Fatal Charm

by Linda Joy Singleton

  He frowned and pulled away. “Sorry. I was out of line.”

  I shook my head.

  “You’re with Josh. I respect that.”

  “Well … that’s … um … ” Sinking into his clear blue eyes, I couldn’t speak.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “It’s … It’s okay.”

  “I’ve been a total ass. Once Nona is well, I’ll move on.”

  “NO! You can’t!”

  “I never planned to stay this long.”

  “But you’re such a huge help to Nona.” I dug my nails into the armrest. “You love working for her and she thinks of you like family.”

  “I have no family.”

  The traffic moved back to posted speeds and Dominic slipped in a country CD, shutting himself off. He disappeared while sitting inches away, humming softly to a sad song. We didn’t talk again; as if words, powerful or casual, would expand and steal the oxygen in the truck. There was too much to say and so much that could never be said.

  I care about you, he’d told me.

  Over and over I replayed these words, proving to myself they were real. I hadn’t been imagining the vibes between us. He liked me! I wanted to shout and laugh and sing and tell him I felt the same way. But how could I?

  Ohmygod! What was I doing? I was committed to Josh—“committed” like being strangled in a straight jacket. I couldn’t believe that within twenty-four hours two guys had confessed to liking me. Be careful what you wish for, I thought miserably, because it might come true and mess up everything.

  If only Dominic had told me how he felt before I’d vowed to work things out with Josh. If only I hadn’t promised to go on the horseback camping trip with Josh.

  If only … damn.

  My romantic timing totally sucked.

  A short distance later, a sign announced we were entering Nevada.

  I opened the glove box and pulled out Dominic’s map. It wasn’t an actual map but a computer printout. I studied the paper, trailing my finger along red highway lines until the lines disappeared into high desert and only a tiny black X hinted at our destination.

  We passed Boomtown and Reno, where casinos and hotels beckoned with bright lights and gambling tables. Snow capped nearby mountains and prickly weeds rolled across vast, rugged hills. Wild horses still roamed Nevada’s rugged hills, although I suspected urban sprawl would eventually corral them. Freedom was defined by landscape and society. Wild horses were restricted by roads and fences; I was restricted by duty and expectations. I imagined myself galloping off, shaking away the have-tos of life, and jumping over tall fences …

  Dominic spoke my name.

  “Huh?” I looked up, startled to realize we’d missed our turn-off.

  Oops. I apologized for my lapse in navigating. We doubled back to find Gopher Hole Road, which wasn’t much of a road; two lanes that climbed like a creeping snake up sage-brush-covered hills. Almost there, I thought, and I crossed my fingers for luck.

  A faded arrow on a fence pointed two miles to Shrub Flats, and we left the paved road for a bumpy dirt road bordered by barbed fencing for cow pastures. Cows lifted their heads as if curious why a truck was interrupting their morning snack, then swished their tails and resumed munching.

  I didn’t expect much from Shrub Flats—and my expectations were met.

  No longer than a block, the cheesy tourist trap claimed to be a historical mining town. Faux Old West shops were bordered by stilted wood walkways on each side of the main street. Yes, that street really was called Main Street. It was like driving onto a movie set, and I half-expected gunslingers to ride up on their horses and shout “This is a holdup!” But the only horses were wood carvings outside the entrance to Suzy’s Saloon.

  Other shops included Candy’s Ice Cream Parlor, Gold Panning Adventures, Silver Jewelers, Heart’s Hideaway B&B, and Shrub Flat Historical Society. The latter piqued my interest. Would local historians know the history of our charms?

  Main Street was quiet; probably more tourists were swarming to snowy slopes rather than quaint shops. Soft falling snow sprinkled on cars, curbs, and wintry trees. Dominic parked his truck in front of the Historical Society.

  “The sign says it’s open,” I pointed out. “Although it looks dark, but then a lot of these buildings look deserted. I wonder if anyone’s inside.”

  “One way to find out.” Dominic stepped out of the truck.

  I hesitated, feeling a chill of unease. Darkened windows like shaded eyes reflected cloudy skies, hiding secrets that I sensed swirled underneath the touristy façade. I glanced around but saw no one suspicious. Then I stepped up on the planked sidewalk.

