by Rebecca York
“Don’t leave now.”
Instead of answering, she took another backward step toward the house, thinking it was a mistake to have come here.
He spoke again. “We’re meeting here because you called me.”
She answered with a tight nod, still considering running. She gave up that idea when she analyzed the situation. He had appeared in front of her. There was no reason he couldn’t materialize behind her to block her escape if he wanted.
Trying to calm the pounding of her heart, she studied him.
“You’re not real,” she whispered.
“I am. More real than . . . before. I think it’s because of you.”
“How?”
“You bring me back to myself. I remember more. But not everything.”
He kept his gaze on her. “You were younger when you stayed here.”
“Yes.”
“How long ago was it?”
“Eight years.”
“A long time.”
She nodded.
She saw his face take on a faraway look. “Back then, I wasn’t supposed to touch you. But we were together a lot. There were horses in the stable. We went riding. I gave you shooting lessons and taught you rope tricks.”
“Yes,” she answered, remembering those things and more, like the awareness that had always hummed between them.
Those memories were some of her most vivid. But what had happened in her bedroom last night was even more vivid.
She had felt his lips against hers. Felt his hands on her body.
She saw him shift his weight from one foot to the other. “Before you came here, I lost a lot of memories. And more.”
The plaintive way he said it tore at her.
“I was here for a long time. Alone. In the wind. Yes, I could move things with the wind. And sometimes I sang the cowboy songs that I loved. But . . .” His voice trailed off before he started again. “But I didn’t know who I was. I only knew I had to be here. To protect this place. Or maybe I was to wait for you. I’m not sure now.”
“When did you know who you were?”
He turned one palm up. “When you asked my name. You asked, and it came to me and I knew it was right. I wanted to know more. Touching you, talking to you made a difference.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because it’s so . . . physical. And because we were close.”
Yes, they had been close, closer than either of them had ever been able to admit.
She saw him swallow. “I think you can help me get back more of Matthew Houseman. If you want to.”
Did she? The question was asked and answered in one breath.
“How?”
“Like last night. Let me . . . get close to you.”
He walked toward her, not in the way he had glided across the bedroom last night but with the long-legged gait of a tall man. It looked like the familiar image of Matthew Houseman striding toward her, except that she still had the unnerving sensation of seeing through him.
Maybe he saw the discomfort on her face because he said, “I think it will be better if you close your eyes. The way you did before.”
She still could have backed away. Instead she stood where she was, her eyes closed and her breath shallow in her lungs, breathing in his scent again.
Had she gone crazy? Was she so unbalanced that she was trying to bring back something she had never really had?
She felt warmth radiating from him before he touched her and had time to wonder about how that could be possible. Then she felt his body, solid and masculine. His arms wrapped around her back, folding her close. She molded herself to him, her eyes still closed as she rested her cheek against his shoulder, holding him tightly, absorbing the reality of him.
“Isabella,” he murmured, saying her name like a man who had finally come home from a long voyage or a war. “Querida.”
His hands stroked up and down her back, molding her upper body to his.
It felt so right to be in his arms, like a dream come true, and she knew at that moment how much she needed the strength of Matthew Houseman.
She had come here feeling lost and alone, yet wondering if it was really the right thing to do.
No more.
Not when she was wrapped in the security of Matthew’s embrace.
He rubbed his lips against hers, but she sensed that he was ready to pull away if she protested.
Not likely.
She felt him smile as he increased the pressure, moving his mouth against hers with the skill of a man who knows how to make love with a woman.
She marveled at the softness of his lips, at the hard pressure of his fingers on her shoulders.
Without thinking about it, she opened for him so that his tongue could slip into her mouth, stroking her as he had done the night before.
But she didn’t want to be the passive partner. She met his tongue with her own, sliding along the edge, then pressing forward, into his mouth, tasting him deeply as she had always wanted to do.
He drew back, maybe in shock.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
She wanted to open her eyes and look at him, but deep down she knew it was the wrong thing to do. “I’ve grown up.”
“Into a very sexy woman.”
As he spoke, he stroked one hand down her body, cupping her bottom and pressing her hips against himself.
When he did, she felt the erection straining at the front of his jeans. That was a shock. Yet she gloried in his reaction to her.
He was turning her on, and she was doing the same thing to him.
Not exactly a classic ghost story. Yet nothing she had read, nothing in her life had prepared her for this. Not even the meeting with her granny.
He slid his mouth to her cheek and then found the tender coil of her ear with his tongue.
When she snuggled closer, he wrapped his arms around her and leaned back against the tree trunk behind him, splaying his legs and equalizing their heights so that her center was pressed to his erection.
She moaned as she clung to him, moving against him, frustrated by the layers of clothing that separated her heated skin from his.
He shifted the top of her body so that he could bring one hand between them, cupping her breast, gliding his fingers over the aching tip.
She heard her breath turn ragged, felt the fire rushing through her veins. She had longed for him, and now—finally—she had him where she wanted him.
