by Becki Willis
INN THE SPIRIT OF TRICKERY
(Spirits of Texas Cozy Mysteries, Book 2)
Becki Willis
Books by Becki Willis
For your reading pleasure:
Forgotten Boxes
Plain Roots
Tangible Spirits
He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not
Mirrors Don’t Lie Series:
The Girl from Her Mirror – Book 1
Mirror, Mirror on Her Wall – Book 2
Light from Her Mirror – Book 3
The Sisters, Texas Mystery Series:
Chicken Scratch – Book 1
When the Stars Fall – Book 2
Stipulations & Complications – Book 3
Home Again: Starting Over – Book 4
Genny’s Ballad – Book 5
Christmas In The Sisters – Book 6
The Lilac Code – Book 7
Spirits of Texas Cozy Mystery Series:
Inn the Spirit of Legends – Book 1
Inn the Spirit of Trickery – Book 2
Copyright 2019 by Becki Willis
Clear Creek Publishers
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All places, people and events are created from the author’s imagination. In the event a real-life venue, location, or incident is mentioned, it is with the utmost sense of respect and stems from the author’s affections and /or attempts at authenticity. Interaction with such a place or person is completely fictional and should not be construed as endorsement or fact.
Special Thanks
Cover design by dienel96
Editing by SJS Editorial Services
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER ONE
“I want the trucks loaded and ready to roll, first thing Tuesday morning.”
From behind his clipboard, the foreman nodded. “On it, boss lady.”
“Any problems I should be aware of?”
“No, ma’am. The horses look good, the crew is pumped and ready to go, and even ole’ Rusty is in good spirits for a change. Things are moving along slicker than an oiled pig in a mudslide.”
“We have a lot riding on this show,” the woman reminded him needlessly. “There’s no margin for error.”
“There won’t be.”
“Excellent. That’s all for now, John Boy. Let’s call it a night.”
Two hundred miles away, a telephone rang, shrill and loud in the still evening air.
“Hello?”
“I need my money.”
“About that…”
“No,” the caller said. The voice was cold and flat. “I’m not granting you anymore extensions. You’ve had more than enough time to pay.”
“I have most of it together. More than half. I just need a little more time to get the last few thousand.”
“You have until Friday.”
“I’ll give you ten thousand by then, I swear.”
“You owe me three times that.”
“But I only borrowed twenty!”
“Interest, my friend.” The caller’s tone offered no hint of friendship. “I’ll need fifteen, minimum, to renew the loan.”
“But…”
“No buts. Fifteen thousand by Friday, or someone else will pay.”
The line went dead.
The threat, however, was alive and real.
CHAPTER TWO
The grand opening was fast approaching. In less than a week, The Spirits of Texas Inn would officially re-open and be back in business.
For Hannah Duncan, it seemed to take forever.
She did a mental checklist in her mind, going over the details for the hundredth time. On the plus side, with each new tally, the list dwindled. There were only a dozen or so items left on her immediate to-do list.
Confirm bookings. On her agenda for tomorrow.
Freshen all rooms. Definitely a last-minute detail, particularly the wildflower bouquets.
Order food. Technically Sadie’s department, but she would oversee the process, just in case.
Conduct another trial run. Who knew when the forty-ninth mock check-in might reveal a weakness?
Meet with the farrier. He was due to arrive within the hour to make certain all horses were properly shoed and ready to ride.
Finish painting. Currently in progress, if the streaks in her dark hair were any indication. Just a bit more, and she was done.
Touch base with Walker. Okay, so she made that one up, just like she’d fabricate some flimsy excuse to see the handsome lawyer again. After having him underfoot for the first month she was here, she had gotten used to seeing him every day. It had been almost two weeks since she had last seen him and, strangely enough, she actually missed the maddening man. Surely, there was some document that required her signature or some loophole in need of tightening. Something to bring him back out to this silly excuse of a town she now owned.
Hang the rest of the rodeo posters. The colorful ads already plastered most of Fredericksburg and the communities fanning out from it in a twenty-mile radius. Fred promised to run a handful to Blanco and Wimberley. If she found time tomorrow, Hannah would take the last several over to Canyon Lake. The resort town drew plenty of tourists hungering for the flavor of Texas. What better filled that menu than a Wild West show and rodeo?
Hannah knew she was going on out a limb, hosting such a grand production on opening weekend. So much could already go wrong, without throwing a live performance into the mix. Not only were they working through the kinks of bringing the old inn back into service for the season, but they were doing it under new management. That, alone, might prove to be a circus.
JoeJoe, however, had taught her to dream big. Her uncle’s motto was ‘Go big, or go home.’
In a crazy turn of events—orchestrated by the man himself and his twisted idea of unique birthday presents—Hannah was home. JoeJoe bought the tiny town of Hannah, Texas at auction and gifted it to his only niece for her thirtieth birthday. Like it or not, she was the new owner and operator of the historic inn. The only choice now was to go big.
