The Drake House
Nancy Hernandez’ Apple Pie Recipe
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The Drake House
by
Kelly Moran
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Drake House
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Kelly Moran
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Arial Burnz
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Faery Rose Edition, 2013
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-656-7
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-657-4
Published in the United States of America
Praise for
THE DRAKE HOUSE
“Lovely prose, compelling characters, and unexpected plot twists make this a genre-bending winner!”
~
Roxanne St. Claire,
New York Times bestselling author
~*~
Praise for
SUMMER'S ROAD
“
Summer's Road
is a heart-warming story, a story of love and loss and also a story of forgiveness and moving forward. This novel is full of emotion. It is one I will not soon forget.”
~Night Owl Reviews (Top Review Pick)
“
Summer's Road
is a compelling story about the long road to finding true love.”
~Caridad Pineiro, New York Times and
USA Today bestselling author
“You won't want to put this down until you get to the last page. This is a story that has heart. An emotional journey that is very funny, engaging and full of charm.”
~Romancing the Book (Top Review Honors)
“Kelly Moran has done a brilliant job penning this tale, which is definitely worth reading. But be warned you will need a tissue close at hand.”
~The Romance Studio
Dedication
This book goes out to my siblings and siblings-in-law—my partners in crime.
Siblings are your first friends in life,
and if you're lucky, you have them your whole life.
Leigh Ann, James & Tina, Chuck & Teresa,
Ryan & Lisa, and Nate & Megan.
~
Megan, this is especially for you.
Without our frightening trip late one summer night,
this idea may never have been born.
I'll hold tighter to the flashlight next time.
~
I would also like to sincerely thank
The Ohio State University, specifically
the Horticulture & Crop Science Department,
for teaching me everything I needed to know about apple orchards.
I will have nightmares forever about apple maggots.
Any errors are my own.
~
Big thanks to my editor, Lori Graham,
and my critique partners—Jenafer, Anne, and Linda.
Without you,
the readers may need crackers to read this.
Chapter One
The dream was always the same. The wind, no matter the season, was bitter. So chilling it froze her body in motion, paralyzing and undaunted. It never crept, but came rather swift and brutal. It stole the air from her lungs and left her gasping. The mixture of gravel, frozen earth, and dried leaves crunched in an empty sound beneath her bare feet. There was an endless kind of shade. No moon, no light at all—as if the apple orchard behind her wasn’t in this world. Just the dark, the wooded tree line ahead, beckoning her without words.
She didn’t want to go.
Like a child, she feared what lay beyond the woods, terrorized beyond comprehension. Once she stepped onto the trail in front of her, it would lead her…
there
. To the place children told tales about and parents dare not speak of.
The Drake house.
The wind whipped her silk, ankle-length nightgown into a frenzy, then clung to her body, offering no comfort or protection. She stepped from the grass of her yard onto the hidden path in front of her, first with her right foot and then the left. Surrounded now in a sinister cloak of hundred-year-old oak, maple, and redwood trees, the immediate alarm deepened, wrenching with underlying sadness and haunting her mind.
Silence came, all too brief and frightening in its volume.
It was, as always in this wretched state, at the same time the wind halted she heard
the
voice. The air dead, no movement in any way. Just a shrill whisper without a soul to speak it, sounding irritated and grateful all at once.
Thank you for coming.
****
Nicholas Mackey drove his SUV away from the house he’d been renting for all of four days and turned onto Baker Road, heading toward the center of town.
Town.
He nearly laughed. Small Rapids was a town all right—a dead one. He’d even surmised to call it a ghost town, but that would be giving it too much credit. A ghost town would be less lonely with a specter or two.
No, Small Rapids, in central Wisconsin, was a community of out-of-work factory employees, two dairy farms, a functioning fruit orchard of some kind, and a handful of small businesses. Since the plastics factory closed, most residents sought employment thirty minutes away in Madison. And despised the fact, if word of mouth was any indication. He passed the side drive, which would take him to the factory grounds on the far east edge of town. It sat vacant now, a testament to the economy.
He shouldn’t complain. He was lucky to even have a job at this point. He couldn’t get into any trouble here, not without civilians anyway. And there weren’t many of those. It’s what he wanted when he left the city. Quiet. Peace. Forgiveness.
The last part is asking too much.
Turning onto the main drag—laughable, that—he headed toward the police station. He was set to meet Wayne Radcliff, town sheriff extraordinaire, for his third day on the job. He could’ve handled the job alone after only an hour prep, but he thought it wise to keep that tidbit to himself. No sense in insulting the natives.
