The Ghost and The Graveyard (The Monk's Hill Witch) (3 page)

He didn’t say anything about the wine but I let it go. Who cared how the bottle got there? I was enjoying his company too much to let it bother me. I opened the Pinot gris, poured him a glass, and then myself one.

“So, tell me how you became a caretaker,” I said.

“I have always been interested in the dead.” I must have made a face because he quickly added, “History. I was a history major.”

“Oh, interesting.” I decided not to share that I loathed history in college.

“This cemetery has historical significance, you know. The oldest grave is from sixteen ninety-two, an early settler of Red Grove. How familiar are you with the town?”

“Not at all. I’m a nurse at St. John’s in Carleton City. I wouldn’t have known Red Grove existed if it weren’t for my dad.”

“It’s a small town, but it’s home.” He smiled. “I’ll give you a tour if you like. Of the cemetery, that is. I think you can find your own way around Red Grove Grocery and Pub.”

“Uh, thanks.” I giggled. “Grocery and Pub. You say it like it’s one building.”

“It is. The first floor of Orson Thompson’s place. He sells fishing bait too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” The wine was starting to do its dirty work, and I could feel inhibition packing its bags. “Can I ask you a personal question, Rick?”

“Of course.”

“You said your family was from Spain. How did you end up here?”

The question must have made him uncomfortable because he looked away and started tracing the edge of the table with his finger. He cleared his throat. “I guess they came for the same reasons everyone comes here. To make a new start. They used to have a farm here a long time ago. They’ve passed on.”

“I’m so sorry.” I was such a downer. Nothing like bringing up someone’s dead parents to sour the mood.

“It’s been years.” He shrugged. “This is good wine.”

“Yes, it is,” I replied. I poured each of us another glass, emptying the last drops into mine. We’d finished the entire bottle, and I had finished my meal. “Would you like to move to the family room? Maybe watch some TV? I can grab that bottle of Shiraz.”

He nodded, and the next thing I knew we were sitting side by side on the plush sofa, watching
Saturday Night Live
reruns and finishing our second bottle of wine. The conversation came easily, although the topics we discussed weren’t soul-shattering: the unseasonably warm fall weather, my job as a nurse, the local news. Once the words were out, I couldn’t have recalled what was said. I was so relaxed, the exchange floated away from me.

At some point, Rick turned to me, placed his fingers under my chin, and said, “Grateful, I know you just met me, but you are…incredible. May I kiss you?”

Of course, I’d felt attracted to him before he walked through the door. The effects of the wine had magnified that initial attraction. He smelled good, like the outdoors. Fresh-turned earth, pine, and something else I couldn’t quite place—the ocean, I think. But it was more than that. Rick made me feel safe. I wasn’t sure if it was because he knew my father or that his job as caretaker eased my fears about the graveyard. Maybe it was a desire to not be alone in the strange house. Whatever the reason, I looked into those gray eyes and a wave of heat moved from my heart due south.

I said yes.

He moved in slowly, lips touching mine, soft, warm, and gentle at first. The kiss was closed-mouthed and conservative. I blinked lazily, enjoying the sweet gesture. He pulled back a little, like he was kissing me goodnight, restraining himself.

I’m not sure what came over me. A slow burn budded between my legs. My body ached, hungry, wanting to be fed. I wasn’t satisfied. This was more than attraction. I stared at him with the shaking hands, racing heart, and fevered skin of an addict. I had tasted ambrosia and I wanted more.

Eyes locked onto his, I tangled my fingers in the dark curls at the back of his head. Coaxing his face back toward mine, I returned his gentle kiss but then demanded more. I ran my tongue along the place where his lips touched.

“Open for me,” I murmured in a husky version of my voice.

He gasped. It was all the invitation I needed. I couldn’t resist. I slid my tongue between his teeth in a deep, wanting kiss. I thrust into his mouth, a crude imitation of what I wanted him to do to me. What my body was begging for.

The heat from our lips flowed down my chest, made my stomach tighten, and moved lower. I bit his lip. Oh, he tasted good. He made a low, sound like a growl and smoothed his hand over my hip. Lust rippled through me, leaving me hot and wet between my legs, my body ready for him in an instant. Lord, I wanted him. It was an unexpected combination of sexual attraction and possessiveness I’d never experienced before, and the desire absolutely owned me.

“You make me burn,” he whispered into my mouth.

“The feeling is mutual.”

His hand circled to the small of my back, pulled me hard against his chest. A string of syllables came out of his throat in a language I didn’t know but in a tone I completely understood. Rick wanted me too. My insides liquefied. My will was not my own.

I clawed the back of his head and scissored my legs to get closer to him. Why, I don’t know. There was no room between us as it was. He made a trail of kisses down my throat and pulled the neck of my T-shirt aside to continue his mouth’s exploration. Meanwhile, his other hand skimmed up my ribs, cupping and lifting my breast so that his lips were achingly close to the black lace of my bra. Electricity coursed through my body.

“Oh!”

Frantically, I worked one hand into the neck of his shirt, unbuttoning with the other. Light-headed, like when I was a kid and would run downhill so fast I thought I’d trip, I slid my fingers across his chest. That’s when I felt a ridge of flesh on his left pec.

I pulled back. A crude, hooked scar marred the skin over his heart. It almost looked like he’d been branded.

Searing pain, a red-hot railroad spike sliced through my skull. I buried my face in his opposite shoulder, hoping the headache would go away. “What happened here?” I managed, my touch lingering.

“It’s a mark of my profession. The caretaker’s scythe.”

“I didn’t know caretakers had a mark. Is that like how marines get the same tattoo?”

“Not all of them.” His expression changed, closing off, and he pulled his shirt back over his chest. He cleared his throat and began buttoning.

