Rowan's Responsibility

by Terri Reid

  Rowan’s Responsibility

  The Willoughby Witches

  (Book One)

  by

  Terri Reid

  Rowan’s Responsibility

  The Willoughby Witches (Book One)

  by Terri Reid

  Copyright © 2018 by Terri Reid

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  The author would like to thank all those who have contributed to the creation of this book: Richard Reid, Sarah Reid, Camille McDaris, Peggy Hannah, Mickey Claus, Terrie Snyder, and Hillary Gadd. And especially to the wonderful readers who are starting this whole new adventure with me, thank you all!

  Contents

  Prologue

  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 Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Prologue

  The motorcyclist wore a leather bomber’s jacket that seemed to emphasize his already wide shoulders and trim waistline. His helmet covered his dark blonde hair and masked his blue eyes. His strong chin and full lips were set in a determined expression as he maneuvered down the two-lane highway in the forested area of southeastern Wisconsin.

  Professor Henry McDermott glanced down at the clock on the control panel and shook his head. “Late,” he mumbled. “Late again.”

  This, he mused, was not an out-of-the-ordinary circumstance where he was concerned. But he really had hoped with this new adventure that he would be able to break old habits. Of course, he argued with himself, he wasn’t really late because he wasn’t meeting anyone. He’d just set an arbitrary time of eight o’clock to be sure he was settled into his cabin before it got too dark. He glanced up at the darkening sky and sighed. There had been a method to his madness. The owner of the cabin had warned him that finding it in the dark would be nearly impossible. It sat back in the woods about a half-mile from a remote country road, and in the dark, he could easily pass it by.

  Looking around at the thick forest that surrounded the road on both sides, he wondered if he could really get any further remote than he already was. He didn’t think he’d passed another driver on these roads for at least an hour. The only sign of life had been curious raccoons and death-defying squirrels. This place really was one of the last vestiges of wilderness in the United States.

  He glanced down at the petrol gauge on his motorcycle. “Gas gauge,” he reminded himself. “Not petrol…gas.” He saw that he still had one-quarter of a tank.

  “Plenty to make it there,” he reassured himself and crossed his fingers, just in case.

  He wasn’t quite sure how the mileage on the motorcycle would differ from the owner’s manual because he was pulling a small trailer that was fully packed with the supplies he would need for his stay in the Kettle Moraine area of Wisconsin. But the supplies were not the usual gear one might expect of a cabin-bound vacationer. No, Henry was carrying electronics, notebooks, old documents and even a small printer. He wasn’t coming to Wisconsin to hunt, fish or hike; he was coming to work on a book about legends of the area. And the legend that interested him the most originated within a few miles of his cabin—the Willoughby Witches.

  He readjusted his location, veering back to the right side of the road. Years of driving in England and a mind that would not stay focused for very long on anything as mundane as driving had him opting for a motorcycle rather than a car. He figured it would be easier to maneuver, and he wouldn’t have to worry about always getting in on the wrong side. But, as he had passed several herds of fairly large deer in meadows adjacent to the road on his way from Milwaukee, he wondered if his decision had been the right one.

  Glancing down at his GPS, he saw that the turn-off for the cabin was in less than a mile. “I may make it before sunset after all,” he said with a sigh of relief. “Mad dogs and Englishmen rush in where angels fear to tread.” He paused and shook his head. “No, that would be fools. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and mad dogs and Englishmen don’t come out of the noonday sun.”

  He slowed for the left turn. “I’m talking to myself in the middle of the deep forest at sunset,” he said as he carefully made the turn. “Surely that's the beginning of a horror story, isn’t it?”

  He paused for a moment and then smiled. “Well, at least I’m not answering myself,” he said in a congratulatory tone. “So, I’m not completely barmy.”

  His dialogue stopped abruptly when the small, paved entrance to the road gave way to a gravel-covered, washboard surface that made him fight the motorcycle for control. His body was jarred up and down as he moved forward, and the trailer bounced wildly with each yard.

  He held tightly to the handles on the motorcycle and slowed down, trying to keep the motorcycle in the middle of
the road. He glanced down at his GPS, and it read “unknown destination.”

  “Really! Now you tell me you don’t know where we’re going?”

  He remembered in the owner’s emailed directions that he mentioned crossing over a single-lane bridge and then driving another half-mile before the driveway to the cabin appeared. Since he hadn’t driven over a bridge yet, he knew he was still on the right track.

