Chelsea Lane (Haunted Hearts Series Book 5)

by Denise Moncrief

  When their lips met, fire raced through him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and the blanket dropped from her shoulders. His hands circled her waist and then slid around her back.

  She breathed the sweetest words into his mouth. “I want this feeling, this moment to last forever.”

  And so did he.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Gray smiled at Laurel Peterson when she wiggled the coffee pot at him. He nodded and she refreshed his mug. The steam heated his nose, and the aroma of freshly ground coffee filled his sinuses. He took his first sip, allowing the warmth to take him over.

  When he lowered the cup, he glanced across the room at Tori. His favorite person in the world was deep in conversation with his sister Courtney. She’d just back to using the last name Jepson instead of Crenshaw, and he wondered how much longer she’d be a Jepson. Shaw Bennett was hung up on the woman. He could tell by the way the state cop’s eyes followed Courtney around the room.

  Josh McCord dropped into the chair next to him and set his mug on the low table between them.

  Gray nodded at the mug. “Irish?”

  Josh snorted and rolled his eyes. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Just trying to help you stay sober.”

  Josh kicked his long legs out in front of him. “You can stop. Ashley is supervising my alcohol consumption. I can’t go anywhere without her hitting me with a question in her eyes.”

  “Bird dogging you, huh?”

  “No, she never says a word, but I know what she’s thinking.”

  Gray shifted into a more comfortable position. “Do you really mind?”

  Josh shook his head. “No. Getting back together with her…best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  Gray had to agree.

  He glanced around the front room of Laurel Heights. It was crowded with so many people sitting around chatting. The noise level was heavy as well. His ears still hadn’t quite recuperated from the beating his eardrums had taken the night Fred Haskins had died.

  Josh broke into his thoughts. “Things seem to have settled down.”

  Gray wrapped his hands around the warm mug and sipped again before replying. “Yeah. It seems the only ghost still hanging around is Celeste.”

  “She hasn’t been a bother to them, has she?” Josh motioned toward Chase Peterson.

  Laurel had deposited her butt on the arm of Chase’s chair.

  “No. They only catch a glimpse of her now and then. She stays very low key.”

  “Do you think that will frighten Laurel’s guests?”

  Gray shrugged. “Not if she explains who the ghost is that still haunts Laurel Heights. I imagine her residents will be very interested in her ghost story.”

  “They might be more interested in her non-ghost story.”

  “Maybe.”

  Ashley joined them by knocking Josh’s legs off the hassock and sitting where his big feet had been.

  Gray smiled at her. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so content. “So when are you getting married?”

  Josh cleared his throat. Was the man dragging his feet?

  Ashley shot Josh a mean glare. “We’ve been debating that. Josh says the sooner, the better. And I want to wait a little while longer.”

  “Why wait, hon? You know I love you—”

  She leaned over and placed a finger over his lips. “Can we discuss this later?” She sat back and shifted her attention to Gray. “I’ve been talking to Laurel and Courtney…I think they’re going to need professional help with this. I only need a few more courses, and I’ll be able to apply for the masters program in social work.”

  Gray sneaked a peek at his sister. Across the room, Courtney laughed at something Jordan Clark said. She normally clung to Shaw Bennett tighter than kudzu. With so many friends around, she had indulged in more extroverted social behavior than usual. Based on their many discussions over the last few days, Gray understood that she had a lot of social anxiety to overcome. He was so proud of her. Really though, it had surprised no one that knew her that she would want to help Laurel with the care of the women who found their way to Laurel Heights.

  The place would never publicly advertise its purpose. Already, Shaw Bennett had lined up Laurel’s first resident. Amalia would live there until her immigration status had been resolved. Brett Duncan had turned state’s evidence on Fred Haskins and his operation. Not that there was anybody left to prosecute. However, he had been able to point the federal investigators in the right direction toward Haskins’s buyers. Refusing to collect the reward that had been attached to the investigation into Haskins’s activities, the one of which the feds hadn’t informed local authorities, Brett had only asked for one thing. That Amalia be granted a work visa and given the opportunity to earn her status as a naturalized citizen.

