In Love by Christmas: A Paranormal Romance

by Nathan, Sandy

  “Shh.” he whispered to the phantom. “I’ll never leave you. Arabella’s nothin’, Cass. Just something that happened. Don’t worry about it, darlin’. I’ll be back soon and we’ll get married. We’ll be so happy. No one will ever see two folks as happy as us. We’re gonna have kids and dogs. Horses. You like horses, don’t you?”

  He cooed the way he never had until Cass relaxed and slept.

  He didn’t sleep after Cass drifted away. The horror of what Arabella was shook him like a ‘coon in that ol’ hound Rustler’s jaws. A ‘coon that wouldn’t die or quit.

  Arabella was a spare. His time for marriage had come. That decree, that turning of all existence, came from the Great One. Grandfather was gone and the lineage had to continue. He was supposed to marry Cass, but if she died … if the evil one took her, the feelings he’d had for her would be transferred to Arabella without word or will. They’d be married in months as though Cass had never existed.

  He couldn’t let that happen. And he knew that Cass’s mortal peril was greater than ever.

  “Oh, you’re here,” His Lordship said, the corners of his mouth turning down when he entered the game room at 5:45. “Beating me to the equipment?”

  “No. Did you have plans with the equipment?”

  The shooting range was a marvel, occupying the southern half of the basement. It extended from the front of the house to the rear, one story below ground. His Lordship’s armory—he apparently was an avid hunter with bow and arrow or any weapon—was a large room in the front of the cement-walled, shooting range.

  Fulton, Lord Ballentyne’s butler, had opened the armory/study for Leroy. The staff had been up since four a.m., getting the household moving. A few heads had poked into the open doorway while Leroy was waiting. The upstairs of the house slumbered on, but the servants were very interested in witnessing what was to happen. “A friendly archery contest,” Fulton had described it. Like hell, everyone knew.

  “Shall we wait for Lord Ballentyne?” Leroy asked Lord Dashiell.

  “Hah! It will be noon by the time he gets here. Let’s push on. What do you want to do?”

  “Halloo!” Allie Paxton, Lord Ballentyne’s son, popped in. “I had to be here. What are you fellows going to do?”

  “We thought we’d start by killing each other,” Dashiell said with a smile.

  “Only kill? We won’t scalp each other?” Leroy was deadpan.

  “No! You’re not going to do that!” Allie gasped.

  “No. That was a joke. Let’s see. We could do some target shooting with the long bows. Work our way from there.”

  Racks of bows of all kinds filled the walls. Leroy headed for a rack of long bows on one side of the room. They shared the wall with an extensive display of crossbows.

  “I’ll take this one,” Dashiell said, lifting something that looked like it came from Star Wars, with levers and pulleys all over.

  “That’s a compound bow,” Leroy said. “Not allowed in the Olympics or in polite company. It’s high tech and easier to use than a recurve bow, like what Robin Hood used and all of these,” his hand swept the rack of classic long bows. “Recurves are used in the Olympics, but we can use whatever you want.”

  “Don’t say, old fellow. I just thought they were just more up to date.”

  Don’t say, like the coyote didn’t know the henhouse door was broken, Leroy thought. Compounds are easier.

  A cabinet beneath the bows probably held arrows and bolts. The walls of the rest of the room—which was decorated like a study with Persian carpets, dark wood paneling, leather seating, and the ubiquitous tea tray crammed with alcoholic beverages—were covered with firearms, modern and antique. Mounted heads of game animals filled every spare inch.

  “Sir,” Tom Wyatt stood in the doorway. “As you do not have a bowman, I will handle your equipment.” He was dressed in tweeds, as though they were hunting in the country, not a basement.

  “Thank you, Tom.” Leroy was not worried. He knew he’d win, no matter what they used, though he had never shot a crossbow.

  “I’ll set up the targets,” Tom trotted to the end of the range. Layers of foam designed to absorb the arrows’ impact covered the back wall. Tom set up four targets—lighter foam board painted with concentric circles—two on top of two.

  “Do you have preferences as to which side of the range you would like?”

