Spirits of the Season: Eight Haunting Holiday Romances

by Amanda DeWees

  Ben stared at her wide-eyed for so long that Emma thought she would fall right into the chasm of silence that ensued. Finally he said, “No.”

  Emma felt all the breath leave her body as her shoulders sagged. She glanced at the grandfather clock on the side wall. It was ten minutes to midnight.

  Ben followed her eyes. “Look at the time,” he said, folding his napkin and laying it across his empty dessert plate. “Thanks for a delightful dinner.” He stood up and presented his hand for a shake.

  Emma took his hand across the table in both of hers. “Wait,” she said, hoping the desperation she felt didn’t show in her face. “There’s one more thing.”

  “What?” Ben said, looking apprehensive.

  “You said earlier that there are no such things as ghosts. What if I could prove otherwise?”

  “You mean… ”

  Still holding his hand, Emma said, “I have every reason to believe that Daniel’s ghost will show up again tonight—any minute, in fact. You’ve got to come upstairs to my room and see him.”

  “Umm, I don’t think so.” Ben pulled away from her gently and started backing toward the French doors to the lobby.

  “But I’ve told him all about you, and he wants to meet you.” Fully aware that she was now sounding as crazy as an outhouse rat, Emma followed after Ben, who was walking faster. “Please? It will only take a moment.”

  “Another time,” Ben said. “Good night, and thanks again.”

  She’d blown it. Her destiny was in tatters. Emma ran to catch up with him. “Wait!” she called again.

  Just as Ben was reaching for the door knob a man burst in from the outside, forcing him to retreat until he backed right into Emma. It was Roy, in full Confederate general’s uniform, complete with a long, ridiculous fake beard.

  “Emma, mah de-yah,” Roy cried in a hokey southern accent. “It is I, General John Bell Hood, commander of the Army of the Tennessee, come to make you an offer of marriage on behalf of Mr. Roy Davison.”

  Emma glared at him. Roy couldn’t even propose as himself. He had to do it in character. At least he had the gumption to make a grand gesture. She was glad he hadn’t frozen off his testicles, because she’d relish the chance to crush them with her bare hands if he screwed up the rest of her life as he had the last ten years of it.

  She was about to tell him that he was a day late and a dollar short when another man came in the front door in a rush.

  “Ho. Ho. Ho. Merry Christmas!” The ghost tour guide stood just inside the doorway, dressed in the best Santa suit Emma had ever seen, with his long white beard cascading down the front and a red sack over his shoulder.

  Roy, Ben, and Emma stood stock still and gaped at Santa, stunned. But when the clock in the dining room started striking twelve, Emma saw Santa give her an almost imperceptible wink and she snapped out of her inertia. She seized Ben’s hand and started trying to drag him toward the staircase. The big man didn’t budge. Roy was coming out of his torpor by this time as well, but Santa had a death grip on his shoulder in case he tried to interfere.

  What was she going to do? Her mind raced as the clock chimed two, three.

  Emma looked at Ben and the set of his jaw and saw Daniel. What appeal would Daniel respond to? Four. Five.

  Emma cried, “Save me! Save me from the general!” Six. Seven.

  Although her plea made no sense, the hero in Ben reacted without hesitation. He ran with her up the staircase, down the hallway, and into the room.

  There stood Daniel with Belle beside him, wringing her hands. “Go on, girl. You know what to do,” Daniel said.

  When she reached up to grasp Ben’s shoulders, his awestruck look told her he’d seen the ghostly couple as well, but he didn’t resist when she tugged him down to her. She kissed him hard, and he pulled her against him and set his mouth on hers in the deepest most demanding, most toe-curling kiss she’d ever experienced. The hard planes of his body thrilled her, and she found herself caressing his broad shoulders as his tongue teased her mouth. The sense of familiarity she’d felt at his touch turned to certainty. This was her man, once and forever. As they melted into each other, eyes shut tight, Emma saw a shared life play out in her mind.

