Trish hefted her walking stick and fell into step beside him, and he shortened his stride so she could keep up. O’Neill looked different this morning, still mysterious but not quite as foreboding without his black wardrobe. His jeans and beige sweater, with suede patches on the shoulders and elbows, although obviously high quality and very expensive, gave him a more casual appearance and made him seem almost approachable.
“O’Neill?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Do you have a first name?”
“Not one that I answer to.” He swept aside a rhododendron branch that blocked the entrance to the path. “My parents didn’t consult me before branding me with a name I hate. O’Neill is all I need.”
She brushed against him as he cleared the trail for her, and his scent swirled on the morning mist, enveloping her in an aura of musk and balsam. For an instant, longing flooded her, a desire to feel the strength of his arms around her, to hear that deep, rich voice murmur in her ear, to feel his lips on hers.
The unexpected rush of desire stopped her in her tracks and left her struggling to breathe. What was wrong with her? Her sister was missing, and she was indulging in romantic fantasies when she should be concentrating on the search.
“You okay?” O’Neill slipped his arm around her.
She fought the impulse to lean into his embrace. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and shook off his arm. “I’m just a little winded.”
“It’s the altitude.” His voice was kind, filled with concern that made him even harder to resist. “We’ll slow our pace until you’re acclimated.”
Acclimated, Trish thought with a shiver of panic. The more time she spent with O’Neill, the more attractive he became. She doubted she’d ever accustom herself to such charm. “I’m okay. Let’s keep moving.”
The trail took them along the top of the ridge, a barren sweep of rocks and boulders broken only by scattered low shrubs, bright with red fall foliage, their branches gnarled and twisted by the constant wind. Trish kept her eyes on the trail to avoid the dizzying vistas on either side. In the shimmering morning air, a quick glimpse had revealed folds of blue mountains stretching in every direction, as if she was standing on top of the world. Her fear of heights kicked in, and only the comforting breadth of the ridge’s top path kept a panic attack at bay.
The trail was wide enough for O’Neill to walk beside her and she plied him with questions to keep her mind off the heights they were traversing.
“I read on the resort’s Web site that you’re only open June through October,” she said. “How come? Endless Sky seems the perfect spot for a Christmas vacation. I can picture a huge lighted tree in the lobby by the fireplace.”
Her nerves had her babbling like the river the others were rafting on this morning.
“The parkway’s closed most of the winter,” he explained. “The weather’s too brutal for hiking and rafting, or for counting on the Hummer and helicopter for access. And we have no ski facilities. Most of our clients would rather go elsewhere in winter.”
“Where do you go?”
“My boss also owns a resort in St. Thomas. I help out there while Endless Sky is closed.”
“Winter in the Caribbean,” she said with an envious smile. “Must be tough.”
“It’s a nasty job, but somebody has to do it.” He stopped and looked back. “You have a great view of the resort from here.”
Trish turned and looked back at the hotel, outlined against the brilliant blue sky, and imagined the resort in winter, windows shuttered, the entire structure shrouded in clouds and buffeted by icy winds. The prospect made her shudder. “Nobody stays over the winter?”
“Depends on how you define nobody.” He pivoted and began walking again. “The ghosts never leave.”
Chapter Five
“Ghosts?” Trish hurried to keep up. “You’re kidding, right?”
He shook his head, and his midnight-blue eyes were somber. “No, I’m not kidding. I didn’t believe in the supernatural before coming to Endless Sky. Now I’m not so sure.”
“You’ve seen these ghosts?” His comment made her reassess the voice she’d heard in her room the previous night. Maybe it hadn’t been a dream.
“Specific entities?” He shook his head. “But I’ve seen things I can’t explain.”
“Like what?”
“The Brown Mountain lights.”
Her fear of heights momentarily overridden by talk of ghosts, she scanned the surrounding ridges. “Which one is Brown Mountain?”
