His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2) (8 page)

But nothing stranger than usual struck his senses. Just the smell of horse manure mixed with geraniums and cinnamon, and the clatter of rain mingled with the banging of a window shutter.

Collie loosed his breath, sagging back against the door. If he weren't so hungry, he wouldn't have come here. Sera was gone, he knew. He'd seen her run hand-in-hand down the street with a tow-headed hillKit. That she wasn't home, in the kitchen, disappointed him; still, he knew she wouldn't mind if he took a loaf of bread. Or maybe one of her apple pies. Sera had said it wasn't stealing if he left something behind. And he always left flowers for Sera. They had an agreement.

It was the others who didn't understand... like her brother.

Turning, he raised first his eyes, then his nose, above the half door. He sniffed longingly, his eyes trained on the golden crusts cooling at the center of a sawbuck table. Collie had stolen food a lot less appetizing than that before. But never from Sera, of course. The trouble was, with mud flooding all the ditches, he hadn't been able to find a flower pretty enough to leave her. And he couldn't leave her any of the apples he'd stashed in her rain barrel. He needed those.

He frowned, mouth watering, mind racing. Would Sera be angry if he brought her flowers later?

A tiny pain speared his heart.

No. He couldn't risk that. Sera was his only friend. Maybe he could sweep the floor for her. He knew how much she hated "house drudgery," as she called it.

Glancing furtively behind him, Collie lifted the latch. The door wasn't locked. It never was. But even if somebody, like that brother of hers, had been mean-spirited enough to lock Sera away from him, Collie would have found a way in. He wasn't the kind who liked to brag, but lock picking was one of his best skills.

Every instinct on alert, Collie slinked inside the yeasty warmth. To him, the kitchen was Sera, all Sera. Eagerly, he sought the lingering signs of her presence: pink lip smears on a coffee cup, a strand of hair dangling from the water pump, dainty footprints in spilled flour. He breathed deeply, forgetting for a moment his gnawing gut and numbing toes. If he concentrated really hard, sorting through the barrage of odors, he could smell gardenias, Sera's favorite perfume, amidst the bacon grease and spices. He could also smell leather, hair tonic, licorice, and tobacco.

He frowned, sniffing again. Yep, man smells. Not the sort of odors he associated with Doc Jones, even though Collie knew the sawbones was around here somewhere. He'd seen the gelding in its stall.

He edged toward the table, careful to "walk Injun," as Pa used to call it. Sidestepping the flour, skirting a broken egg shell, Collie left no traces of his own on the bleached pineboards.

Then he darted another wary glance around him.
So far, so good.
He was just reaching for a jar of strawberry preserves when a long, guttural groan made him jump out of his skin. He spun around, his bowie clutched expertly before him, until he realized that no beast was lunging at him from behind.

Dang
.
He drew a shaky breath
.
Did Sera own a hound now
?

Then his gaze lit on a piece of broken porcelain. And a puddle of water, mixed with crushed lilac petals. The debris led into the hall, where it was dim. Collie crouched again, his pulse racing. The groan-growl had come from that dimness.

With fifteen years of scrapping to bolster his nerve, Collie decided to investigate. It was Sera's house, after all. And if somebody was robbing it, he thought righteously, well... he'd do something. He didn't know what, exactly. But he would.

Creeping along the wall, Collie drew close enough to the entranceway to poke his head around the corner. What he saw made him gape. Toppled furniture littered the hall; coats and hats were strewn across a pair of boots. Attached to the other end of those boots, beneath a heap of posies and umbrellas, he spied Doc Jones sprawled on his back.

Collie sniffed suspiciously, looking for whiskey bottles.

Well, he ain't drunk, at least
.

He edged closer, eyes darting forward and back. When he saw no blood, powder burns, or outlaws lurking in ambush, he squatted warily. Jones looked pale, but not as pale as death. And his breathing was regular. Collie cocked his head. He figured the doc wasn't dying so much as he was dreaming, especially when his legs flailed.
Dang.
Collie hastily jumped out of the way as a picture frame somersaulted off the end table. No wonder things were strewn all over.

Collie wandered back into the kitchen, cutting himself a slice of cornpone before he grabbed a broom. Munching as he swept, he tidied Sera's flour, as well as the blue vase scattered through the hall.

'Course, the skin on his hands and feet was all leather, but he worried that Sera, with her lady's fingers, might get hurt picking up porcelain. So, making sure every last sliver was swept, Collie straightened the furniture and hung the hats and umbrellas. When he'd finished, there wasn't much left of the mess except a watery smear and Jones, who was still snoozing like a baby. Collie shook his head. The doc sure had picked a strange place for a nap.

He leaned on the broom handle, suddenly wondering if Jones was sick. Sera had said Gabriel died of being sick, and Jones had gotten mighty riled when he'd overheard her say that Gabriel had become an angel who liked to play with lonely boys like Collie. That's why Collie knew the doc didn't like him. 'Course, Collie didn't like Jones, either, so that made them even—well, as even as they could be, he thought sullenly. After all, Jones knew all the Sammertuns in town and could sic them on Collie in a heartbeat.

Still, if the doc really was sick, Collie mused, maybe he oughta go find Sera. Even if
he
had no use for her nosy older kin, Sera did. And he didn't think she'd take too kindly to another dead brother.

Jones groaned again, his head lolling. Collie held his breath. He was just trying to decide whether to stay or run when Jones's glassy blue eyes flickered open and stared square at him.

"R-Rafe?"

Uh-oh.

"Am I in hell, or are you just visiting?"

Satan's bloomers!
Dropping the broom, Collie fled, making sure to grab the cornpone and a pie on his way out the door.
The doc has gone loco!

