfway up the staircase. “You hate it all?”
“The house? No. Surprisingly, I don’t. Not sure exactly what I think, but it’s got—something. Can’t find the right word.”
“I’ve got to modernize and freshen it up. I loathe all this dark, heavy wallpaper. It makes a person feel the walls are closing in. I want to open all the windows and let the air rush through.”
“It kind of does already, since you’ve only got three walls in the hallway.”
There was amusement in his tone.
“What happened?” he asked, nodding at the plastic sheeting.
“I’ll try to make it short. There are any number of people in town who can fill you in on the hearsay and superstitions.”
“Intriguing.”
She headed into the story of her ancestors without having to even take a breath. The cousins had been told the tale over and over as children and had been rapt in it.
“The Mackillops arrived as part of the exploration of the Fort Smith-Santa Fe Trail and settled in the Panhandle. Nobody knows where they came from, but there were likely some buffalo hunters among them. They dabbled in cattle, but that didn’t work—not sure if they were any good as ranchers. But the women were good at prophesizing.” She paused, giving him a chance to make a comment. He didn’t. “They say it was the women who found Calamity Valley. Their Mackillop men claimed it.”
“It must have been a tough life. What are we talking about? Eighteen eighties?”
She nodded. “They tried farming, but that didn’t work either. Then the railroad came through Amarillo and life picked up.”
“So they had an eye for business.”
“Unfortunately, by the time our great-grandmothers were born in 1912, nothing was thriving. We’ve yoyoed throughout the years. Then our great-grandfathers turned up. They had an eye for business and didn’t care who they crossed while making a grab for a good deal.”
“Hold on. The Mackillops are only women now?”
“Three great-grandmothers, deceased. Our three grandmothers, with one daughter living—Marie—and we granddaughters. All husbandless.”
Now, he smiled.
She returned it. She could practically see his writer’s brain bubbling.
“In 1938 the great-grandfathers—we call them the GGs to show our lack of respect—built each of the great-grandmothers a house in their respective towns. Not with their money, with our great-grandmothers’. They more or less stole it, refusing to help everyone in the valley, only looking out for themselves. That’s when our great-grandmothers got wise and began knocking them back in any way they could. There were lots of heated arguments. Lots of unrest in the valley. Then the GGs discovered their women were refusing to sell the land to the Palo Duro Canyon, which had become a state park a few years earlier.”
Mark whistled. “Would have been a pretty price.”
“It still would be, which is why Donaldson’s want it.”
“Go on.”
She paused, but he didn’t respond to her mention of the developers. “Our women dug in. It was their land. They kicked the GGs out of the valley, but their money had gone in brick, timber, and fancy furnishings. They never again set foot in the houses, just boarded them up.”
“Strong women.”
“The GGs never got over losing the money they could have made if they’d sold the land to the state park, so they cursed us and all descendants. We would remain husbandless and in fear of homelessness for eternity.”
“But this is a story of survival—yes?”
She nodded. “Our women were good people. Still are. Generous to those who genuinely need assistance. Nobody in the valley went hungry for long. The great-grandmothers pulled everyone together and made do, until such time people could fend for themselves.”
“It’s pretty much what’s happening now, isn’t it? All this much-needed rejuvenation.”
“I suppose it is. A few years back, our grandmothers decided the time was right to throw off the dust covers on each of the houses and make them useful. They were making noises about the valley being in danger. We didn’t know why, but it turned out they were right—as always. Donaldson’s came snooping around more than a year ago. We’ve held them at bay, until now.”
“Were the Buckners working on the houses?”
Again, he’d disregarded her reference to Donaldson’s. “Doc worked on this house. But, as with Molly’s hacienda and the lodge belonging to Pepper and her grandmother, weird things started happening. Roofs collapsing. Falling masonry. Windows shattering. One guy working on Sage Springs almost got killed when the spike fell off the spire. If it weren’t for Doc pushing the guy out of the way, he’d have been speared to the ground. Impaled.”
“Ouch.”
“Doc stayed in town, renting Mr. and Mrs. Fairmont’s second house, and then he moved his brothers in too. The other builders kept coming back for a while, because of the cheap beer.”
“So that’s how my bar got its reputation. I was wondering how anybody had discovered it in the first place. This valley isn’t exactly a tourist hot spot.”
“But it will be,” she reminded him.
“It makes for a cracking story.” He leaned against the bannister, the solid one on the left-hand side.
Something in the air caught Lauren’s attention. Not a noise, not a movement, nothing tangible, but her senses spiked.
“Be careful up there,” she told him. “You said yourself it wasn’t safe.”
“I’m fine. How come these GGs of yours were capable of cursing?”
“It depends on belief. Cursing people is easy.”
“It is?”
“You could curse me now and things might happen to me whereby it appears your curse is coming true, but in reality, it’s just life. Eventually, if bad luck follows you for long enough, you appear cursed. Then everyone believes you are. And maybe fate gets stuck at that point, and even the universe believes you’re cursed.”