  Gray grabbed Ashley’s hand. “I think that’s a great idea.”

  She squeezed and her eyes brightened. “How is Tori going to run Victoria House as a vacation and wedding destination and still hold down a job with the Sheriff’s office?”

  “I heard that.” Tori’s sweet voice rang across the room.

  Gray gazed at the woman he loved. “That’s what I’ve been asking.”

  “I’m obviously going to have to hire some help.”

  Josh chuckled. “The place still has the reputation of being haunted. Who’s going to work for you?”

  Tori puffed up like an angry blowfish. “I’ll find someone.”

  “Maybe Chelsea could work for you.”

  Chelsea, who used to be known as Cherish Duncan, jerked her head up from the conversation she’d been engaged in with Jordan Clark. The two of them seemed to be really tight. Gray suspected there had been more than a protector and protected relationship between them.

  Tori beamed as if part of her dilemma had been resolved. “I promise there are no ghosts there. We kicked them all out.”

  Had the woman had one too many glasses of wine? She was a hoot when she was a little sloshed.

  Chelsea glanced at Jordan. “Actually, Jordan has something he has to do in Louisiana. He’s going to resign here… Sorry, I didn’t mean to tell something I shouldn’t.”

  Jordan grabbed her hand. “It’s okay. I’ve already talked to Shaw about it.”

  “Our commander isn’t too happy, but he understands.” Shaw stood and crossed the room to stand by Courtney. “I completely understand wanting to start over.”

  Courtney gazed up at him and the mush got deeper.

  Chelsea looked to Jordan as if seeking his permission to continue.

  He smiled at her. “This is your story, not mine. Tell them what you want. I trust you with my secrets.”

  She seemed to exude renewed confidence at the trust Jordan placed in her judgment. “Anyway, I’m going to go with him.” She rubbed her hands down the legs of her jeans. “We…uh…we need some time to figure some stuff out.”

  Jordan smiled at her, and it seemed his whole face lit up. “She means she needs time to decide if she’s willing to put up with my butt.” He paused. “I hope she decides that she can handle it.”

  Chelsea laughed. “It’s more like you being willing to put up with a woman that needs a lot of…help.” She stared out the nearest window a moment and then continued. “I want to thank ya’ll for everything. Jordan told me how all of you had a part in bringing down Haskins’s organization. I hope…” She shook once and then seemed to pull her thoughts together. “I hope no one ever has to go through what I went through or what the women that lived in the house with me had to endure.”

  Brett added his voice to the discussion. “I’ve seen what meth addiction can do to a person. Someone I cared about very much died a horrible death. It’s what made me realize I had to get out. I know you all thought I was stupid for jumping back into it, especially without telling you what my plan was.”

  Josh nailed him with a hard opinion. “Yeah, about that…don’t do it again. I’m not sure we can rescue you next time.”
>
  Brett smiled. “There won’t be a next time.” He stared at his sister, a deep well of love radiating from his eyes. “I’m going south with Jordan and Cher…I keep forgetting. With Jordan and Chelsea. He’s told me what his trouble is down there, and I’m going to be his backup. Just in case.”

  Josh snorted. “Are you gonna become a cop? Like us?”

  Brett shifted his gaze toward Jordan. “No. We have to do this off the radar. There’s too much weird stuff to get the local cops involved.”

  “Weird stuff? What kind of weird stuff?” Those words had grabbed Gray’s attention. He caught a whiff of paranormal intrigue in what Jordan and Brett weren’t telling him.

  Jordan began his story. “Let me tell you about a family that lived near us in Wakefield, Louisiana. Their name is Wakefield, so I guess the town was named after them. Thing is…that family…the locals call it the Wakefield curse. As soon as we’re cleared to leave Fairview, we’ll be heading down south.”