Michael grimaced at the clatter of wood so close to his ears. Squeezing his eyes closed, he tried to make sense of a senseless situation.
The boy. No, not Rafe. Rafe isn't fourteen anymore...

Michael drew a shuddering breath as the memory of their sibling rivalry started to fade. Where was he? And why was he lying on the floor?

The scent of lilac wafted to his nose.

He raised tremulous fingers and rubbed his temple. He must be in the hall. Yes, he remembered now. He'd fallen. Struck his head, apparently. He'd been upset. He'd been shaken by his encounter with Eden, and when Sera had insisted on going to meet her—

"Sera!" He gasped, his eyes flying wide.

The kitchen door slammed. He was alone.

Collie.
Michael struggled to sit. The boy must have been Collie.

Silence fell thick and fast, broken only by the tick-tock-ticking that droned endlessly from the wall. He glanced up to note the time, and the clock's hands faded in and out before his eyes. He battled a frisson of panic.
My God, what's happening to me?

Shrugging off wet leaves and petals, he climbed unsteadily to his feet. His pulse was erratic, and his hands tingled as he leaned on the banister. For some reason, he was alive. Why that should be, he didn't know, except that whatever he'd suffered hadn't been an aneurysm.

He shuddered.

Spying the pile of porcelain chips, he heaved a breath and frowned. Collie had been sweeping? He suspected Sera's pie thief hadn't tidied the mess to help
him.
All those years ago, when Sera had tried to comfort Collie over the loss of his hunting hound, Collie had misunderstood Michael's reprimand. He'd been chastising Sera for claiming that Gabriel was in the room, talking to her. Michael hadn't meant to imply that Collie wasn't good enough to play with the "angel" that Gabriel Jones had become. In any event, Collie had gotten his feelings hurt, and matters had only worsened between Collie and Michael when he had stepped forward to help the boy get acclimated to an orphanage after his father died.

Michael's hands shook, and his knuckles whitened on the banister. Just thinking about his seizure and how he himself might have become a corpse a few minutes ago renewed the pounding in his brain. That Collie, not Sera, had found him had been divine providence, but Michael knew his luck wouldn't hold out.

Somehow, he had to stop Collie from telling Sera what he'd seen.

Chapter 3

If Aunt Claudia's Trading Post and Notions was any indication, the residents of Blue Thunder were accustomed to oddities.

At least, that's what Eden told herself as she straightened the shelves in her kinswoman's store. The main counter—the foundation of which looked suspiciously like a chimney—was dominated by an enormous stuffed beaver bearing sawed-off antlers and a skunk's tail. "Cooter," as Aunt Claudia referred to this novelty, was fetchingly attired in doll-sized overalls and rollerskates. Colorful fishing lures dangled from his prongs, and a pair of spectacles teetered precariously on his snout. Eden couldn't help but chuckle every time Aunt Claudia swore to some wide-eyed youngster, "That's how them tree gnawers are grown in the backwoods."

To the left of Cooter and against the rear wall were racks of shotguns, hunting traps, and bowie knives—not so very odd, really—but the centerpiece of this manly display was a wooden bust bearing the latest calico fashion, a sheepskin hat, and snowshoes. To Eden's secret amusement, Claudia had forbidden her to repair this creation with more traditional female fare.

The right side of Aunt Claudia's store was relatively subdued, since its rainbowed array of fabrics, hair ribbons, and skin tonics catered to the fair sex of Blue Thunder. Still, Eden found herself shaking her head when she swept her feather duster over the placard that read, "Don't be looking fer any dang bloomers here. " Apparently when it came to her female customers, Aunt Claudia was only willing to make limited concessions.

Eden glanced toward the main counter, where the store's proprietress stood rummaging around her jars of gumdrops, peppermint sticks, and saltwater taffy, Eden's personal favorite.

"Where the dickens is it?" Claudia growled, shoving Stazzie out of the way.

"Where's what?" Eden asked mildly.

"My snuff box, that's what!"

Turning, Claudia glowered at the eleven-year-old who was solemnly sprinkling dead flies into his new toad's box. "Jamie Harragan, did you steal my snuff?"

The child's eyes grew bigger than silver dollars. "No, ma'am!"

"Yeah?" Claudia's cagey gaze narrowed, darting suspiciously from side to side. "Well, somebody sure did. Where'd that tow-headed hillKit go?"

Eden cleared her throat. "I'm sure Mr. McCoy was too busy admiring Jamie's toad to pinch your snuff tin, Auntie."

"Burro's milk. McCoy was busy admiring my money safe. Er... not that there ain't nuthin' to admire about Georgie," she added for Jamie's benefit.

The boy looked up anxiously. "Georgie's not eating as good as he did last week." He used a forefinger to tumble the pile of insects closer to his pet. When Georgie made no move to pounce, Jamie bit his lip. "Do you reckon he's sick?"

Claudia harrumphed. "More likely, Georgie's tired of flies—barflies, that is," she added ominously, glancing toward her broken window shutter.

Eden glimpsed a blond head ducking out of sight.

"Dang McCoy," Claudia groused, stalking to her gun rack and snatching up her scattergun. "And dang that cousin of his. I don't like the looks of 'em. Them two Pitkin County rabble are nuthin' but trouble, and I don't want them skulking around my store."

For emphasis, Claudia thumped the stock of her shotgun on the window ledge. The window's crank promptly thudded to the floor.

"Tarnation!" Claudia's face flooded with color. "The whole blamed store's falling apart. First the shutter, now this two-bit crank! And yesterday, for no blessed reason, the lid from a licorice jar got dashed all over the floor."

Eden started. She could have sworn she'd heard a boy's muffled laughter coming from outside the window.