“You can’t see it from here. It’s north of Ashe ville, near Blowing Rock.” He pointed north and the sun struck his profile, illuminating the classic lines of his face.
“What’s supernatural about lights on a mountain?” She wondered if he was teasing her. “Highways and railroads run through these hills. Someone’s bound to observe headlights occasionally.”
“That was my first reaction, too, but these lights were seen by the Cherokee centuries before the invention of cars and trains. Even before the advent of electric lights.”
Trish remained skeptical. “What do these Brown Mountain lights look like?”
“Huge glowing balls, sometimes exploding high above the mountain like Roman candles, but without sound.” He glanced at her without a hint of teasing, his eyes dark and serious. “When I saw them, they rose slowly and gradually faded away.”
“There has to be a scientific explanation,” she insisted. “Decaying vegetation, Saint Elmo’s fire.”
He shook his head. “They’ve been investigated by the U.S. Meteorological Society and the U.S. Geological Survey, and by other independent scientists. No one’s been able to come up with a definitive cause.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the supernatural explanation?”
“The Cherokees reported seeing these lights as far back as the year 1200. Prior to that, a terrible battle between the Cherokee and Catawba tribes was fought near Brown Mountain.” O’Neill’s voice was matter-of-fact, but his words made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. “The Cherokee believe the lights are torches, carried by the spirits of Indian women, searching over the centuries for their lost husbands and sweethearts.”
“Makes a good story, at least.” Trish suppressed a shudder.
“That’s only one story. These mountains are filled with Cherokee legends and tales of Tar Heel ghosts. Sometimes I can almost feel them, even if I can’t see them.” With his dark good looks, O’Neill looked like someone out of a legend himself, a man with a story, a man with secrets. A dangerous man.
Trish wished she’d bothered to tell someone else at the resort where she was going and with whom. But she shook off her gloomy thoughts. O’Neill’s tales of Cherokee spirits had spooked her, but surely she had no reason to fear the man who’d been so kind to her.
They had reached a saddle in the ridge, and the trail plunged downward into an eerie stand of dead evergreens, a forest of botanical ghosts.
“Did a fire kill these trees?” she asked. Their gray skeletons were covered with moss and lichens, making them appear ancient and sad.
O’Neill shook his head. “Pollution and acid rain.”
Voices sounded ahead. Trish and O’Neill rounded a curve in the descending trail and a trio of hikers approached, one holding the lead of a German shepherd. Two of the men, tall and slightly built with freckled complexions and pale blue eyes, looked like brothers. The third was short and swarthy. All three wore the distinctive neon-orange windbreakers and soft caps of the rescue squad. The dog wore a working harness and a vest embroidered with the squad’s name.
O’Neill greeted them. “Find anything?”
Trish held her breath and hoped for good news.
The short man shook his head. “We’ve been out all night, following this trail all the way to Pisgah Point. We found zip.”
“The dog didn’t pick up a scent?” she asked.
The handler shook his head.
“I thought blo
odhounds were used for tracking.” Erin patted the friendly shepherd’s head.
“Heidi is trained for tracking, too, but she’s best at maneuvering into spaces a person would have trouble reaching, like under fallen trees, down steep slopes or into small burrows.” The man scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Heidi checked everywhere, but never gave us an alert.”
“Does that mean the missing woman didn’t come this way?” Trish asked.
The handler shook his head again and spoke in his slow drawl with a mountain twang. “She could have. There’s still a lot of country we haven’t covered. It’s like looking for a needle in a field of haystacks.”
“Breakfast is waiting back at the resort,” O’Neill said. “I appreciate your efforts.”
“We’ll rest up and head out again,” the short man said.
Trish and O’Neill moved off the path for them to pass.
“These mountain folk are good people,” O’Neill said as soon as the men had moved out of earshot. “Except for a few sheriff’s deputies, everyone on the search-and-rescue teams is a volunteer.”
“If they’ve already covered this trail, shouldn’t we look somewhere else?”