She had discovered the rodeo company online. A few clicks, and she was intrigued. This could be just the draw she needed, the thing to single them out from the other properties in the area and make them shine. The thing to Go Big. If she were going out on a limb by operating the ancient old inn in the first place, she may as well go all the way out to the tip. Go big and fly, or fall and fail.
On the bright side, the old inn no longer looked quite so ancient.
If Hannah had little painting experience going into the project, she dared say she was now a borderline expert. Painting this room took her from novice to professional. Dry and thirsty, the original shiplap walls provided hours of hands-on experience. The first time she washed the boards with the creamy white paste, it soaked in faster than a half-inch rain on a dry prairie. The second
coat hadn’t fared much better. It wasn’t until this, the third coat, that the color actually adhered.
It was amazing what a simple (or so the You Tube video claimed) coat of paint could do to a room. It transformed the tired old space into something alive and welcoming. The great room looked larger, and definitely more inviting. Against trim painted dark, inky black, the look was fresh, yet traditional. Historically accurate, but trendy.
Hannah couldn’t bring herself to change the hardwood floor, other than to offer it a thorough scrubbing. She thought all those scuffed echoes from the past offered a nice contrast to the fresh promise of the new wall color. It was almost symbolic. A subliminal reminder, of sorts, to step from the past into the future.
If truth were told, it needed all the help it could get. Built in the mid-eighteen hundreds as a stagecoach stop, these old walls were soaked in history. Many a soul had walked through these doors.
The problem came when some of those souls couldn’t bring themselves to leave, even after death.
How could the inn move forward, Hannah often fretted, when mired in the past with ghosts? Lucky for her, the spirits were friendly, but it was disconcerting to know an unseen entity roamed at will around her home. Perhaps the subliminal message would provide a gentle nudge and encourage the spirits to move along their way. One could only hope.
Going back to her list of things to do, Hannah worked her way around the room. She dragged a stool and paint pan along with her, doing touch-ups and yet one more application to the thirstiest of boards. She finally stood back to consult her work, a smile of satisfaction curling her lips.
It looked darn good, if she did say so herself.
Oops. One last spot, there near the window, before she could call it done. Hannah pulled her stool along. All it needed was a good stroke or two, just above arm’s reach. If she stood on her tiptoes and stretched…
Got it!
She. Was. Finished.
With a proud and satisfied nod, Hannah lowered her heels back down onto the stool.
Too bad it wasn’t there.
Unknowingly, Hannah had shifted just enough on the stool to alter her position. Turned just so, her heels came down onto nothingness. And with nothing beneath her, she began to fall.
She made a valiant effort to catch herself. Her arms went out for balance, but in doing so, the pan tilted. Paint dripped over the side and trickled down her arm. The brush did a catapult and landed with a fat, juicy smack! on her cheek. It then slid down the side of her neck and continued over the front of her blouse, leaving a creamy white swatch in its wake.
Hannah let out a yelp and tried twisting her body forward, but momentum had her headed the other direction. She knew she was falling, and there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it.
She heard a loud “Oomph!” as she collided with a warm, solid body. Strong arms came up to catch and hold her, paint and all, suspended in the air. Expecting to see Walker—and now, of all times, when she was covered in paint!—Hannah turned startled blue eyes toward her savior and prepared to thank him.
The words died on her lips as she stared at the stranger now holding her, his brown eyes alight with humor. Seeing the way his eyes crinkled in the corners, she was acutely aware of how close his face was to hers. She knew he was laughing at her, even before she saw his broad smile.
“That was some balancing act!” the man told her. “You should be on the high-wire.”
She could think of no comeback. She was still too stunned to speak. First, from the fall, and second, from the fact he wasn’t her attorney. This man was about the same height as Walker, but whip thin. He had a wiry strength about him, as proved by the way he easily held her in the air.
“’Course, without me or a safety net beneath you, that might not be such a good idea,” he went on to say. His grin widened. “Did you paint the walls with that same technique, or just yourself?”
Hannah followed his eyes as they trailed down her neck and over her paint-smeared chest. She idly wondered if the paint was water-soluble or if her shirt was ruined. She was betting on the latter.
She finally found her voice. “Who—Who are you?”
“Shelton Long, at your service, ma’am.” With his hands currently occupied, he couldn’t tip his straw hat as he normally did. The best he could do was tip his head, hat and all.
“The horse shoe-er?” Hannah squeaked. From their phone conversation, she thought him at least twenty years older, nearer to fifty.
“That’s one way of saying it,” he agreed. “I’m a farrier by trade, ma’am. You must be my new client.”
“Hannah Duncan.” She attempted to put her hand out for shaking, but found her arm squashed between them. Only her fingers wiggled.
