by Becki Willis
Inn the Spirit of Legends
Spirits of Texas Cozy Mysteries
Book One
By Becki Willis
Books by Becki Willis
Forgotten Boxes
Tangible Spirits
He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not
The Mirror Series
The Girl from Her Mirror
Mirror, Mirror on Her Wall
Light from Her Mirror
The Sisters, Texas Mystery Series
Chicken Scratch – Book 1
When the Stars Fall – Book 2
Stipulations & Complications – Book 3
Home Again: Starting Over – Book 4
Genny’s Ballad – Book 5
Christmas In The Sisters – Book 6
Spirits of Texas Cozy Mysteries
Inn the Spirit of Legends – Book 1
Copyright 2018 by Becki Willis
Clear Creek Publishers
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All places, people and events are created from the author’s imagination. In the event a real-life venue, location, or incident is mentioned, it is with the utmost sense of respect and stems from the author’s affections and /or attempts at authenticity. Interaction with such a place or person is completely fictional and shouldn’t be construed as endorsement or fact.
Cover design by dienel96
Editing by SJS Editorial Services
Table of Contents
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 One
“Lookie here, little brother.” The man jabbed a stubby finger at the newspaper article, leaving a greasy smear across the print. He licked the last bit of barbecue sauce from his thumb and sat back to cackle in glee. “We done hit pay-dirt. That old broad finally died. Now’s our chance to do some snoopin’.”
His brother peered over his shoulder, squinting his eyes into beady slits. “What’s it say?”
“Read it for yourself.”
He patted at empty pockets. “Don’t have my glasses on me.”
“Don’t tell me you lost them,” the older brother huffed. “Again.”
“I didn’t exactly lose them. It’s more like I misplaced them.” His voice came out with a whine. “Just tell me what it says.”
“It says the old hag finally croaked and they put the property up for sale. Auctioned it off, don’t you know. For the first time in over one hundred and sixty-five years, the town of Hannah, Texas is no longer controlled by the Hannah clan. No clan, no curse.” He thumped the newsprint in satisfaction and clicked his tongue with a distinct pop. “If that ain’t an invitation to come a callin’, I don’t know what is.”
Greed lit both men’s eyes. The younger man let out a whoop. “Think it’s still there? Think we’ll find it, just like our granddaddy always said? He said the only copy of the treasure map was in that old inn.”
“One way to find out.” The man opened a drawer on the side table and pulled out a pistol. “Looks like you and me is going to Texas, little brother.”
Chapter Two
She was already five minutes late for her meeting.
After plugging the coordinates into her GPS and promptly loosing signal, Hannah Duncan discovered the higher peaks of the Balcones Escarpment played havoc with satellite positioning and cell phone service. She had left the main highway some forty-five minutes ago, wandered around through a series of turns and curves, traversed rugged hills and flowing streams, and somehow managed to come out almost in the exact same spot from where she started. Still nowhere near where she needed to be.
Hannah glanced again at the time. The only number she had for the lawyer was at his office, where an answering machine picked up the call. Without a cell number, she had no way to warn him she was running late. Her only choice was to drive fast and hope he was a patient man.
She took a left onto the blacktop ribbon and sped along its patched path, taking little time to appreciate the scenic landscape. Rocky hills blended into hayfields. Elaborate new homes intermingled with old stone houses and weathered barns. Fields alternated with goats or cattle. The area was known for its whitetail deer and spotted axis. Hannah enjoyed looking at the wildlife as much as anyone, but she hoped the deer stayed on their side of the fence and off the narrow two-lane road.
“Obviously, I turned way too early,” she chastised herself. “By now, though, I should be getting close…” She glanced down at her phone for directions, completely missing one of the more useful landmarks on her left. She sailed on down the road until she spotted a sign on the right.
“Great,” Hannah muttered, “now I’ve gone too far!” She remembered the email directing her to turn between the Town Loop and Uptown Luckenbach. With a low growl of frustration, Hannah whipped the car around and grumbled aloud, “You’d think if it was famous enough to have its own song, you’d at least be able to see it on the side of the road.”
She slowed the car to a crawl, so she didn’t miss her turn. Again. At this rate, she’d be lucky to make it by nightfall. “Please be waiting on me,” she begged the absent attorney. “Don’t let me have come all this way for nothing.” According to her directions, she still had several more miles to go, and this road was even narrower, and quite winding. It was silly, she knew, because the man couldn’t hear her, but she repeated the plea, this time with extra zeal.
Hannah watched her speedometer and clocked the precise mileage given in the directions. The GPS gods smiled upon her and allowed a signal through, directing her to her final turn. She made a left, crossing over a rocky creek bed and following the graveled path up a steep embankment. The road was well maintained but bumpy. Atop the rocky hill, she saw the first promise of the town, nestled there in a grove of trees and bramble.
“Ah, a gated community.” She smirked, driving beneath an ornate iron arch bearing the town’s name in vintage lettering.