  Gray studied Jordan and his hesitant enthusiasm. He understood the mixed feelings emanating from the man. On the one hand, Jordan was enticed by the thrill of adventure, and on the other, repulsed by the fear of coming up against a power stronger than his inner strength.

  Strong emotion swelled in Gray. This group of people meant the world to him. Ahead of them awaited depositions and debriefings documenting and detailing the events that had transpired in the last month. Many hours of interviews lay ahead of them. The federal agents wanted the events explained and tied up with a pretty bow. The group still had the task of presenting the full story to them without mentioning the supernatural events that had rocked Hill County for years.

  None of them had the desire to spend the remainder of their life locked up in a psych ward.

  Gray rose from his seat and held his coffee mug out. “I propose a toast.” He waited until everyone had raised beverage containers with various contents. “To new beginnings.” Glassware clinked. Friends stretched to meet each other’s gesture of good wishes and good will. “So Jordan, if you get in too deep down there and you need some backup…” He stopped and nodded toward Josh McCord and then winked at Ashley Rivers. “We’re your crew.”

  Tori made a noise of aggravation mixed with amusement. “God help those people in south Louisiana if the bunch of you are getting into their business.”

  The group indulged in the kind of laughter that can only be experienced by friends that had gone through hell together and survived the ordeal to tell about it.

  The End

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Denise is a Southern girl. She has lived in Louisiana all her life, and yes, she has a drawl. She has a wonderful husband and two incredible children, who not only endure her writing moods, but also encourage her to indulge her writing passion. Besides writing romantic suspense, she enjoys traveling, reading, and scrapbooking.

  Accounting is a skill she learned to earn a little money to support her writing habit. She wrote he first story when she was a teen, seventeen handwritten pages on school-ruled paper and an obvious rip-off of the last romance novel she had read. She’s been writing off and on ever since, and with more than a few full-length manuscripts already completed, she has no desire to slow down.

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  OTHER TITLES BY DENISE MONCRIEF

  Deceptions Of The Heart

  The End

  Cross Examination

  The Memory Catcher

  Laurel Heights (Haunted Hearts #1)

  Victoria House (Haunted Hearts #2)

  Ashley Ridge (Haunted Hearts #3)

  Shaw’s Landing (Haunted Hearts #4)

  An Impostor in Town (Colorado #1)

  Purgatory (Colorado #2)

  Twin Rivers (Colorado #3)

  Crisis of Identity (Crisis #1)

  Crisis of Serenity (Crisis #2)

  COMING SOON

  Crisis of Security (Crisis #3)

  The Unmistakable Scent of Gardenias (Haunted Hearts #6)

  Second Sight (Prescience Series #1)

  BONUS MATERIAL

  THE UNMISTAKABLE SCENT OF GARDENIAS

  Haunted Hearts Series: Book Six

  Chapter One

  Wakefield, Louisiana

  Late May 1961

  The dirt track wound through a stand of centuries old oak trees hung with draping wisps of gray-blue-green Spanish moss. Like dark sentinels with drawn swords, the trees arched their limbs over the newlyweds as they drove deeper and deeper into the heart of the old plantation. Celia Wakefield glanced at her husband Les out of the corner of her eye. His fingers curled around the steering wheel. An intense tightness defined his jaw line.

  “There’s no telling what condition the main house will be in when we get there.” He had warned her of its disrepair repeatedly since the day he learned he had inherited the old Wakefield plantation. It was as if he was apologizing in advance for the state of their first home. She had, of course, wanted something newer, but she knew beggars couldn’t be choosers. She was lucky Les Wakefield found her appealing enough to overlook her past.

  The previous day he had explained there was little left of the property in the Wakefield name since the days of antebellum reconstruction. It had been sold off parcel by parcel over the years in order to pay property taxes. All that was left was forty acres of land and a house Les had never seen, left to him by a great aunt he had never met.