  As we entered the Historical Society, a sudden wind shook the door and slammed it behind us. The bang rattled the windows and caused some brochures to fly off a high shelf. I bent to pick up the brochures when a sudden voice ripped through the room.

  “Intruders!” shrieked a raspy voice.

  Startled, I jumped and narrowly missed bumping into a shelf.

  “Shoot to kill! Intruders!”

  “What the hell!” Dominic swore, jerking his head to look around. “There’s no one here.”

  “So who shouted?” I didn’t see anyone either, only tall chrome brochures racks, orange cushioned chairs, and an empty desk with neat piles of papers stacked in trays. There was also an odd odor in the air, musty like soggy newspapers mingled with strong coffee.

  “Kill intruders!” the voice screamed again. “Go away!”

  “I don’t think we’re welcome,” I whispered to Dominic. I still couldn’t see anyone but I heard a rumble noise from the back. “We should leave.”

  Dominic shook his head, walking to the rear corner of the room, beyond a high shelf of books. I heard his burst of laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked, hurrying after him.

  “Meet our unfriendly host.”

  He pointed to a large metal cage with a bright-feathered bird inside. “A parrot!”

  “Intruders! Go away!” The bird squawked with a flap of his feathers.

  “Oh, shut up, Gwendolyn.”

  I turned to find a middle-aged woman with frizzy, straw yellow hair entering through a back door. She wore too-tight jeans for her wide butt and shiny spurs on her white cowboy boots jangled as she wiggled over to us. She held a cup of steaming coffee in one hand as she waved with the other.

  “Don’t mind Gwen,” she greeted in a friendly drawl. “Y’all are welcome in Shrub Flats.”

  “Thanks,” I said with some relief.

  “Sorry, but I was in the back and didn’t hear you come in.” She set her cup down on the desk, then frowned at Dominic, who was bending over the giant-sized bird cage. “Be careful. Gwendolyn bites.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Dominic replied.

  “Last person who said that lost a finger,” the woman said ominously. “Gwen’s a very old African Grey and bad tempered. She detests strangers. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Dominic leaned closer to the cage, whispering rhythmic clicking and whistling sounds as he slipped a finger through the bars. Gwen tilted her blond head, her beady eyes fixed on Dominic. Instead of biting, she made a clicking sound, then fluttered over and perched on his finger.

  “I’ve never seen her do that before!” the woman exclaimed.

  I smiled, not at all surprised. Dominic had been astonishing me with his almost-magical spell over animals since I met him. To be honest, I found it very sexy.

  “African Greys are fascinating birds,” he said, tickling the parroy with his other hand. “Some live over a hundred years.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? Gwen’s so old, no one knows her age. She’s had more owners than Nevada has slot machines. Seems like it anyway,” the woman added with a chuckle. “I can’t get over how she’s taking to you. I reckon that means you’re good people and I’m glad to meet you. I’m Bea Hiverson, but my friends call me Bea Hive.”

  “Bee hive?” I repe
ated, amused.

  “Silly, I know, but suits me.” She reached up to pat her hair. “Spelled B-E-A, short for Beatrice.”

  Dominic held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Dominic and this is Sabine.”

  I gave a small wave.

  “Where y’all from?” Bea asked. She reached for a bag of seeds and offered some to Dominic. He slipped them through the cage and Gwendolyn gobbled them up with gentle pecks.

  “Sheridan Valley, California.”

  “Never heard of it.” She turned from me, clearly more interested in Dominic. “You raise birds?”

  “No.” He stroked Gwendolyn’s silvery head feathers. “But I respect animals and they can tell I like them. Isn’t that right, Gwen, old girl?”

  “Intruder!” she squawked. “Nice intruder.”

  We laughed, then Bea gestured to a display of pamphlets, calendars, and videos on Shrub Flats. “We have plenty of history to share. You interested in a video of an authentic re-creation of a silver mine?”

  “Not this trip,” I said. “We’re looking for information on someone who may have lived here a long time ago.”