So this was Hannah, Texas.
It reminded her of a Hollywood movie set for an old western. The graveled road forked around a large grassy area that boasted a trio of massive old live oaks, met up again on the far side, and meandered its way into the sunset… or to at least as far as the tree line. A collection of old, weathered buildings—some eight or so in all, in various degrees of disrepair—loosely clustered around either fork of the road.
Hannah spotted a pickup truck parked near the largest of the buildings and felt a surge of relief. Thank heavens, the lawyer had waited! Maybe there was something to telepathic messaging, after all. She edged her sporty little car up next to the truck, tugged sunglasses into place, and braced for the Texas heat.
A man emerged from the weathered structure as she hurried from her car. A crooked sign above the door identified it as the Stagecoach Stop. An official state historical marker identified it as important.
With a stab
of disappointment, Hannah realized this wasn’t the lawyer, after all.
She disqualified him on two accounts: age and dress. Not only was he too young—hardly older than she was, it would seem—but his clothes were much too casual. Even though his jeans and pale-blue western shirt were neatly starched and pressed, his shirt was open at the collar, no tie in sight, his boots dusty and scuffed. Definitely not lawyer attire.
He thrust out a hand and smiled, but the effort looked strained. “Hannah Duncan?”
“Yes, I’m Hannah,” she acknowledged, accepting his brisk handshake. She glanced around for sight of someone else. “I was supposed to meet the attorney here at one, but I’m afraid I took a wrong turn. Have I missed him?”
“No, you’re fine.”
She waited for him to expand on his statement. Perhaps he would offer to take her inside and make introductions. Explain that the lawyer was in one of the other buildings. That he was answering the call of nature and would be with them shortly. Something. Anything.
Instead, the man simply stood there, his tight expression unreadable.
Hannah finally gave up and asked, “Where is he?” Her expression hinted at exasperation.
The man did something with his brows, a subtle lift that gave him a superior air. It irritated Hannah, knowing she chose that exact moment to realize how attractive he was. A good six feet tall, with a trim, muscular build and a nice head of black hair. A perfect, aquiline nose, with nostrils flared just enough to signal his impatience.
“I am Walker Jacoby,” he informed her sharply. “Attorney at law, at your service.” He gave a half bow, the gesture mocking.
Her eyes flew over him again, taking in the long, jean-encased legs, the cowhide belt and shiny buckle, the hint of curly chest hair peeking over the top buttons of his monogrammed shirt. She could picture him as a rodeo champion. A country music star. Some sort of western show promoter. A drugstore cowboy wannabe. But she couldn’t quite imagine him as an attorney.
His stiff smile turned into a smirk. “Is there a problem, Ms. Duncan?”
“You’re an attorney?” The question popped out before she could censure it.
“That’s what it says on my diploma.” He appeared suitably perturbed as he scowled. “Is this going to be a problem? Perhaps I should speak with Mr. Duncan.”
Fire flashed in Hannah’s eyes, dancing blue flames that threatened to spark at any moment. Despite the heat building in her pointed glare, her voice was cold. Each word fell like a shard of ice from her tongue. “What a disturbingly chauvinistic thing to say. There isn’t a Mister Duncan, and even if there were, I hardly need a man to step in and speak for me. Do I make myself clear, Mister Jacoby?” She couldn’t help but offer her own sneer. “Or shall I explain that to Mrs. Jacoby?”
Something flickered in his own eyes, which were a much paler shade of blue than her own. That something could have been anger, could have been amusement. Hannah didn’t bother to dwell on his eyes. She had decided the man wasn’t so attractive, after all.
“No need,” he assured her. “Mrs. Jacoby is of the same opinion.”
So, the cad was married. Poor woman, Hannah thought of his wife.
“And if there’s no Mr. Duncan,” he added smugly, “we might have a problem. He’s the one who actually made the purchase.”
Understanding dawned in Hannah’s eyes, dousing the flame. “You were referring to my uncle, Joseph Duncan.” She had the grace to look embarrassed. He hadn’t been patronizing her, after all.
Or had he? Something about his smug look suggested he might think men were superior to women, at least when handling legal matters.
“My uncle has… peculiar… tastes in gift giving, to say the least. The purchase was my birthday gift. As benefactor of that gift, I am the sole person you will be dealing with, Mr. Jacoby.”
He rocked back on his heels and assured her, “Hey, not a problem for me. You were the one who seemed to be struggling with the concept of working with me.”
“Not at all,” she snapped. “I was merely surprised by your informality. Most lawyers I know wear a suit and tie when meeting with a client, particularly for the first time.”
“Do you visit the Hill Country often, Ms. Duncan?”
“No,” she admitted. “Other than going to San Antonio twice and the State Capitol in Austin once, this is actually my first time.”