O’Neill nodded. “There’s a fork up ahead. The right path goes to Pisgah Point, the other to the place where the cell phone was found. We’ll search the left fork.”
At the fork in the trail, they descended farther down the ridge into a forest of deciduous trees, their foliage brilliant with fall color. The narrow path was treacherously slick with a layer of dead leaves, wet from yesterday’s rains. Trish was glad for the walking stick to help keep her balance. They followed the trail deeper into the woods, and, ahead of her, O’Neill peered through the trees and underbrush on either side. She was struck again by their isolation and her vulnerability, alone in the wilderness with a stranger. But she would risk her own safety to find Deb.
“There’re dozens of smaller trails leading off from this one,” he explained. “I’m looking for broken branches, strips of cloth, any sign of someone having left this trail recently.”
“Who made all these paths?” Trish asked. “Hikers?”
“These trails are almost as old as the mountains themselves. Most were bear trails, which the Indians used for hunting. Now they’re used for recreation.”
“Bears?” she said in alarm. “Are there bears around here?”
“I doubt we’ll see them. They hide in the trees and generally avoid people.”
Trish cast a worried glance at the canopy of the trees high above her. Yellow, gold and red leaves shimmered in the breeze, but she saw no sign of bears.
Thrusting everything from her mind but her sister, she reached out with her thoughts. Deb, if you’re here, talk to me.
She stopped and stiffened as something brushed her mind.
Deb?
But the sensation passed, and Deb didn’t answer.
Are you here, Deb? It’s me, Trish.
She scanned the area surrounding the path for some sign of her sister’s having been there, but found nothing.
“Something wrong?” O’Neill called from lower on the trail. “Find anything?”
Stalling for time, she shook her head and bent down and pretended to tie her shoe. Deb?
Receiving no answer, Trish hurried to catch up with O’Neill. Even in her worry over Deb, she couldn’t help but notice how handsome her guide was. He looked every inch the outdoorsman as he strode confidently down the path. The muscles of his thighs and calves rippled beneath the snug fit of his jeans as he moved sure-footedly over the rugged terrain. Dappled sunlight, peeking through the overhanging trees, illuminated his sleek dark hair and the chiseled angles of his face.
O’Neill to the rescue, she thought with a smile. What woman wouldn’t feel safe in those powerful arms? Or was that prospect of safety an illusion? Shaking away her preoccupation with O’Neill, she concentrated on looking for her sister.
The steep trail wound downward until it crossed a rock-strewn creek. On the other side, the well-worn path led up a steep slope. Trish’s sneakers slipped on the damp humus, and several times she would have fallen if O’Neill hadn’t grabbed her and hoisted her beside him. For someone whose job kept him behind a hotel desk, he had amazing strength and apparently unlimited lung capacity. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
Trish, however, wasn’t in such good shape. By the time they reached level ground at the top of the next ridge, her chest was heaving with exertion and the muscles of her legs trembled from the unaccustomed strain. She wanted to find Deb, but she couldn’t take another step without resting first.
As if reading her mind, O’Neill announced, “Time for lunch.”
He swept fallen leaves from a wide flat rock beside the trail and poked around its base with his walking stick.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Checking for timber rattlers.”
She shuddered and prayed her sister hadn’t been snake bitten. “Bears, snakes. Any other hazards I should be wary of?”
With a grin, he pointed his walking stick to a plant on the opposite side of the trail. “Only poison ivy.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Grateful for the opportunity to rest her quivering muscles, she sank onto one edge of the flat rock.
O’Neill shifted the rucksack from his back to the rock, sat alongside her and dug into the pack’s depths to remove thermal containers. Within minutes, he had a feast spread on a burgundy linen cloth between them.
Trish, whose idea of a picnic was of a bucket of fried chicken, a liter of soda and a roll of paper towels, struggled not to gawk at the crusty croissants filled with almond chicken salad, a compote of baked apples with raisins in cinnamon sauce and glasses for the chilled white wine. Not a paper plate or plastic utensil in sight.
