Crane (10 page)

The shed door flung open hard enough to bounce on the hinges. Ireland stood
framed by the doorway, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Rip paused, mid-chew. His wide eyes stared up at her as the hand lifting another cracker to his mouth froze.

Ireland let the box cutter slip from her fingers. It landed on the sleeping bag
beside him with a dull thump.

“Pick it up,” she hissed through
her teeth.

“
Wh—why?” Rip stuttered, his face clouded with fear and confusion.

“Do it!”
she barked, knowing full well that her handle on her emotions was slipping. She forced herself to inhale a deep, shaky breath and steady the harsh rise and falls of her tone. “Now.”

Reluctantly, Rip did as she said. “Now what?”

Ireland squatted beside him, shoving her sleeve further up her arm to reveal the slice beneath. “You were a coward to attack me in my sleep,” she growled in a hushed whisper. “Now I’m awake and expecting it. Go ahead … try it.”

Her tough and fearless act was
due, in large part, to the courage bolster of a can of pepper spray shoved in her back pocket. If he actually lunged he was going to get a face full of nastiness followed by a ride in the back of a police car.

“Someone
… did that to you?” Rip maintained eye contact as he eased his hand to the ground and let the cutter slip from his grasp.

“Not someone,
you
.”

“Miss, I just awoke
,” Rip said, his face a mask of sincerity that Ireland almost bought …
almost
. “I haven’t even had time to bite into that sandwich you were thoughtful enough to make for me. I rose, heeded nature’s call, and then came back here and ate
a
wafer. That’s it.”

“
Don’t lie to me!
You waited long enough for me to go to sleep, broke into the house—the same way you did before—sliced my arm, and raced over to the high school to write the name ‘Katrina’ on the wall in
my
blood
.” Even as she voiced her accusation, doubt began to seep in.

In the short time she’d known him, Ireland found Rip
to be a lot of things—odd, off putting, no friend to those with noses—but he never struck her as stealthy or quick; two traits that would be mandatory for whoever broke in. Still, she was puffed up with her own frustration and couldn’t back down. Staring murderous daggers, she waited for his reaction.

Rip’s
stare flicked frantically from side to side as he mentally put together pieces. “If someone broke into your home and performed such a ritual …” He trailed off, his trembling hand rising to stroke the length of his beard. “The Horseman is calculating, but only in regards to acts of extreme violence. An undertaking such as this would require finesse. Something completely out of character for the beast. That can only mean,” his eyes widened into large Os, searching Ireland’s face for answers she couldn’t give, “he’s no longer working alone. Someone else has learned to control the Hessian!”

Those were his parting words
. His body followed his rolling eyes straight back, where he banged against the side of the shed and slumped there, a string of drool leaking over his slack lip.

Ireland shook her head
with a wry huff of laughter. “You’re a weird little troll. You know that?”

Sadly, no answers could be found in Rip’s snores.
She’d have to wait for him to come to—again. Ireland rose to her feet, turning at the waist to stretch out her back. There was plenty she could do to pass the time: unpacking, settling in, calling her boss every five minutes to beg her not to fire her over this … The problem with any of those things was that she would need to going
inside
the house—her sanctuary that had been violated.

Ireland’s bangs blew into her eyes as she
glanced over her shoulder at the yellow cottage-style house with its white gingerbread trim. From the first time she saw pictures of it online she’d fallen in love. It was so quaint and homey, with its wood floors and decorative moldings, that she could picture the life she would have here. That picture did
not
include a bum sleeping in her shed or visits from nighttime arm slashers. Even so, this house—this tiny, little
home
that vibrated each time the furnace kicked on—was
hers
.

Her fresh start.

Her first solo go at this grown-up thing.

Her very own space.

No way was she going to let some jerkoff with a knife ruin that for her. That decided, she would give herself today. One day to be freaked out and indulge her fears ... then get over it. Tonight, she would change the code, sleep with the pepper spray on her nightstand, and claim her space once more.

Her plan made, Ireland shut the shed door and strode off to immerse herself in a healthy
dose of avoidance.

11

Ireland

“Mom?
Mom?
No, this isn’t something that needs to be discussed at tonight’s bonfire …. I’m fine, really. It was just a question ... No, you don’t need to get Dad ... Hi, Dad ... Like I was telling Mom … No, praying to the moon goddess isn’t necessary ... Yes, I’m sure. I was just looking for legal advice, you know from back when you were still sane?” Ireland cringed, wishing she could reel the words back in the very second they left her mouth. Sure enough, her dad launched into his well-practiced rant about how he and her mother had freed themselves from the constricting ties of corporate America by starting a new life on the road, living in what was essentially a shed mounted to a flatbed trailer.