  A young couple kissed in a sunny meadow filled with wild flowers. They made love in a bed of clover in a cool glade by a babbling brook. A young bride and groom stood side by side in front of a preacher in a country church filled with family and friends. Four small children ran and played in a home full of love and happiness—this home—as the couple looked on indulgently. A threat to their safety came but was vanquished by the wisdom and bravery of the husband and the steadfastness of the wife. They lived out their lives in peace, health, and joy.

  At last they fell away from each other. Emma searched Ben’s eyes for a sign that he’d had the same experience that she’d had.

  His look of love and awareness said it all.

  “Oh, Emma,” he whispered. “So it’s you I’ve been waiting for.”

  They kissed again, and Emma felt all the tiny, incomplete spaces in her soul fill with the love she’d been searching for, a love that would last until the end of time.

  * * *

  On their honeymoon, well before her next birthday, Ben and Emma lounged on the beach at Tybee Island. Emma had just concluded a phone call with her boss at the university. “Yes!” she exclaimed.

  “Good news, I take it?” Ben grinned lazily, peering at her over the rim of his sunglasses.

  “My request has been approved. The administration says I can continue my professorship while living here with you. I can do my lectures via Skype and the rest of the job remotely as well. We don’t have to have a commuter marriage after all!”

  She rolled across their beach towel toward Ben, who kissed her extravagantly.

  “I would’ve moved to Atlanta if you’d wanted me to,” he said. “But I think you’ve come to like the home place as much as I do.”

  “I love it. Sometimes I look at the photo of Belle and Daniel and I feel like they’re right there with us.”

  “Me too,” Ben agreed. “I’m just sorry the folks hoping to see Daniel’s ghost at the bed and breakfast won’t feel too disappointed this Christmas. I have a feeling that he won’t be making an appearance there anymore.”

  “It’s funny how everything worked out the way it was supposed to, even for Roy,” Emma mused. “When he followed us to my room that night, he was so thrilled at seeing an actual Civil War soldier—even in ghostly form—I think it more than made up for whatever disappointment he might have felt over the breakup.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Ben said. “But I’m glad he’s okay now, and that you guys are still the best of friends.”

  “He even said that if my remote work arrangement got approved, he’d help me move my stuff down here.”

  “Now that is a friend,” Ben said with a laugh.

  “You know, speaking of Belle and Daniel, I’m glad all three of us saw them that night. It’s forced you to change your tune about the supernatural, hasn’t it?”

  “Seeing is believing,” Ben said. “I’m going to be more open minded from now on.”

  Emma smiled mischievously. “In that case, do you think we should make the same pact that Belle and Daniel did?”

  “To meet in the next life, you mean?” Ben hugged her tighter to him, and Emma thrilled at the raspy feel of their sandy bodies coming together.

  “Uh-huh,” she murmured.

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,” Ben said.

  They kissed again, oblivious to the wispy cloud formation above their heads. The one that looked for all the world like a man and woman, their heads nodding on a balmy current of salty air.

  About the Author

  Afton Moss comes from a long line of Southern storytellers whose roots are planted deep in the red clay hills of Georgia. She writes romantic fiction in several sub-genres and under different pen names. Afton has written for Ballantine (as Rav
en Hart), Harlequin (as Susan MacLand), Zebra (as Susan Hardy), and Belle Books (as Susan Goggins). When she’s not writing she enjoys reading, bead weaving, movies, and hanging out with her dog and four cats.

  Afton welcomes feedback from readers. Email her at susan.goggins@att.net.

  Bandits Hollow

  Diane J. Reed

  Copyright © 2015 by:

  Diane J. Reed

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book was built at IndieWrites.com. Visit us on Facebook.

  151016.210804

  Chapter 1

  A deep call echoed through the woods of Bender Lake. It rolled past stark hardwood trees, barren of their leaves on a moonlit winter night, and traveled over the surface of the water till the sound thinned to a low rumble.

  Perched high on an oak branch was a great horned owl, chest swelled before its head swiveled full circle. Gold eyes flared as it spied its next prey. Snowflakes that mottled the bird’s forehead and feathers made it appear as old and stern as time itself.