  “How long?”

  “A hundred and fifty years ago.”

  Bea stared at me. “Mighty long time. Back then Shrub Flats wasn’t even called Shrub Flats. It was called—”

  “Horseshoe,” Dominic said.

  “Yes. That’s right.” Bea gave a low whistle. “You must have been studying up on our area. Any particular reason?”

  “We’re looking for information on an ancestor of mine who may have lived here. Are there old records from the late 1800s?”

  “Not around here.” She gestured to the glass and chrome shelves and displays. “Nothing’s left of the old town. The Pig Fire destroyed everything. But you can buy a video on the fire—a fabulous re-creation of real historical events. It’s on sale, too, buy one and get an authentic nugget of imitation silver.” She crossed over to a counter with small plastic containers and picked up a speck of silver smaller than my pinky fingernail.

  Bea didn’t look happy when we declined this “great deal.”

  But she persisted, leading me over to cases of jewelry and pitching hard for a sale. I finally broke away from her and went over to Dominic.

  “If you’re done playing with that bird, I’m ready to go.”

  He looked up. “You find out anything?”

  “As if you care.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Coming here was a total waste.” The door banged shut behind us. An icy gust slapped at my legs and stung my face. “Bea doesn’t have a clue about history or antiques. She only carries ‘authentic reproductions.’”

  Dominic snorted. “Translation: Junk.”

  “This museum is a rip-off, limited to what she wants to sell. She kept hitting on me for a sale.”

  “Looks like she succeeded.” He pointed at the plastic bag in my hand.

  “Well … I felt like I should buy something.”

  “Sucker,” he teased.

  “It was on sale. I could hang the charms on it—at least they’d be good for something. I wish I knew what they meant.” I dangled the silver necklace from my fingers. “Horseshoe has to mean this town, yet Bea said nothing was left of the original town. Everything went up in flames with the Pig Fire. There’s nothing over a century old.”

  “Except Gwen,” Dominic chuckled.

  “Oh, yeah. Mustn’t forget old Gwen.”

  “Seriously. Gwen was very talkative.”

  “But she’s a bird.”

  “A brainy bird with a long memory.”

  Then he told me what Gwen had to say.

  Bassett, Parrotten, Jackpot, Rebekah, Feather Brain, and Beak Boy.

  These were a few of the names Gwendolyn had in her very long lifetime.

  “Beak Boy?” I questioned. “Gwen is a girl.”

  Dominic shrugged. “Hard to tell with birds.”

  I shot him an amused look. “Unless they tell you.”

  The sky was darkening and the blustery wind was now flecked with white puffs of snow. We returned to the truck, and I reached into the back for my jacket, warming up my shivery body.

  Dominic’s voice rose with excitement when he talked about something he felt strongly about, which would be anything to do with animals. His cheeks and nose were ruddy from the cold, although he didn’t seem bothered enough by the dropping temps to put on his leather jacket. He gestured as he talked, excited about connecting so closely with a wise animal. His aura flared red and golden hues, drawing me into his energy, overly conscious of my own green-lavender essence reaching across the space between us.

  “Gwen talked about her past,” Dominic told me.

  “Oh? Is she really over a hundred?”

  “Older. Her earliest memory is of crossing the ocean on a large boat with many other birds. Her first owner was a wealthy little girl who dressed her up in doll clothes and took her for rides in a baby buggy. But the little girl got sick and died young. This was around 1890.”

  “Long after Agnes died,” I said sadly. “Gwen never met Agnes, so how can she help us?”

  “She also lived with a train conductor, farmer, and midwife. She’s seen a lot.” Dominic started up the truck, glanced over and seemed to notice how I huddled under my jacket, then turned up the heater. But he didn’t drive anywhere, not yet.

  “Gwen went through many owners; most of them considered parrots lucky. One of her names was even Lucky—until that unlucky owner died in the Pig Fire. Gwen never liked him much anyway. He forgot to feed her and left her water dirty. His feed store burnt down along with almost every other building in Horseshoe.”

  “Almost?” I noticed how he’d emphasized this word, my interest piqued. I leaned forward, careful not to brush against him.