All at once I was aware that I was making out with someone I hardly knew. I backed off, straightening my shirt in the process. This wasn’t even a date, and I was practically jumping this guy. Disappointed in myself, I frowned. Had I no self-control?

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing…” My mouth hung open while I found the words. “I’m not usually like this. I got a little ahead of myself.” That was the understatement of the year. After Gary, I should’ve remained three feet away from anything that peed standing up.

“I’m not complaining,
mi cielo
.” He gently wrapped his hands around my wrists and pulled me back to him. “Maybe we did get ahead of ourselves, but it’s only because there’s something here worth moving toward.” He flashed brilliantly white teeth.

“What did you just call me?”

“
Mi cielo
? Literally, it means ‘my sky.’ It’s a term of endearment.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. We snuggled like that, in front of the TV, content to be in each other’s company.

Sometime after midnight, I woke as Rick gently positioned me on the couch. I’d fallen asleep in his arms. Before he left, he moved the ugly bouquet from the dining room to the coffee table near my head. The door clicked shut behind him and I drifted back to sleep.

Yeah, About My New House

A
smell like dirty feet brought me to my senses. Where was I? I sat up and cracked my back, remembering the night before with a satisfied grin. I certainly wasn’t expecting to get involved with someone so soon after Gary, but Rick was an absolute peach. I mean, the way he held himself back when I absolutely would have let him take advantage of me said something about his character.

Of course, it also said something about mine. I’d crossed a line into mildly slutty last night. I chalked it up to the alcohol and the stress of moving into the new house. No need to berate myself. Nothing too serious had happened. But I would have to be careful around Rick now that I knew the effect he could have on me.

I cracked my back again. The family room couch did not make a good bed. Light streamed between the wood blinds.
Crap.
I glanced at my watch and then leaped to my feet. I’d have to hustle if I was going to make my shift at the hospital and, unfortunately, I hadn’t unpacked my moving box. I’d have to dig out my scrubs and bathroom sundries.

Hauling my awkward cargo up to the bedroom, I retrieved all of my stuff and took the world’s fastest shower. The mirror was covered in a thick layer of steam and I struggled to get ready with a throbbing headache on top of impaired vision.

“Ow!” I’d poked myself in the eye with my mascara wand. I was going to look like a raccoon if I wasn’t careful. A raccoon with a migraine.

I dug in my box for some ibuprofen and gulped them down with water from the sink. That’s when my hangover became the least of my worries. I had the distinct impression that someone was watching me.

“Hello?” I called, sticking my head out the bathroom door.

There was no one there.

Shaking my head, I pulled on my scrubs, the ice-blue top with the tiny penguins. As the cloth slipped over my head, I thought I saw a man’s face in the foggy mirror, for a fraction of a second. But once my vision was unobstructed, nothing.

I made a second mental note to cut back on the liquor. On my way out the door, I grabbed the ugly bouquet with its dirty-foot odor and tossed it into the garbage can. The smell was definitely not helping my hangover.

As I backed out of the garage, I pulled a frosted strawberry Pop Tart from my glove compartment and a bottle of Frappuccino from the case behind my seat. “Breakfast of champions,” I mumbled to the windshield, hoping I’d make it to work on time.

* * * * *

A twelve-hour shift at my hospital runs 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. Add a thirty-minute commute in each direction and it makes for a really long day. So by the time I got back home, the sun was low on the horizon, and I was mentally and physically exhausted. Unfortunately, my workday wasn’t over.

As part of my financial rescue strategy, I’d taken on a second job as a phone nurse. The idea was that I would do it on my days off, but that hadn’t worked out this week. My coworker had some kind of personal conflict, so I was left covering the rest of her shift, eight to midnight. It wasn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my Friday night. Visions of the caretaker danced through my head, but I brushed them away with a sweep of my hand. I had work to do.

I tossed some cheese and crackers into my mouth, booted my computer, and donned the headset that made me look like Uhura from
Star Trek
. It wasn’t long before the first calls started trickling in.

“No, Mrs. Sakston, brown urine is never normal, even if you did have asparagus for dinner. Please see your doctor.”

And more calls.

“Even though the PMS is really bad, it isn’t a reason to take your wife to the emergency room, Mr. Johnston. Please call her doctor in the morning for an office visit. No, I don’t think she’ll kill you, but maybe you should stay out of her way.”

And more calls.

“How far apart are the contractions? Five minutes? Yes, you should go to the hospital now.”

Until finally, around 11:30 p.m., the calls seemed to stop and I watched the clock inch toward midnight. I was more than ready to be done with the day. The scrubs I’d thrown on that morning clung to me like a straitjacket. I longed to spend the night in a real bed after my backbreaking stint on the couch the night before.

Static in my ear at 11:59 was an unwelcome warning that a call was coming in—the sound of the switchboard routing to me. It was all that I could do not to log out and make the patient call back. But I’m not the type of person to leave my work for someone else, so I waited for the familiar beep that would signify the call’s connection.

“Hello, you’ve reached the St. John’s medi-line. How can I help you today?”

“Hello? I need help.”

“I’m here to help. What’s going on?

“There’s someone in my house.” The old woman’s words were matter-of-fact. She sounded confused but not at all afraid.

I decided to probe for more information. “There’s someone in your house? Do you know the person?”

“No. She just moved right in and took over. Keeps me in the attic all day long.”

“Have you called the police?” I’d heard about these elder abuse cases before but had never dealt with one directly.

“No. Should I?” Her voice was shaky. Now she was upset. Poor thing.

“Well, yes. If someone broke into your house and is keeping you in the attic against your will, we need to call the police. If you stay on the line, I’ll connect you to them.” I frantically searched my notes for the domestic abuse line.