  Evangeline Tinker stood at the open door of her gypsy wagon, her long velvet black dress shivering in the cold breeze. She tiptoed to the ground with caution, her laced crimson boots sinking into the soft layer of snow like blood. Wrapping her crocheted shawl tighter around herself, she took a puff on the thin cigar between her teeth, watching its curl of smoke rise to the stars.

  “Cold Moon,” she muttered under her breath, her gold front tooth gleaming in the moonlight. In her grip was a small leather pouch, the color of turquoise and worn rough and dark at the edges. She scanned the trees around Bender Lake, turning to study the wavy reflection of the full moon on the water like it was her crystal ball, the one she always kept inside her wagon for eager customers. Evangeline Tinker was renowned as the best backwoods fortune teller this side of the Mississippi, though most folks insisted she was the finest anywhere. Legions of pilgrims had made the journey to her wagon over the years, relying on word of mouth to find a remote dirt road past the Turtle Shores Trailer Park, over an hour southeast of Cincinnati. Although she rarely told customers what they wanted to hear.

  “Truth hurts, darlin’,” she’d remind them in her voice of gravel, whenever they sought answers for their most treasured hopes or fractured love lives. “But it’s the only thing that can bring a heart solace.” Evangeline’s customers left in tears as often as they did with smiles, yet there was always a sense of closure in their eyes—something akin to a hard-won peace—that was worth more to them than money could buy. Even law enforcement had been known to darken Evangeline’s door, hoping her psychic abilities might lead them to the remains of bodies long abandoned to cold case files. Sure as the sun sets each evening, Evangeline’s peculiar wisdom never disappointed them, which often made her a target for underworld types or others who preferred that their secrets remain sealed.

  Yet that’s where Evangeline Tinker’s greatest talent lay.

  Expert at gathering herbs and crafting spells in the tradition of her Irish Traveller forebears, Evangeline had an extraordinary knack for knowing how not to be found. Only people whose motives could be trusted ever seemed to locate her. And everyone from Cincinnati, Ohio to Harlan, Kentucky knew their troubles had better be desperate for her to give them the time of day. Most folks attributed her magical elusiveness to the concoctions she mixed only at certain times of year by the light of a full moon. Others claimed it was due to a close-knit group of backwoods militia at the Turtle Shores Trailer Park who guarded their prophetess with a loyalty normally reserved for the historical monarchs of Europe.

  But there were some who whispered that it was the moon itself that protected Evangeline...

  As Evangeline gazed at the white reflection at the center of Bender Lake, the rays of moonlight that filtered through the trees highlighted her strands of gray hair, full lips and wide cheekbones—features so classically beautiful and arresting that she still took young men’s breaths away. All her life, her skin was as pale and smooth as moonstone, and a white streak at her forehead contrasted her dark hair by the time she turned fifteen. Rumors had spread that she’d gone gray due to a lightning strike as a teenager, which she’d survived and had contributed to her other-worldly prescience. Ever since then, Evangeline could be counted on to dash into the woods at midnight every time there was a full moon and whisper while wandering, as though confiding secrets to her lunar best friend.

  “If’n the moon shines like a silver shield,” she recited the old folklore rhyme, “ya needn’t be afraid to reap yer fields.” Evangeline nodded at the pouch in her hand and bent down to pick up a frosted branch from the ground. “Mighty good night fer diggin’ my roots.”

  The great horned owl bellowed again, its hoot piercing the woods with a series of echoes before the sound fanned out across the lake like an eerie summons. For the life of her, Evangeline could’ve sworn she heard one of the echoes call her name.

  A chill began to work its way down her spine.

  “Dammit!” A woman’s voice cursed abruptly in the darkness, distracting Evangeline’s train of thought.