  “This isn’t the only museum,” he said with a dismissive flick of his hand. “The Horseshoe Museum survived.”

  “How?”

  “Brick doesn’t burn.”

  I glanced around at the touristy faux Western shops. “So where is it?”

  “Over that hill at the original town site.”

  “Which Bea said didn’t exist.”

  My annoyance with Bea faded as I realized how close we were to finding my great-great-great-grandmother’s remedy book. I crossed my fingers, hoping this museum was the real deal and not another “re-creation.” If it was genuine, then someone there might know about Agnes. Did this mean our luck was improving? Old Gwendolyn may live up to her former name of “Lucky.” If this panned out, I owed her a special bird treat.

  Dominic clicked on the windshield wipers. They swooshed back and forth as we pulled away from the curb, flicking away snow flakes. The light snowfall was mesmerizing, each lacy flake awesomely beautiful, inspiring confidence that life happened for a reason. Nature’s puzzling perfection was proof in powers larger than human worries. Somehow this made everything better, and I felt confident all the puzzle pieces were falling into place. Soon we’d find Nona’s remedy, mostly because of Dominic. Aside from gleaning information from animals, he had a keen sense of direction for important clues. My grandmother had chosen wisely when she hired him as handyman/apprentice.

  I wished my choices were as wise …

  A rut in the road jolted the truck and smacked me against the door. The paved road changed to rough gravel and we wound around rugged terrain with only a few scattered ranches. Light snow softened the landscape of the high desert, adding an angelic frosting to tumble weeds and prickly bushes.

  We slowed on a dirt road surrounded with vast fields with dead-looking flat patches that were the burnt remains of old buildings. There were other remnants of a forgotten town: crumbling rock walls, broken chimneys, and deep trenches grown wild with chaparral, twisted barbed wire fences, and gnarled trees littering a dead orchard. Only a few buildings remained. One had an odd rectangular shape with a high roof that sloped down to a row of small square windows that circled the building. On the
front by the porch was a large brass horseshoe above large letters: HORSESHOE MUSEUM.

  “Unreal!” Dominic exclaimed. “It’s shaped exactly like the charm!”

  “Wow.” I pulled the house charm from my pocket and held it up, comparing it to the brick building. Except for a frosting of snow, it was an exact match with the same odd peaks, rounded windows, and double doors. Displayed at the front of the building was a large brass horseshoe.

  “It’s both the horseshoe and the house! Only it’s a museum, not a house. Agnes was here!”

  I jumped excitedly, snow sloshing on my jeans. But who cared? We’d reached the end of our quest! Nothing could dampen this amazing moment. Over one hundred years ago, my great-great-great-grandmother had stood on this same bricked walkway and walked through that door. Where other descendents had failed to follow her clues, we’d succeeded.

  But when we climbed the steep brick staircase to the door, we were stopped abruptly. A cardboard sign hung on the doorknob by a string so the words tilted off to one side.

  Gone Fishing. Niles.

  I could not believe it.

  “Not fair! Someone has to be here!” I pounded on the door. “Who goes fishing in the snow?”

  “Some guy named Niles.” Dominic jerked on the door knob. “Locked. Damn.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Wait until he comes back.”

  “And turn into icicles.”

  “It’s not that cold. But the snow is coming down harder. What do you want to do? Wait or leave?”

  “If we leave that’s like failing, and if we stay we could freeze to death.”

  “It’s your call,” Dominic told me.

  How long would Niles be gone? Niles could be fishing for a few hours or a few weeks. Why couldn’t his note have included a “will return by” time? I hated to give up, but what else could we do?

  Excuse me, Sabine dear, but as usual you’re overlooking the obvious.

  “Opal?” I asked, realizing I’d spoken out loud.

  Dominic shot me a questioning look. “Your spirit guide is here?”

  I nodded, then tuned in to Opal, closing my eyes so I could see her image. Gray shadows sharpened, defining a feminine shape, the dark-amber skin luminous and her shining ebony eyes rich with wisdom. She lifted her braided head, the purple ribbons twisted into a regal crown, with queenly elegance.