He looked doubtful but only for a moment. “There could be something in that. I do think that if we believe we’re doomed or cursed, then that’s what we project and that’s what we get.”
She smiled to herself. Ava was going to like talking to this man.
“Still not sure it’s possible for us to change our fate though,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “Not in some instances. Like where anger and brutality are the keywords.”
“Maybe passion beats anger,” she said, and the moment the words were out, she found herself hoping it was true. Not only for herself and the faceoff with her great-grandfather and whatever else was heading her way, but for whatever it was Mark was thinking about with that sudden brooding expression.
Had Marie somehow been right with her offhand prediction about his family and the father he no longer spoke to? The need to get away and clear his head didn’t ring true.
“So what’s your business going to be?” he asked. “Or can I guess?”
His expression had cleared. He was back to Mark Sterrett at his most charming.
“Be my guest.” He probably thought she was going to open that haunted house.
“I’m envisioning potted palms, fine china, and an indoor fountain. Wedding venue?”
She spluttered a laugh. Wouldn’t that make the GGs livid? Love and romance all around. Except it wouldn’t be sweetness and rose petals. It would be fraught nerves, bridezillas, arguing bridesmaids and demanding future mothers-in-law. “No wedding venue.”
“Why not? I can see it working.”
“I’m going to turn the house into a welcoming and educational enterprise for women.”
He pursed his lips, not taking his eyes off her. “Open all year?”
The crease on his brow told her he was already mentally taking stock of how this would affect the saloon.
“We’ll open each morning and afternoon for certain hours and activities. Maybe the odd evening. My intent for Sage Springs is to give women good company, great conversation, and a chance to learn and grow. Whatever it is they need, whether it be gardening tips, yoga, empowerment, or support.”
“What do the guys get?”
“Your saloon.”
He took a breath. “Which is where the problem arises. How is your spa thing going to blend in with my saloon?”
“It won’t be a spa, and you mean, how is your saloon going to blend in with my enterprise and everything else I put in place for businesses in town?”
He smiled, looking genuinely amused. “You’re a tough negotiator, Mackillop. Can we go back to flirting now?”
He pushed from the bannister and started to jog down the stairs. A step gave way and he tumbled, wood splintering behind him. Step after step broke, dust flying in the air as fractured wood exploded.
The plastic sheeting blew in, puffed out like it had a gale force wind behind it, its sealed edges straining against the brick of the open space.
It had happened in less than a second. Lauren’s feet were still pinned to the floor.
“Whoa!” Mark righted himself and stared at the now buckled and broken wooden steps behind him. He laughed self-consciously and brushed the dust off his thighs. “Well, that put me in my place.” He looked across at her with a sheepish smile. “No more flirting, I guess.”
She stared at him, trying to contain the shock roaring inside her head. She didn’t feel the ghostly drafts in the house. She didn’t get a sense of being shadowed, but she knew now that there was something behind Mark. At his shoulder. Close to him, pushing him…
“Please come off the stairs!” She could hardly get her breath and her voice was raspy in her throat.
“I’m okay. Just my pride that got hurt.”
She reached out her hand. “Don’t go near the hole in the wall!”
“I’m fine, Lauren.”
She wanted to move to him, to drag him physically off the staircase, but the light dimmed and her vision hazed.
The air in her ears cracked, and she had no choice but to let it happen. It took hold of her and the present moment was lost.
She was in the bar, with Mark.
He was surrounded by dozens of metal pails brimming with flowers, which were set up on an Old West wagon that had been renovated to look like a market stall. It sat just inside the front doors, against the wooden railing that delineated the bar from the dining area. Roses, chrysanthemums, daisies—all sorts of flowers. With little white flags with the price of each bouquet stuck in the pails. He was smiling at Lauren. He looked a little older, and Lauren, living in the skin of the woman in her vision, acknowledged she too was older.
“Which kind this week?” he was asking her.
The woman being offered the flowers was filled with love for the man, and the woman who was watching the scene was shaking almost uncontrollably.
“Your choice,” the older Lauren told him.
“Good. Because I chose the dahlias.”
He bought her a bunch of sunset-colored dahlias every week they were in bloom, and he’d been buying them for more than ten years.
“Lauren! Lauren!”
She came out of the vision with a cold, shivering start.
“What’s wrong?” Mark demanded. “I thought you were going to faint on me.” He was holding her up, his hands on her arms. “Lauren, you went deathly pale.”
She looked into his eyes. He’d said he was going to write a novel about the town and turn the bar into a flower shop. Flippant comments. But her visions told her otherwise. She’d seen him in the attic, poring over his books as he wrote a novel about the Wild West and the valley. She’d seen him in Paris, buying her a cup of coffee. She’d seen their family running and laughing over a hillside outside of town. And now, she’d seen him in the saloon, buying flowers for his wife of many years.
“Hey,” he said, his hands still on her arms as though expecting her to crumple to the floor any second. “Are you okay?”
No.
These visions weren’t montages in a worried woman’s overactive imagination. They weren’t daydreams or wishes.
She was literally being shown the future.