Reminding herself that a Palm Beach heiress would accept the extraordinary meal as common, she reached for a sandwich. “I’m starved.”
“It’s the mountain air. And the exercise.” O’Neill took a croissant for himself. “So,” he said, after swallowing his first bite, “what do you do when you’re not traveling?”
Trish bit into her sandwich to give herself an opportunity to think. She’d been so concerned about Deb, she hadn’t taken time to concoct a complete cover story. Now, she figured the closer she kept to the truth, the more convincing she’d be. “I volunteer at a local middle school.”
He gazed at her with raised eyebrows and a hint of disbelief. “Middle school? Isn’t that a tough age to work with?”
“I love the challenge.” She hoped whoever was covering her classes was up to the task. “Two of the boys I mentor have learning disabilities—dyslexia and attention deficit disorder. I get a lot of satisfaction from helping them improve their study skills.”
O’Neill’s gaze locked on her, and she forced herself not to squirm beneath the scrutiny of those deep, dark eyes. He reached for a linen napkin, lifted it to her face and gently dabbed at the corner of her mouth.
“Mayonnaise,” he explained.
His touch rattled her, but not nearly so much as the question that followed. “Who are you?”
“What?”
A cold wind ruffled the linen tablecloth, and the chill cut through her layers of clothing and made her shiver. She was intensely aware of the vulnerability of her situation, alone in the wilderness with a man she barely knew. Did O’Neill know more about what had happened to Deb than he’d let on? Even more frightening was the possibility that he might have been responsible in some way for her sister’s disappearance. He was Quinn Stevens’s employee. How far would Stevens go to protect his privacy?
Trish pushed away her fears. Tales of evil spirits, ghosts and strange lights had affected her reason. O’Neill had been the epitome of kindness and consideration since their first meeting. She had no reason to fear him.
She hoped.
“I’m not sure what you’re asking,” she said.
His crooked smile magnified his appeal. “You�
��re unlike any woman I’ve ever met. Every time I think I have you figured out, you surprise me.”
Remembering her charade as a man-hunting playgirl, she slanted her head, batted her eyelashes and flashed a coy grin. “I’ve been told men like a sense of mystery in women.”
For a second, she worried that flirtation with a strange man in the middle of nowhere wasn’t exactly smart, but her fears proved groundless when her playful come-on did nothing to rouse O’Neill’s ardor. If anything, he seemed put off by her ploy.
“Finish your lunch,” he ordered. “We should start back.”
She ate a few more bites, but what little appetite she’d had was gone, squelched by worry for Deb. She wondered if her sister was hungry, cold, hurt—
Beware. The ancient voice from last night’s dream sounded in her head.
Trish dropped her wineglass, shattering it on the rock, and jumped to her feet. Who are you?
“What’s wrong?” O’Neill had sprung from his seat beside her. “Did something bite you?”
She shook her head, unable to think of an excuse for her bizarre behavior.
“Are you okay?” O’Neill asked.
The sincerity in his voice and the kindness in his expression almost undid her. The voice she longed to hear most of all remained silent, and she didn’t know whether the spirit who had spoken was good or evil. Whatever it was, she wouldn’t let it deter her from her search. “We should keep going.”
“Why? Did you spot something?”
She shook her head.
O’Neill started packing the remnants of their lunch into his rucksack. “That’s a tough climb up that next ridge, even steeper than it looks. It’s another hour at least to the top.”
“So?”
He pointed across the gorge where the creek ran to the path that led back to the resort. “That’s also an uphill climb. It’ll take twice as long to go up as it did coming down. Even if we head back now, we’ll be pushing it to make it back by dark.”
“You go on back. I’ll continue alone.” Her sister might be out there, and Trish wasn’t going to abandon her.
Mystique Page 6