  The sun was setting, and the sky was now a lavender-grey color.

  An owl called out from a nearby tree, and the lonely cry of a wolf echoed in the distance. The tall pine trees seemed to be closing in on both sides of the road, and Henry searched for any signs of a bridge in the distance.

  Finally, he caught a glimpse of a guardrail ahead.

  “At last, the bridge,” he said with a sigh of relief.

  He increased the speed of the bike just slightly in anticipation and was nearly there when a giant, black stag jumped out in front of him. Henry grasped the brake and crushed it. The bike slid on the gravel and spun out. The trailer spun in the opposite direction, sending Henry and the bike tumbling into the ditch between the road and the woods.

  Henry flew off the bike and landed against the trunk of an ancient pine. The stag walked slowly across the road, sniffed the unconscious professor and then bounded silently into the woods.

  Chapter One

  Rowan Willoughby stood in the middle of her large garden and watched the sun sink behind the bluffs, turning the sky into a dusky shade of mauve. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of lavender at her feet, and felt contentment wash over her. This was home.

  Pushing her glasses back up her nose and sticking a loose strand of dark auburn hair into her bun, she turned to her plants. She had weeded nearly ten long rows of lavender that afternoon and then added organic fertilizer to the ground below them. She had tested the ph-level of the soil and done an analysis on leaf distress she’d noticed on some of the younger plants. Overall, she was content with their growth and as long as the weather was kind to them, she would have a bumper crop this year.

  “You did well today, Rowan.”

  The soft English accent had Rowan turning around and smiling. “Patience Goodfellow,” she said with fondness, “I was hoping I’d see you tonight.”

  The translucent skin of the ghost before her seemed to glow with warmth, whether from the rays of the setting sun or from the ghost’s own personality, and Rowan had known from the moment they’d met she was a friend.

  “And why were you hoping to see me?” the ghost asked.

  Rowan shrugged shyly. “Sometimes it’s nice to talk to someone who gets me,” she said.

  “Gets you?” Patience replied, angling her head in bewilderment. “That’s one of those phrases you’ll have to explain.”

  Rowan sat down on the ground, wrapped her arms around her jean-clad legs and smiled. “It means that you understand me,” she said. “You don’t push me to date or go out in public. I don’t have to dress up or be someone I’m not.”

  “Well really, that would be slightly inappropriate,” Patience replied, settling down next to Rowan. “I’m your spirit guide, not your mother or your sisters.”

  Rowan nodded. “See, that’s the problem,” she said. “I love them so much, but they want me to be…them.”

  “They want you to be happy,” Patience disagreed softly. “They want you to find companionship. In my day, a woman was not complete unless she found a husband.”

  “Well, things have changed quite a bit since then,” Rowan replied. “Woman can be anyone and do anything. They don’t need a man to give them permission.”

  “Well, your sisters don’t seem to be looking for a man’s permission,” Patience noted. “But they seem to enjoy their company.”

  Rowan grinned. “No, they aren’t,” she agreed. “But, you know, it’s just not my cup of tea.”

  “Now, tea, that’s something I do understand,” Patience replied with a chuckle.

  “Remember when we used to have tea parties in the garden?” Rowan said with a sigh. “Mother would give me a picnic basket with cookies and tea.”

  Patience shrugged. “As I recall, it was more milk than tea.”

  “And sugar,” Rowan said, wrinkling her nose as she smiled. “Lots and lots of sugar.”

  “I remember,” Patience said. “You would listen so carefully when I told you about the plants in the garden and how special they were.”

  “I learned to love herbs in that garden,” she replied. She paused for a moment. “There was a little boy…I just remembered about him. There was a little boy you would bring to the picnic sometimes.”

  Patience sighed and nodded sadly. “I haven’t seen that little boy in years,” she replied. “His father didn’t want him to come to our parties anymore.”

  “I liked that little boy,” Rowan said, pushing her glasses up again.

  The wind blew suddenly from a different direction, stirring up dust and bending the tops of the tender plants. Patience looked up and then shook her head. “There’s something in the wind,” Patience said softly, a furrow of worry on her brow.

  Rowan shook her head. “Cat looked for me,” she said. “There’s no bad weather forecasted.”

  Patience smiled gently. “That’s not what I was referring to.”

  Rowan stood up, picked up the bucket with the remaining fertilizer “tea” and her hoe. “So, what are you talking about?” Rowan asked with an easy smile. “Have you turned from spirit guide to gypsy fortune teller? Are you going to read my tea leaves? Is there a daring young knight on a white charger heading my way?”