  “I’ll take the left,” Dashiell said. His smile matched his name: Dashing Dash.

  They shot Leroy right, Dashiell left. Reversed it. Shot traditional recursive bows then switched to compound bows. Leroy won every time.

  “I say, you’re an expert. I suppose I should have known,” Dash hid his sourness well. “How about we use the same target? Pierce-the-arrow thing?”

  Nothing Lord Dashiell could do came near Leroy’s skill. Even when his arrow pierced the very center of one of the targets at the end of the basement room, Leroy’s arrow hit it dead center and shattered the shaft to the head. No matter how heavy the bow and the strength it demanded, Leroy shot better.

  Tom glowed, as did Allie and Fulton. The butler made frequent trips to the basement to tend to their needs. “Lemonade, Mr. Watches?”

  “Are you ready to concede, Your Lordship?” Leroy wanted it over. “I will gladly escort Lady Clarissa to the ball.”

  “Good heavens, no, man. We’ve barely begun. Let’s try the crossbows? Have you ever shot one?” Leroy shook his head. “See, you’ve been operating with a Native advantage.” He laughed at his pun on native.

  They went back into the armory. “So many of them. Which shall I choose?” The Lord’s bow and crossbow collection was as varied as the firearms on the walls. The crossbows ranged from antique wooden beauties to deadly-looking modern models from the military. Dashiell lifted one of the latter off the wall. “I wonder where Peter got this bruiser?” It was a metal thing, very modern, looking more like a gun than a crossbow.

  “That is a pistol crossbow, sir,” Fulton intoned from the doorway. “From the Barnett International line. His Lordship obtained it as a gift from a friend in the Army. Said to have been used in Serbia.”

  Leroy followed Dashiell into the armory. Allie, Tom, and Fulton lingered in the doorway.

  “The bolts are down here,” Dashiell pulled a box of metal bolts from a drawer under the racks of weapons. He held the non-firing end of the crossbow against his belly, while fumbling with the bolts. They looked like missiles to Leroy, solid projectiles. “Anyone know how to load these? I’ve never used a crossbow.”

  The agile way His Lordship manipulated the piece told Leroy he was an expert with the crossbow. He held back, wondering what his opponent was up to.

  “Tom, old fellow. I could use a hand,” Dashiell whined. Tom moved forward instantly.

  Leroy saw it immediately. Dashiell lifted the bow, business end pointed out, bolt in the slot. He seemed to be fumbling, but was in fact cocking the lever, aiming not at Leroy, but at Tom. Leroy did what Dashiell must have assumed he would, dashed forward faster than could be seen. He was a blur, extending his hand at the projectile.

  The bolt bounced off of the force field Leroy emitted, ricocheting toward the doorway, where it lodged less than two inches from the eye of Allie Paxton, heir to the Ballentyne fortune and title.

  “Oh,” the boy said, feeling the side of his face. The bolt had clipped his face; it bled, not heavily, but enough.

  “Oh, so sorry, Allie. I bumbled. I’ve never used a crossbow before.” Dashiell lurched toward the child, the soul of remorse.

  “You most certainly have,” Lord Ballentyne filled the doorway. “You’ve used that very model shooting at the estate. What the devil are you up to, Dash? It’s bad enough that you were pawing my daughter and niece last night. Are you attempting to kill our guest?”

  “No, Peter. How can you say that? It would have hit his man.”

  “Oh, shooting a valet is all right? Not in my house, Peter. Leave.” His Lordship turned his attention to his son. Le
roy was already there. Tom had brought him cold water and a clean cloth. Leroy touched the scratch and it closed.

  “Not even a scar, Allie,” Leroy said, smiling.

  “I wanted a scar. A dueling scar.”

  “This wasn’t a duel.”

  “Yes, it was. I saw. That’s why I had Bennet get Papa. Something was wrong.”

  “Something certainly was. My daughter showed me the right of it last night. Quite forcefully too.” Lord Ballentyne made a disparaging, headshake. “That young woman speaks her mind.