Leaves crunched under Ireland’s tennis shoes as she strolled alongside N
orth Broadway, a main street through Tarrytown, giving the occasional “uh-huh” and “you’re so right” to her father. The sun warmed her skin, while her hoodie warded off the slight chill in the air. In retrospect, she would’ve rethought her chosen route if she’d realized just how big the Old Dutch Cemetery was. She’d been walking alongside it for so long that she was having a hard time remembering a time in her life she
wasn’t
staring at tombstones. Being surrounded by death was
not
conducive to her goal of setting her mind at ease.

“Yes, Daddy,”
she said, tuning back in as her father turned the conversation back around on her. “I’m sure you’re right. This absolutely must be the universe trying to teach me a lesson … What lesson? Uh…” a wrong answer meant a second wave of the incessant rambling typhoon, “… well, clearly, that I …
um
… put too much importance on materials things?” Her fingers crossed in hopes that her answer would suffice.

Some people wouldn’t consider a topic veer to the upsides of hemp underwear a win, but those same people probably didn’t know
Theodore Crane. Ireland’s puffed cheeks exhaled a relieved sigh as she continued to interject the appropriate off-handed comments to keep up the guise that she was listening.

The crescendo boom of a gong on her father’s end of the line a few moments later cut their conversation—thankfully—short
. Immediately, her father rushed to get off the phone. Past experience had taught Ireland better than to ask what the signal was for. Previous answers had ranged from meal time to tantric fun.

“Okay, Dad
... Thanks again for the help ... Love you, too ... Hug Mom for me.” Only after clicking her phone off did Ireland realize where her mindless meandering had landed her—right at the feet of the weeping bride statue.

“You
, again.” Ireland’s lips screwed to the side in distaste. “What? Did you think just because you’re sitting there all mopey, I was going to get misty-eyed every time I saw you?”

She
hadn’t been expecting an answer. The menacing snort behind her
really
made her wish she hadn’t gotten one. Slowly, on the balls of her feet, Ireland turned. Three tombstones away a smoke grey stallion anxiously pawed at the ground. Seated on his back—like a silent beacon of death—was a black cloaked figure, his head concealed by fabric and shadows.

“Nice costume, cowboy
,” Ireland swallowed hard to fight off the tremble in her voice, “but don’t expect the locals to be fans of that look.”

She took a step forward on the off chance that he would let her scurry back to the exit undisturbed. The hiss of his sword sliding from the sheath at his hip
squashed that hope in a harsh and definite fashion.

Ireland
stumbled back, gaining a little distance as she raised her hands defensively. “Great job with the intimidation tactic, really. But it’s the middle of the afternoon. You try anything and you’re gonna have an audience before that horse of yours can get three strides in.”

Slow
ly and deliberately, the rider shook his cloaked head, calling her bluff. And he was right. Sleepy Hollow was a ghost town—no pun intended. Ireland had seen
maybe
two cars since she’d left her house. Everyone was at school or work. With her heart thudding in her chest hard enough to resonate through her ribs, Ireland inched her way back.

The horse matched her step without being cued
.

This was
not
the fabled Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. Of that Ireland was sure. For one thing, his crudely tossed together costume consisted of black jeans, the cape, and bright white tennis shoes. However, he
had
been twisted enough to don the ensemble and strap on a sword, and
that
made him a very real threat. Ireland edged further back, little by little, until she could round the side of the statue and position it between them. With the stone woman as her buffer, she spun, her feet pounding into the grass as she pumped her arms and sprinted down the knoll.

Behind her came the sharp clang of metal and the thundering hoof
beats of her stalkers galloping in pursuit. Ireland desperately wanted to chance a look over her shoulder, to see how fast the gap between them was shrinking. However, every scary movie she’d ever watched warned of what a bad idea that would be. Instead, she forced herself to ignore the growing pinch in her side and pump her legs harder still.

The moment her steps pounded over the planks of the
Sleepy Hollow Bridge, she counted to determine her lead time.

One Mississippi
…

Two Mississippi …

Bang, ba-bang, bang!

No lead at all. She wouldn’t make it off this bridge.

A flannel clad arm shot out from between the sidewall beams of the covered bridge. “Ireland! Take my hand!”

She didn’t hesitate
, but launched herself at the offer of help. Turning her hips to allow Noah to yank her through the narrow opening, splinters snagged and ripped at her clothes as he pulled her through to safety. The momentum of her jump knocked them both back, rolling them down the stony embankment until they skidded to a stop on the bank of the river beneath. Instantly, Noah bolted upright, his finger pressed to his lips as he listened for signs of her pursuer following.

The
heavy silence was broken by a hyena-like laugh, youthful and sharp. Ireland pulled herself up, on to skinned and bloody elbows, and craned her neck around the underside of the bridge.