  “Would you accept him if he did?” the ghost asked, her smile lessening the gentle censure.

  Rowan shrugged and walked toward the Gator parked at the end of the row. “White knights are interested in princesses, not scientists. He would take one look at Hazel or Cat, hand the horse’s reins to me, and then sweep one of them off into the moonlight,” she said as she walked back to the gardening shed.

  Patience walked alongside Rowan. “You don’t give yourself enough credit,” she said. “The right knight would be able to see past your disguise and choose to fight a dragon for you.”

  “Well, if you find the right knight,” she teased, “then you can send him in my direction.”

  The wind blew again, and Patience frowned.

  “What?” Rowan asked, knowing her spirit guide well enough to sense her moods.

  “There are ominous signs in the ether,” Patience said. “There is a coming together of past and present. Things have been put into motion that we cannot stop.”

  “Are you safe?” Rowan asked. “Will there be problems for you?”

  Patience lifted her hand and lovingly stroked Rowan’s cheek. “My dear child, I am well enough off, because I am no longer affected by the world of man,” she said. “But others, those I love, will be affected. Please be watchful and be wary.”

  “I’ll go warn the others now,” Rowan replied. “I’ll suggest that we all spend a nice quiet night indoors.”

  Patience nodded and began to fade away. “Yes, very good idea,” she whispered and then she called out. “And Rowan, make sure all the doors are locked. Be safe, my dear.”

  “Thank you, Patience,” Rowan replied, climbing onto the ATV. “I will.”

  Chapter Two

  Agnes Willoughby walked slowly down the forest path, avoiding low-hanging branches and thorny brush invading on her space. The night air was cool against her skin and held the scent of water. The ground beneath her feet was soft, created by years of pine needles, oak leaves and sandy dirt, so her footsteps and those of her companion were muffled.

  She carried a flashlight, but it was turned off. The light of the moon and her own familiarity with the path were strong enough to guide her carefully up to the cliffs that rose high above Blue Spring Lake. Her long, black dress slid over her sandaled feet as the path began to ascend toward the bluffs. She heard a rustle in the brush to her left an
d stopped, placing a calming hand on the furry head of the large, black wolf that stood by her side.

  “Shhhh,” she whispered. “It’s okay, Fuzzy. It’s probably just a raccoon.”

  The wolf whined impatiently.

  “The girls are fine,” Agnes said with a little impatience of her own. “And, really, I’m nearly fifty years old. I can go out for a walk without notifying my next of kin.”

  The giant beast rubbed against her, subtly moving to bar the path. With a soft sigh, she knelt down in front of him and placed her hands on either side of his face. They stared at each other, blue eyes meeting green, neither wanting to yield to the other.

  Finally, the pair of green eyes closed, and Agnes shook her head. Then she opened her eyes and faced the determined blue eyes of the black wolf before her.

  “I know,” she said softly, lowering her forehead to rest against the wolf’s head. “I agree that Rowan’s warning from Patience was very specific. And I’m not ignoring it. But I need answers. That’s why we have to go up there. Hiding away from it is not going to make it go away.”

  Fuzzy slid from her hold, stepped back only a step and stared at the woman before him. Agnes saw not only the concern but also the affection and loyalty. He had been her familiar since her daughters had been children. He had come to her, a noble and wise creature, bearing the impressive name of Adolphus, meaning noble wolf. Unfortunately, Adolphus was far too complicated for little tongues, and so his aristocratic moniker was changed to Fuzzy. And, unfortunately, even though the girls had since grown up, the name stuck.

  “I know you don’t approve,” she said regretfully. “But this is something I have to do. If you would like, you can go back down the path and wait for me there.”

  Looking as offended as a wolf could look, Fuzzy huffed angrily at her and then turned to continue up the path. Biting back a smile, Agnes nodded at her friend. “Thank you,” she said. “I truly do appreciate your company.”

  The wolf did not respond. Probably still offended, Agnes thought and followed in the wolf’s wake.

  The sandy path soon turned to rock, large slabs of black rock that protruded from the ground. Agnes grabbed her skirt in one hand, holding it up to keep from tripping, and used her other hand to find any kind of purchase on rock ledges or around small, spindly trees to help pull herself up. Her companion lithely jumped from rock to rock with no trouble. He stopped and stared at her as she struggled up a particularly steep outcropping.