  “So, Mr. Watches, if you would like to escort my niece when she makes her debut in November, on behalf of her parents, I would be delighted to accept your services.”

  15

  Leroy Does the Vatican

  Even Will couldn’t get him an audience with the Pope. He got him an audience with “The Archbishop.” Leroy was supposed to find out who had the untraceable phone number, which was Will’s only link to Kathryn. Having found out who had it, he was to pump him for information about Kathryn Duane’s whereabouts. Then he was supposed to find her.

  Leroy was having a hard time with Italy. It stuck in his craw. His apartment also stuck in his craw. This one was bigger and golder than anything he’d seen in England. Table legs weren’t just carved, they were carved and beveled and loop-de-looped—then covered with gold. All the paintings had huge gilt frames, showing various levels of aging. The ceiling of his bedroom was blue, with wispy clouds over that, and fat angels with small wings flapping around. They couldn’t fly with wings that small. His tutor, Sir Glathering, would call it “overdone.” “But it is Italy …” he would sniff, nose in the air.

  Whoever “The Archbishop” was must have been important; they sent over a couple of priests the day before to teach him how to behave. Fortunately, he was pretty well schooled from his lessons on English royalty. Even so, they were there for hours. But if he learned all that for English noblemen, why not for Italian clergy?

  He expected to be in Italy only a short while. The mission Will had given him meant he’d be traveling, he suspected. Sitting at a writing table so carved and rolled and pleated that it made the English versions look like they came from a prison woodshop, he looked around the equally excessive living room, missing his ranch. Missing his father. The reservation. Fry bread.

  “Tom, you don’t have to put all my stuff away.” His stuff consisted of three trunks full of clothing, everything from a swimsuit to his tuxedo. He’d brought his valet, Tom Wyatt, with him for company. Given his druthers, Leroy would travel with a back-pack and a pair of jeans, but those days were over.

  “Do you want me to lay out your clothes for tomorrow, sir?”

  “Call me Leroy, Tom. And no. I want you to go shopping for me.”

  The audience was the next day. Leroy decided to be true to his traditions. His People’s spirituality was older than anything in this gaudy place. That deserved acknowledgement.

  The driver’s head fell forward and his eyes bulged when he picked him up in the morning. “We’re going to the Vatican, sir. To see the Archbishop,” he said in accented English.

  “Yes. Let’s go.”

  They drove through the crazy Rome traffic, crossing a bridge over a river. They didn’t have a sign that said, “This is the Vatican.” There was a guardhouse, but that didn’t mark the change, but something was different. The buildings seemed either very close together or far apart. They were more luxurious than anything he’d seen, Will’s fabulous home and the place where he was staying included. Leroy spent the drive startling as he looked out the window, and trying to keep his teeth together and jaw shut.

  The driver pulled up at another ornate building. “This is it, sir. I’ll wait for you.”

  Leroy got out and ten men in red, blue and yellow pajamas with tin can armor like in the cartoons surrounded him. They didn’t speak much English and he didn’t speak any Italian. He gave them paperwork that Will had sent. They looked at it, mumbling, aiming an occasional dark look and exclamation at him.

  “Why are you dressed like that? Were you not told what is acceptable?” one of them asked, bristling.

  “I am dressed according to my culture and religion to honor a man of God.”

  He’d still be standing there, but someone wearing a black bathrobe and cape with red trim arrived in cart with two or three rows of seats, empty but for the driver and the man who got out.

  The newcomer castigated the guys in stripped pajamas. The minute they saw the new guy, they bowed so low that they almost hit their metal visors on the ground.

  Black bathrobe looked him up and down. “You are a Native American?” he said in very good English.

  “Yes.”

  “A very tall Native American. Come with me. I am to give you a tour. I am Monsignor Abatangelo, secretary to His Eminence. We will take a little tour, have a little lunch, and talk.”

  “When do I get to see His Eminence?”

  “Ah. That is what we are determining.”