By the rail, still astride his
panting horse, Mason Van Brunt pulled back his hood. A victorious grin split his face. “Miss Crane, did I forget to mention that my father
also
supplies the horses used for the equestrian team? And we just so happen to have bits of a Horseman costume laying around for parades since he
is
our school mascot.”

“
What the hell, Mas?” Noah groaned. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Easy, Van Tassel. I
was working Brimstone for the team competition Saturday when I saw your girlfriend walking alone like an open invitation.” One shoulder rose and fell in a casual shrug, a rosy flush of self-amusement brightening his cheeks. “I just couldn’t resist.” Still laughing, he yanked the horse’s head around and nudged him forward.

Only then did Ireland find her voice
… or at least she thought it was her voice. The breathless rasp with its distinct pitch of boiling rage made it practically unrecognizable. “Good luck getting a college referral letter now,
you sociopathic little prick
!”

Noah bit the inside of his cheek
hard to stifle a laugh he dare not free. “So, those classes you had to take on the proper way to deal with kids? You apparently aced those?”

“That’s not a kid.” Ireland pulled herself off the ground and brushed the rubble from her rump. “
That
is the devil incarnate.”

“Ah, he’s a good kid. Just going through an asshole phase. Happens to the best of us.” Noah eased himself off the ground, picking off the grass and sticks that clung to the thick flannel of his shirt.

“Some people just make the mistake of getting stuck there.” Ireland glared after Mason as his shadow faded into the distance.

“The La Brea Tar Pits of asshole-ism
.” Noah pressed his lips into a thin line and gave a mock sympathetic nod. “They claim many each year.”

Ireland snorted a laugh, thankful to have a reason to after …
Mason
. “Not that I’m not grateful, but what were you doing under here?”

“Fishing
.” Noah nodded at his pole and tackle box open and waiting under the bridge. “I’m about done. Nothing’s really biting. Can I walk you home?”

“You live right next door,
Mr. Van Tassel
.” Ireland added extra emphasis to his name as she folded her arms in front of her and hitched one inquisitive brow. “How could I say no to such a
prominent
member of the community?”

Noah
sucked air through his teeth and rubbed one hand across the nape of his neck. “Yeah … about that. I didn’t lie, per say. I
am
the handyman for all of our family’s properties. I just withheld the part where I’m also a partial owner.”

“Why not just say that?” Ireland raised one hand, palm up.

“Around here people think the names Van Tassel and Van Brunt equal dollar signs,” he explained as he gathered his fishing paraphernalia. “Can you really blame me for wanting to distance myself from that? It gets every lady and open-minded dude in this town panty-throwing anxious. Speaking of, did you want me to hold your coat so you could …”

“
Ya know, I think I’m good.” Ireland chuckled as she led the way up the steep banking incline toward the path that would lead them both home. “So, is that why you stuck up for Mason? You used to be him?”

“Nah, my parents made sure we always stayed humble
. They made us daily chore lists, insisted we get jobs to pay our own expenses, and lived in the same modest house they brought my sisters and me home form the hospital to. Little things like that made all the difference. Vic, the one who passed, was my second cousin. Our sides of the family were never close because
his
family used their name for power. We were the black sheep for not doing the same. You could say Vic was actually the Mason of our family. Not that he even remotely deserved what he got in the end.”

“
That sucks about your cousin. I’m really sorry for your loss. However, it sounds like your parents did it right. Mason’s aren’t doing him, or society in general, any favors by allowing him to be a tool.” As she walked, Ireland clamped her hand over the mysterious slice on her arm. It had cracked open with a fresh rash of radiating pain when Noah yanked her over the bridge. Through the thick fabric of her hoodie sleeve she could feel blood seeping through, sticking to the fibers.

“You okay?” Noah halted and caught her arm, intending to push her sleeve up and investigate the wound.
The touch of his rough, calloused hands were gentle, yet insistent. “Did I scrape you on the way through?”

“No!” Ireland snapped more harshly than she intended as she snatched her arm away and tugged her sleeve
back down. Her ears burning red hot at his shocked reaction, she cleared her throat and tried again with a bit more couth. “I cut myself unpacking. There’s a reason they call them box cutters and not box ticklers.”

Ireland clamped h
er mouth shut—before something even more moronic than ‘box ticklers’ could tumble out—and ducked around Noah. She let each stride toward the cemetery gate punctuate her point that she didn’t want him to press the matter further.

“O
kay, then,” Noah stammered in confusion as he retrieved the fishing supplies he had cast aside and rushed to catch up.

Long legs and
a wide stride allowed him to get to the gate before her. With a gentlemanly flourish, he held it open and waved her through. “I know you’re new in town and don’t know too many people. Maybe we could do dinner—“

“Oh
. Oh,
no
!” It had been long enough since she’d been propositioned for a date that it took Ireland a minute to figure out that’s what this was. She took the realization like a bucket of ice down the pants. “I just meant … I don’t do …
that
.”