It was a dream come true. As real as she wanted it to be. He moved her body against his, increasing the friction and her need for him.
Where was this leading?
She heard him gasp her name, and then in an instant, everything changed. He reversed their positions, leaning her back against the tree before stepping away from her.
“Matt?” she gasped. “Matthew?”
When he didn’t answer, her eyes flew open and she found herself alone and staring into the sycamore grove.
CHAPTER FOUR
Far away, in a facility called Garrison Care, Gloria Romano was holding a conversation with a drop-dead gorgeous guy she’d known for five years. She was the one doing all the talking, because the man never answered.
In her thirty years as a practical nurse, this man had affected her like no other patient. If she’d been younger, she might have thought of him in romantic terms. But she was old enough to be his mother, and she thought of him like a son.
“Hey, sweetie, how are you doing today?”
She kept up the cheerful chatter as he lay in the special bed that shifted his position periodically, preventing him from getting bedsores.
“I had a tuna salad for lunch. I guess you don’t think that’s very exciting. I know guys aren’t much for salad. You’d like a steak and twice-baked potatoes, wouldn’t you? Want me to bring you some next time I’m here?”
Turning away, she looked at his chart, thinking it was a damn shame this guy was never expected to wake up. But that didn’t mean she was going to give u
p on him. Her status as a practical nurse put her low in the pecking order at Garrison Care, but she’d read a lot about comas. They were unpredictable. Although it wasn’t likely, a person could suddenly wake up after years.
But one thing she did know from her reading: You should never assume a person in a coma couldn’t hear you. Which was why she liked to chat with him.
Still, every time she washed him or shaved him or brushed his hair, she lamented his condition. He was never going to have a life. Or was something going on in his sleeping brain that nobody knew about?
Sometimes, when she gazed at his face, she saw his eyes move beneath his closed lids, like he was looking at something. Something only he could see.
He never opened those eyes to look at anyone, even when the physical therapist was working with him, keeping his muscles toned, at least as much as the muscles of an unconscious man could be toned.
Because she’d been curious about how he’d gotten here, she’d gone back through his records. He was thirty four years old and had worked for an outfit called Decorah Security. His name was Matthew Houseman, and he had been horribly wounded in a raid on a militia compound.
He’d been found on the ground in a pool of blood, presumed dead. But when they’d discovered he was still alive, they’d rushed him to the hospital, where the doctors had done everything they could for him.
Since he’d been discharged from the hospital, Decorah Security had paid big bucks to keep him here. Sometimes she wondered why, because his life was a waste with him lying here in this bed, day after day.
“I’m going to wash your hair now, Matthew,” Gloria said. “And give you a scalp massage. Then we’ll have a nice sponge bath and a shave.”
She was just reaching for a basin of warm water when his eyes snapped open.
For the first time in her life, she stared into their dark depths, wondering what he was seeing.
“Matthew?” she breathed.
“Isabella,” he answered.
“What?”
“Isabella.”
“Who is Isabella?” Gloria pressed.
“She needs help.”
Then his eyes closed again, and she wondered if she had made up the incident, or if it had really happened.
oOo
Isabella would have called Matthew’s name again, but she knew on some deep, instinctive level that he would not respond. He was gone. For good?
Her heart squeezed painfully.
They were just getting to know each other again. Then he had vanished.
Why?
Her face heated when she thought about what they’d been doing. They’d both liked it. She knew that. Then he’d suddenly . . . what?
Decided it was wrong? For him? For her?
She’d never been in a situation like this before.
That brought forth another one of her laughs that bordered on hysteria. Who on earth had been in a situation like this?
She’d been making out with a man who she knew was dead. A man she could see through. A man who could come and go as he pleased.
A faint breeze rustled the leaves. Was Matthew doing that? Maybe he was trying to tell her something. She didn’t know, and any answer she gave would be pure speculation.
Suddenly she couldn’t stand being in the grove any longer. Whatever had taken place here was wrong, for so many reasons.
Matthew had known that, even if she hadn’t.
She walked back to the house, wishing she could get into her car and drive away from this place. But she’d come here to hide out, and she needed time to decide what to do.
Uncertainty made her stomach knot as she stepped into the kitchen. Last night it had been too dark to evaluate the property. Today she walked through the rooms, giving each a close inspection.
The interior of the house was in remarkably good shape considering that nobody had been here for years.
Nobody. That stopped her.
Matthew Houseman was here. At least in some sense of the word.
She forced herself not to think about him as she checked the supplies in the pantry. Maybe they were even edible. And the wine had been okay.
Then she went into her father’s study with its old-fashioned, rolltop desk and book-lined walls. As a teenager, she’d thought it was a waste to have so many books in a house where they weren’t going to be staying for long. Now the volumes made her feel closer to her father. He had touched these books, read them.
And Matthew had borrowed some of them, too.