  The Monsignor took him all over. Leroy appreciated the cart after the first set of museums. At first, Leroy’s feelings about the hallways and wide rooms embellished with gold and jewels were the same as his feelings about Italy: too much. How many people had given all they had to make this place? It had taken centuries to amass all this. He was staggered. He kept his mouth shut.

  The Monsignor took him to museums around the huge central square. He saw famous paintings and wonderful things. Hordes of tourists swarmed, but one look at the monsignor and the insignia on their carriage and they scattered.

  They got to a vast hall with its curved arches. The space captivated him. “This place is wonderful.”

  “St. Peter’s Basilica is one of the most beautiful buildings in the world.”

  Leroy was so confused. The man with him was a man of God. He felt God all around him. How could a religion have all these things, all this majestic stuff, when his grandfather brought God to people using eagle feathers and smoke?

  He did not understand. And he didn’t need to. He needed only appreciate what he was shown.

  They went down a residential street with cobblestone paving. Stone buildings about five stories high were arranged around a square. The driver entered one through an arched driveway.

  “Yes, Monsignor, it is very good.” Leroy had found one thing he liked about Italy. The food. They ate delicious pasta and bread dripping with butter in a private courtyard with a small fountain. The sound of the water soothed him.

  “Tell me why you are dressed this way,” the Monsignor said.

  Leroy wore a fringed buckskin shirt he’d brought for formal occasions, chaps and a breechclout, beaded moccasins laced up to his knees, and necklaces made of shell and beads and silver. The dozen eagle feathers woven into the tail of hair at the back of his neck bristled like a mace. Tom had to go to an upscale ladies’ boutique to get the face paints. He had done a masterful job of selecting eye shadows and unguents in earth tones.

  Spirit told him what to say. “I’m a member of the …” he named his tribe, where it was and how long it had been there. “I am here to pay my respects to a great leader and man of God.” All well and good, but he said it in his language, which he could see the Monsignor didn’t understand. So he translated it into English, putting his hands together in the prayer position, holding his string of eagle feathers, and bowing his head.

  “I bear the well-wishes of my grandfather’s lineage, which has existed since the beginning of time. Although he has passed, I bear his power and goodwill.”

  “You are a shaman of your people?” his companion said.

  “Yes, I am a shaman, but a beginner shaman. My grandfather was a real shaman.”

  “Now tell me all about your grandfather. His Eminence wishes to know all about him.”

  Leroy told him everything he could think of.

  The other man whispered, “Did he have magical powers? Could he bring people back from death?”

  “He could do m
any things, heal people for sure. I don’t know about making people live again. But the only power he recognized was the power to show people the Great One and who they really were inside. He was the power of love from the beginning of his life to the end.”

  As he spoke, Leroy felt his healing trance come over him. The splendid buildings around him took on a blue radiance. Everything looked beautiful. He wasn’t awed by the splendor, or resentful that the work of peasants had paid for it. He saw what was around him as a prayer.

  “That will be fine, my son,” the monsignor said, standing abruptly. “I wish to present …”

  Becoming aware that someone had entered, Leroy jumped to his feet. The newcomer was a tiny old man wearing a red dress. Leroy realized through his culture shock, that it wasn’t a dress and cape and hat. The man’s clothes were the insignia of his office. The man was bent, but very keen.

  “My son. I am His Eminence, Agapito Agusto, Cardinal Bessagiori. If you will forgive me, I have taken the liberty of listening in on your conversation. I have also taken the place of my friend and colleague Archbishop Nunziata.” Leroy realized he’d been “upgraded”: the Cardinal was higher ranked than the Archbishop. The Cardinal shrugged. “It saves time. I always wonder what my friend Will Duane has sent me—I seem to be the one His Holiness selects to deal with Will’s entreaties. You are certainly the most unusual.

  “This time, someone from within the Vatican wants something from you. Come, I will take you to him. We have heard that you are a healer?” He glanced at Leroy, who nodded. “Let us go. It is a short distance from here.”

  They drove up a narrow street, faced with buildings of very plain stone. You wouldn’t have thought it was part of the Vatican, but it was.

  “My brother wishes to meet you. He is not well.”