“That’s okay. My hands are a bit occupied at the moment,” he reminded her.
A dry voice spoke from behind them.
“They certainly are,” Walker Jacoby drawled from the doorway. “Long, I knew you had a reputation for picking up ladies, but I thought the rumors were exaggerated.” He let his blue eyes, stormier now than normal, wander over the cozy scene they created. “I guess I was mistaken.”
Hannah twisted to see his face. From the tone of his voice, she knew he wasn’t pleased. “Walker!”
“Whoa, there, little filly,” the farrier warned, “or you’ll have us both covered in paint.” He was laughing at her again, but the look he threw toward the lawyer was sharp. “Jacoby, could you give us a hand? Even betwixt the two of us, we appear to be short-handed.”
A notable pause revealed the attorney’s inner turmoil. He was clearly tempted to snatch the woman from the other man’s arms, but he eventually came forward and took the paint pan. He retrieved it from Hannah’s hands and placed it safely on the stool.
When he turned back around, her feet still weren’t on the floor. His voice came out sharper than intended as he snapped, “You can put her down now, Long. The crisis is over.”
“Well, now, so it is,” the other man drawled.
Despite agreeing, he was slow in relinquishing his burden. He was even slower in allowing her to slide down the long string bean that was his body. Hannah blushed, Walker scowled, and Shelton Long beamed like a lighthouse.
There was no salvaging her pride. Smeared in paint, Hannah looked, she was certain, like a fool. Worst yet, she had the distinct feeling the two men were using her as some sort of pawn in a game she didn’t understand. The best she could do was make a hasty retreat and start over.
“Thank you, Mr. Long, for—”
“Shelton,” he broke in, still wearing that silly grin. “After such an intimate greeting, I think we’ve earned the right to be on a first-name basis, don’t you?”
She imagined the scene as it must have happened. His startled face when she came hurling into his arms, covered in paint. In spite of herself, Hannah felt a smile tug on her lips, as she continued her train of thought. She needed to do so fast, before she became completely sidetracked by his disarming smile.
“Thank you, Shelton, for coming to my rescue. But as you can see, I’m a bit of a mess, so if you gentleman will excuse me…” She turned toward the still-brooding attorney. “Walker, thank you for preventing yet another spill. I’ll change and be right back.”
“No rush. In fact,” the attorney offered, “I’ll take Long out to the corral. Take as long as you like.” He warmed to the idea as he relaxed his stiff pose. “You can even stay and finish your painting, if you like. I can handle this.”
She ignored the thinly veiled ploy. Already headed for the stairs, Hannah called over her shoulder. “You two go on. I’ll be out in a flash.”
Hannah didn’t waste time taking a shower. The wet paint came off easily enough with a hard scrub, and her shirt could pre-soak for now. Leaving on the paint-dribbled work jeans, she pulled on a clean t-shirt and called it good.
By the time she reached the corral, the men were already at work. They examined each of the horses’ hooves, turning them up an
d peering at them with knowledgeable eyes. One supported the horse’s leg while the other scooped dirt and debris from around the shoe. The men worked together, but Hannah could feel the tension between them, even before she approached.
There was no denying the men were polar opposites.
With his raven-black hair and stormy blue eyes, Walker Jacoby was a handsome man in prime physical condition. Instead of the monogrammed western shirt and starched jeans Sadie called Walker’s ‘lawyer duds,’ today he wore faded jeans a few wearings past their last starch and a close-fitting dark tee-shirt. This one touted a rafting outfit along the Comal River and left his impressive biceps exposed.
Handsome in his own right, the farrier was perhaps an inch or so taller than Walker, with wiry limbs stretched long and taut. Thin and angular, he was a study in sharp edges and lean muscle. His jeans were faded, stained, and ripped. The condition was clearly the result of use and abuse, not from some fancy manufacturer who slapped a ridiculous price tag on the look and called it fashion. His long-sleeve shirt was thin and loose fitting, enough so to offer ventilation, even on a day as warm as this. The pale-blue color, faded from countless washings, contrasted nicely with his suntanned skin and fair coloring. His blond hair was short and slightly lighter than the neat beard edging his face.
But, perhaps the biggest contrast between the two men was their personalities. Shelton Long had laugh lines around his eyes. Frown lines bracketed Walker Jacoby’s mouth, at least in Hannah’s presence. It seemed she and the attorney argued as much as they agreed. By contrast, she couldn’t imagine having a serious argument with someone as friendly and affable as the horse farrier.
“Don’t mind me,” she said, self-conscious as both men looked up and watched her approach.
“You clean up right purdy, ma’am,” Shelton Long said, exaggerating his thick Texas drawl and choice of wording. His eyes flicked over her with an appreciative smile.
Walker frowned. “Hannah, you need to see this.”