He brushed away her statement with a wave of his hand. “Neither city is considered within the boundaries of the Hill Country,” he said. “But you will soon notice that formalities, and ties, are in short supply around here.” With a sudden smile that looked almost genuine, he asked, “So, shall we get down to business, Ms. Duncan?”
Too bad, the smile was also very attractive.
“You might as well call me Hannah,” she said with a hint of resignation. “And yes, please. I’d like to know what couldn’t be discussed over the phone or by email.”
It was his turn to sigh. “Quite a bit, to be honest. Why don’t we start with a tour? Then we can go inside and talk brass tacks.”
Something about the way he said it all made Hannah uncomfortable. She sensed he was hiding something from her. But what could it be? A tax lien on the property? A disputed property line?
No, she reasoned, neither scenario was plausible. That’s what title searches and surveys were for, and JoeJoe was smart enough to insist on both before making a purchase, even for a fluke gift.
Perhaps there was a cemetery on the property, and he wasn’t sure how she would take the news. Or perhaps the previous owner died here. Both thoughts were a bit creepy, but neither were deal breakers.
Not one to beat around the bush, Hannah stood her ground. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to nail those tacks down, first thing.”
Her directness surprised him, but he nodded in agreement and gestured toward the old inn. “We’ll be more comfortable inside.” As they started toward the front steps, he asked, “What do you know about your little town, Ms.—Hannah?”
“Nothing,” she readily admitted. “Not a thing, other than the fact we share a name.”
“The community was founded by Ezekiel Hannah in 1851, where he and his wife operated a stagecoach stop for several years. The inn is original to the property and built by Ezekiel Hannah and Henry Anheim in about 1853. Watch your step here on the entry.”
He held the door open and allowed her to enter first. As she passed by him, Hannah got a whiff of something outdoorsy and decidedly male. The entryway they stepped into felt crowded, especially when he leaned close and pushed open the second door. There was no denying the little zing of electricity radiating from the man like a live current.
He’s married, she reminded herself in a singsong voice. He didn’t wear a ring, but he was definitely off limits. Besides, his holier-than-thou attitude would be a deal breaker, even if his wife weren’t. Which she was. Hannah held high regards for the institution of marriage, even though she had no plans of it for herself, anytime soon.
“I came out earlier and opened up the place, but it’s still a little stuffy inside,” he apologized. He waved a hand to the room beyond. “Welcome to the Spirits of Texas Inn.”
A long room ran the breadth of the building, with a limestone fireplace holding reign on either end. A collection of mismatched armchairs guarded the hearth on the left; a dozen or so dining tables and chairs scattered across the expanse to the right. Straight ahead was the front desk.
It reminded Hannah of something from a western movie, like an old bank teller’s cage, but without the bars. Elaborate fretwork and hand-carved details gave the space distinction and matched the oak support pillars standing about the room like stoic sentries. The long check-in counter even came with a vintage grid to hold room keys and messages.
“How quaint,” she murmured, completely underwhelmed.
The hardwood floors looked original, bearing the scars and scuffs of a century past. The walls were simple shiplap, the raw hewn lumber long since d
arkened with age. Everything in the room was outdated, from the frilly white eyelet curtains to the brass-plated light fixtures.
Despite the dowdy appearance now a decade or three out of vogue, something about the room spoke to Hannah. It seemed to have a presence. Or, she mused, perhaps it was that it had a past. This was history, plain and raw. Very plain, very raw, but there was still something about it…
“Let’s have a seat,” the lawyer suggested, gesturing to a table strewn with paperwork. He pulled out a straight-back chair and waited for Hannah to be seated before he settled in the chair directly across from her.
“Though never incorporated,” he explained, “what started as a stagecoach shop and livery soon grew into quite a busy little town. At one time, there were as many as twenty or so families living here. There was a blacksmith, general store, two saloons, one church, and a gristmill. Eventually, the only thing left of the town was the inn, which was actually quite prosperous. For over one hundred and sixty-five years, and through five generations, a member of the Hannah family has lived here and kept the inn in operation.”
“So how did the town end up in an auction?”
“The last owner, Wilhelmina Hannah, never married. As the last descendant of Ezekiel and Elsa Hannah, she was sole heir to the property. When she died last year at the age of eighty-seven, she left very specific instructions about the handling of her estate. It was her wish for the town to be sold at auction.”
Hannah’s brow puckered as she contemplated his words. “That seems a bit odd.”
“There’s more.”
At his cautious tone, her eyes flew up to meet his.
“There’s stipulations, aren’t there?” Hannah realized. She jumped up to restlessly pace near the table. “That’s just like JoeJoe. He didn’t read the fine print, did he?” Her tone dared him to contradict her, but she gave him no opportunity. Wheeling around on her heels, she continued with her rant. “He got caught up in the excitement of bidding, and no telling what God-awful price he ended up paying. JoeJoe loves a good competition. A man like my uncle, God love him, can’t be bothered with details, not when he can buy himself the win.”