The Feed and Seed had been open since before the crack of dawn, supplying farmers on the northern end of town. As Nick passed it, he found several pick-ups in the lot, the first sign of life since seeing his neighbor collect yesterday’s mail from his box this morning. Across the street, Harvey’s Grocery was just opening. He passed the tavern, the bowling alley, and the hobby store before he could even blink. The subdivision behind the two-lane highway, consisting of ranch houses from the 1970s and early 1900s farm houses, was quiet. No light. No barking dogs. Not even kids. The elementary school was right next to the high school. Soon, kids would be filing in and counting the days until summer vacation. If there were any kids. He hadn’t seen any.
Mundane. Boring.
Your new life and your new home. Get used to it. You did this to yourself
.
Spring was coming. Though, as typical in Wisconsin, it was taking its damn sweet time. Buds were forming on the trees, the last of the snow melting away on the ground. The grass was still brown. Tulips and daffodils poked through the earth and were beginning to open. Not that he could actually see the colors. Hadn’t been able to see color or smell anything in more than a year. It was his punishment. The shrinks called it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; he called it guilt.
Didn’t matter what name you put on it, he was hollow. The only feeling left inside him was contempt. He’d meet Wayne Radcliff at the station, get used to his new job eating stale donuts behind a desk and hoping for an occasional lost dog report, and then go back to an empty rented house and pretend it was all worth it.
****
Trisha Eaton’s eyes flew open, the familiar cold sweat lacing her body, remnants of fear clinging to sunrise. Eyes wide, she surveyed her bedroom, probing for signs of disruption. As usual, there were none. Majorly pissed off, she allowed just a moment to compose herself. She was too proud to give in to the dark. At least, she used to think so. In her head, she repeated her mantra—
nothing’s wrong, it wasn’t real.
As she did when she was young, she used familiarity to calm her. But her eyes darted to the window first. The window. Had she left the drapes open again? She filtered the night before in her mind and scrubbed her face. No, she had closed them. Which meant the dreams were intensifying again.
Just great.
Daylight had broken and there was work to be done. There wasn’t time to dawdle over childish nightmares, no matter how frightening. No matter how many times they came in the dead of night while she was alone, defenseless. The apples needed tending.
Without bothering for cosmetics, she threw her long hair into a haphazard ponytail, irked her hands were still shaking, and got dressed. After lacing her tan hiking boots, she headed downstairs, the clunk resounding on the hardwood floors.
The aroma of salvation.
“Oh, Nancy, you made coffee.” Trisha stretched the word “coffee” out as if it were her dying wish while rounding the banister and entering the kitchen. “Thank you, thank you.” She couldn’t function without her blast of morning caffeine.
The housekeeper smirked out of the left corner of her mouth. Her midnight hair was graying at the temples and at her nape where she had it wrapped in a tight bun. There wasn’t a time Trisha could remember her wearing it down.
“Have I ever forgotten coffee,
chica
, in the eight years I’ve been here?”
Eight years.
Had it been that long since Nancy Hernandez and her husband Eduardo came to work for her? She never really saw them as employees. They were friends, as well as the nine other men who lived on her spread. She cared about them, every single one, like an extended version of her family. They had breakfast together every morning and dinner every evening. They didn’t eat in the kitchen, but in the massive dining room through the swinging door behind Trisha. Nancy cooked as if it were for royalty and her food tasted just as decadent. She kept Trisha’s house and life in order.
“You let me sleep in,” Trisha answered instead.
“Yes, and you needed it.” Nancy sat across from her at the kitchenette table and blew gently on the herbal tea cupped in her hands. “You still have circles under your eyes.”
Trisha shrugged and let the scalding coffee slide down her throat. She had selective hearing down to an art. Wincing, she set the coffee down to cool a bit. “Did the boys eat?”
“About an hour ago. They’re out starting the soil testing for the fertilizer.”
Trisha downed another gulp of coffee and swiftly rose, anxious to begin. “I told them yesterday to wait for me. Did they start on the east side?”
Nancy gripped her wrist and tugged her back into her chair with a plop. “Drink your coffee, eat a muffin, then you go. They won’t start without you. They were just getting ready.”
She bit sportingly into a banana nut muffin.
How did that pop right up in front of me anyway?
It was really good. “You work for me, you know.”
Nancy stood, hands fisting on her rounded hips as she glared down her nose at Trisha. “Mmhm, and what good it’ll do me if you don’t take care of yourself.”
Walking across the kitchen, Nancy began loading the dishwasher with the breakfast mess without further fuss.
“Your mother called. She wanted to know if you gained any weight on what she calls your ‘too skinny bones’.” Nancy’s face showed amusement, but her voice was laced with concern.
“That’s ridiculous. You don’t gain weight on bones, you…”