“Stop thinking about Matthew,” she told herself. “You’ve got work to do.”
Under the desk chair was a rug. And under that was a trapdoor. She pulled it up and shined a flashlight down a ladder and into the dark passage below. Papa had shown her this escape route long ago. Now she’d better make sure it still led to safety in case she was trapped in the house and needed to get out.
Tucking the light into her belt, she awkwardly climbed down the ladder, feeling the temperature drop several degrees. It was damp and close in the confined space, and she stood for a moment fighting off a feeling of claustrophobia. Her breath shallow, she made her way down the passage that was something like a miner’s shaft with crossbeams every few feet holding up the ceiling. She’d only been here once. Shivering, she headed toward the exit. It was a stout wooden door that opened on the far side of the sycamore grove, where an outcropping of rocks hid it from view from the house and ranch yard. The door was barred with a heavy beam. Experimentally, she lifted it a few inches and then pushed it all the way up. The door opened with a groan, and she stepped into the sunlight, blinking. When her eyes had adjusted to the brightness, she looked around. A rock formation loomed behind her, and the grove blocked her view of the house. After closing the door and lowering the bar again, she retraced her steps.
There were a couple more things she should do. As she walked back, she felt along the side of the tunnel until she came to an invisible seam in the earthen wall. Knocking some of the dirt away with the end of the flashlight, she uncovered a metal door. The safe. It was locked, but the key was with her others.
The lock was rusty with disuse, and at first the key refused to turn. But finally she got the door open and reached inside where she found a heavy canvas bag. Opening it, she shined her flashlight on the money inside. Most of the bills were hundreds. But there were also larger and smaller denominations. A note in her father’s handwriting said there was a hundred thousand dollars in the bag, along with the numbers of Swiss bank accounts where she could get more funds if she needed them. Back in San Marcos, her father had come from a rich family. He hadn’t even needed to work as a reporter. But he’d wanted to make a difference in the lives of the people. Which was how he’d gotten into trouble.
After taking out five thousand dollars in cash and stuffing it into her purse, she put the bag back into the safe and locked it again, then shined her light around the tunnel, looking for another panel that her father had also shown her.
It was hidden behind a screen of dirt, which she scraped off with the flashlight, then opened the little door. Her hands trembled as she examined the mechanisms. They seemed to be in working order. But there was no way to be sure after so many years.
With a shudder, she closed the door and turned away, then climbed the ladder back to the study, where she replaced the rug and the chair.
The trip into the tunnel had been unsettling, and she needed to ground herself. Turning to the shelves, she scanned the books. They were organized into fiction and nonfiction and arranged in alphabetical order in her father’s methodical way. Many were familiar to her, and a couple of old novels caught her eye. The Egyptian and Arrowsmith. She’d read them as a teenager, although Papa had thought they weren’t suitable for a girl her age. Maybe she’d revisit them.
After putting them on the desk, she went to the nonfiction section and looked for information on the Sedona vortexes.
There was no book, but she found a folder of brochures that had been put
out by local organizations. They had maps with the locations of vortexes and information about tours which she obviously wasn’t going to take.
In the kitchen, she read some of the material. When she got restless, she went out and explored the stable and some of the other outbuildings on the property. At first she didn’t admit that she was looking for Matthew, but she knew that was in the back of her mind. As far as she could tell, she was alone.
The ghost had vanished. Maybe forever. Another situation she couldn’t control, she realized.
Feeling a little foolish, she stopped in the shade of the barn and called his name.
He didn’t answer.
“Do you think I should go into town and get some more groceries?” she asked.
No answer.
She had half a mind to find out if he’d try to stop her, but she knew that she shouldn’t venture off the ranch property unless she had to. At least not in broad daylight. Instead she filled a bottle with water, put it in a knapsack with her gun, and pulled on a hat and her hiking boots.
She had ridden into the desert with Matthew. She had no horse now, but she had always been a good hiker.
Her destination was a red rock formation where she’d once felt the power of a vortex. It turned out to be an hour’s walk from the ranch. When she got there, she sat with her back against one of the rocks, drinking from the water bottle and looking out across the desert, letting her eyes drift out of focus.
A lizard looked at her, then scurried noiselessly across the rocks and disappeared.
In the quiet, she felt the energy of the place, a tingling sensation that made her skin prickle.
Since the vortexes were supposed to boost the power of prayer, she opened her mind and her heart to the spirit of the universe. Of course she’d been raised Catholic, but since becoming an adult, she’d felt more comfortable with a spirituality that embraced a greater vision of religion.
She prayed for strength to get through this trial. She prayed for her father’s safety and her own. And she prayed for Matthew, too.
“Let him feel free to come back to me,” she whispered, wondering if she was being foolish. If he was a ghost, their relationship could lead nowhere. Nothing she had with him could affect her real life. The sadness of those realizations brought tears to her eyes, making her vision blur. They’d finally found each other, but it was too late.