  Evangeline spotted her friend Brandi in the distance between the trees, grumbling as she hopped down from her vintage Airstream trailer that glowed with a hundred Christmas lights, casting a kaleidoscope of red and green onto the snow. Brandi slammed her door so hard that her trailer shook, and she stomped toward the source of the owl’s noise with her fists tight. She wore a curious outfit for such a late hour, sheathed in a leopard-print jumpsuit and matching kitten heels, and she had on a surprising amount of makeup, complete with bright purple lipstick and false eyelashes. As Brandi marched doggedly through the woods on teetering heels that kept slipping sideways, she didn’t appear to notice Evangeline in the moonlight until she was nearly on top of her.

  “Lord have mercy!” Brandi gasped when she spied Evangeline’s crimson boots in the snow. She glanced up with a start at Evangeline’s moonlit face. “Granny Tinker, what the hell are you doing up at this hour?”

  “Same as you, I reckon.” Evangeline rolled her cigar to the corner of her mouth and nodded at the owl above them before releasing another puff. For a moment, the smoke obscured her face entirely.

  Brandi coughed and waved the cloud aside, all the more irritated. “Well I swear, how’s a body supposed to get any sleep ’round here with that damn owl’s racket!” Hands on her hips, she shook her head sharply, causing one of her false eyelashes to flutter down her cheek and tumble to the snow.

  Evangeline merely smiled. She knew Brandi’s dark moods never lasted long, given her ebullient personality. “Is there a reason yer dressed like Ann-Margret from one of them old Las Vegas movies?” she chuckled, swinging her turquoise pouch back and forth.

  Brandi scanned her curve-hugging, leopard-print jumpsuit and sighed. “Aw hell, I just got back from my shift at the Moo & Brew Drive Thru fifteen minutes ago. Ol’ Charlie has us working late during the holiday season so folks can get their eggnog whenever they want.” Brandi gave Evangeline a sly wink. “Shh, don’t tell nobody, but he sells his moonshine on the side to give it a kick. Folks give me pretty good tips when I wear these outfits and pour a little extra into their cartons.”

  “Now when have I ever been known to talk too much?” Evangeline replied.

  Brandi blushed. It was common knowledge that it would be easier to pry a liar’s soul out of Satan’s clutches than to ever wrestle a secret from Evangeline. She swallowed hard and backpedaled quickly.

  “I dare say though,” Brandi remarked with sincerity in her eyes, “this moonlight does do wonders for your complexion. You look younger all of a sudden, sweetie. Must be the shiny silver light. You know, I’ve always thought about dying my hair with streaks of platinum like yours. Might get me more tips–”

  Brandi’s words were cut short by the silent thrust of air from a pair of wings t
hat soared mere inches above their heads, startling them both. A crinkled piece of paper fluttered to the ground, and as the owl passed over them to the woods, its moon shadow stretched over the snow.

  Only it wasn’t the silhouette of a bird...

  It was the shadow of a man.

  “Looky-look!” Brandi squealed, oblivious, pointing at the ground. “That owl dropped a piece of paper!” She scooped it up and unraveled the note in her hands, noticing it was yellowed and stained at the edges like old parchment.

  “Why, it’s a poem!” she marveled, scanning the faded words written in a florid script, the way penmanship used to look in the nineteenth century. “Heavens, it’s lovely,” Brandi sighed. “You gotta listen to this, sweetie,” she urged as she read the note aloud:

  I was young once, too

  in the wood and the hollow

  where magic seeks you

  and your steps must follow.

  Your heart was open then,

  and will be again,

  for I will find you

  and this isn’t the end...

  “Land sakes! That’s by far the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard!” Brandi gushed, searching Evangeline’s eyes. “You never told me you had a paramour! And a poet, no less, with a trained owl for a messenger? C’mon now, cough it up—is he tall, dark and handsome, or what?”

  To Brandi’s bewilderment, Evangeline’s face drained of all color. Her timberwolf gray eyes with golden flecks in the middle, the kind that always seemed to see to eternity and back, became strangely dimmed of light. For a woman who prided herself on not being found when she didn’t want to be, it was the first time Brandi had ever seen a hint of fear in Evangeline’s expression. Let alone what looked like raw terror.