  She shivered as the first glimpse of the house came into view. An inexplicable reaction, really. On a humid, south Louisiana evening, the moisture-heavy air rushed through the open windows and expanded in the interior of the car. A trail of sweat rolled down her backbone. The meal she’d consumed miles up the road rumbled in the lower regions of her stomach. Despite the heat, chill bumps prickled on her forearms.

  Les drove the car through a gap in the bedraggled hedges and rolled to a stop barely two feet from the front steps. She was thankful for the reprieve from forward motion.

  Six risers fanned out from the middle of the front porch that spanned the length of the front of the house. The top riser probably four feet wide, the bottom at least six. Red brick painted white, chipped and peeling. Wrought iron banisters edged each side of the steps, curling at the ends into graceful curlicues and ivy leaves. More decorative ironwork enclosed the porch and top floor balcony connecting a series of tall Doric columns. The house appeared to float several feet above the ground in a bed of kudzu with no other visible means of support. One corner of the front porch sagged, the column on that end crumbling and tumbling over onto the ground.

  She drew in a sharp breath as Les hurried from his brand new Ford Galaxie and flew up the steps seemingly without even touching them. He stood at the edge of the porch, staring at the front door for so long she wondered if he’d fallen into some sort of trance.

  He slowly turned his head toward her. A bright gleam flickered in his eyes. “Come on, Celia. I don’t want to cross the threshold without you.” He made it sound like an obligation rather than a pleasure.

  She swept her unruly black hair back from her face with a white-gloved hand. It was too late to turn back now. She’d made promises she had to keep. She popped the door open and placed one foot onto the ground. The spongy earth gave a little with her weight. A thick layer of dead ground cover carpeted the area from the steps to the first line of oak trees. She wrinkled her nose. The distinctive aroma of decaying vegetation permeated the air around the house, giving the atmosphere an oppressive nightmare quality. A sickly sweet smell further tumbled her already nauseated stomach.

  She pressed her hand to her chest and dragged in a heavy breath. Forcing one foot to move, then the other, she trudged the few feet to the steps. The long ride on rural back
roads from Nashville, Tennessee, to Wakefield, Louisiana, had strained her limited strength. She was so tired. Would she even have a place to lay her head tonight?

  What time was it? How could she tell with the massive oaks obscuring the sun? The tent of limbs arching above the front of the property made the long drive disappearing toward the rural parish road resemble a dark, dank cavern. She shivered again, despite the layer of moisture covering every inch of exposed skin.

  Before she took the last step, Les reached his hand out to her. He was a handsome man. Dark hair and dark eyes. A fedora tilted sideways on his neatly trimmed hair. His suit jacket hung unbuttoned, a bit loose across his shoulders. A pack of Camels peeked out the top of his white dress shirt, the one with the black embroidery up and down the front panels. He’d ditched his tie miles up the road toward Jackson, Mississippi.

  She took his hand, and with one fluid motion he lifted her from her feet and carried her toward the front door. To the left and the right, porch boards warped up from loosened nails, sticking up like curling fingers. Vines pushed through cracks, wrapping delicate tendrils around every solid object within reach, almost obscuring the ironwork on the lower balustrades. The white material that someone had used to cover the red brick crumbled in clumps from the outer walls.

  He stopped right before he opened the door. His eyes caught hers. “Are you ready?”

  No, she wasn’t, but would she ever be ready?

  She nodded anyway.

  Just as swiftly as he’d lifted her from her feet, he flung the doors open, carried her over the threshold, and delivered her into the grand front hall of Wakefield Manor. Her feet landed on what must have once been polished hard wood floors. Like the decking on the front porch, the flooring was warped and in need of serious repair. She would have to step carefully to avoid sinking her foot into a hole. An enormous staircase curved up one side of the room toward the upper floor. A column like the ones on the front porch had been constructed to create a center post for the staircase to curve around. More wrought iron railing edged the upstairs balcony.