The Gift
Deb Stover
LOVE SPELL 
NEW YORK CITY
She stared at him, bathed in silver, still touching her. “What are
you
doing out here?” She kept her tone as casual as possible.
“Checking my mare.” He inclined his head toward the barn. “She’s due to drop a foal any day now.”
“Ah.” She really
wanted
to believe him. His thumbs traced warm circles against her bare arms, sending shockwaves of longing straight to her core. Her breath caught. “Um…how is she?”
“Beautiful.”
“The mare?”
“You.”
Was it her imagination, or had he stepped closer? His breath was warm against her cheek. Definitely closer. “What are you doing, Ty?” she asked, barely able to breathe, let alone speak.
His grip tightened, then eased as he slid his open palms to her back. “Something I’ve wanted to do since I stopped to change your tire.”
Beth’s heart slammed mercilessly into her ribs and she met him halfway. “I’m probably going to regret this, but the feeling is mutual,” she whispered. Without hesitation, she draped her hands behind his neck.
Just a taste,
she promised herself as he leaned toward her.
Just a taste
…
In memory of David Allen Stover:
husband, father, hero.
April 21, 1955-May 14, 2005.
rologue
Blood. Crashing rivers of it erupted from the corners of her mind.
The shimmering steel blade ripped and retreated again and again. Crimson waves of pain pierced her. Dripping life’s blood…
Death tugged at her, greedy and demanding, dragging her into the victim’s world, toward the cold, the dark.
Not yet…She had to see the face. The killer’s face.
A voice rose, taunting, but she couldn’t see, couldn’t understand the muffled words. Then a moment of clarity, just before death claimed its victim. Thank God. The monster came closer, hovered over her. His name formed in her mind and she filed it away in the part of her brain that was still sane. Still hers. He laughed as he wiped his bloodied blade across his victim’s blouse. Arrogant bastard. A moment later he shoved it into his pocket before he walked away. The door squeaked open, clicked shut.
The pain in her skull became unbearable. There wasn’t room inside her for them both.
No more. No more.
She couldn’t do this anymore.
A silent scream tore through her.
Go away,
she pleaded.
Release me. You’re finished now. I’m dying, too.
Blinding light flashed as a tunnel formed. The pressure eased as the spirit gradually moved beyond her and into the light.
HAPTER
O
NE
Three years later…
Life could be a real bastard sometimes, but Beth Dearborn worked overtime to stay one step ahead of the damage. That night on Lakeshore Drive, she’d decided to slam-dunk her career as a homicide detective into the toilet and flush. Sobriety was the brass ring now, and so far, she had it firmly in her grasp.
She damned well planned to keep it that way.
But this assignment worried her. Up until now, her career as an insurance investigator had proved safe, but this was her first case of possible life-insurance fraud. The evidence gave her no reason to believe there might be any…problems. Still, this was the closest she’d come in over three years to the life she’d left behind.
One day at a time, Dearborn.
A sudden
pop,
followed by a kick-ass tug on the steering wheel and an ominous
thump thump thump
meant trouble. She aimed her ancient Honda toward the shoulder, braked, and rested her forehead against the steering wheel. “Damn.” Less than a mile from Brubaker, Tennessee, and she had a flat.
“My life story in frigging rubber,” she muttered.
Beth unfolded her nearly six-foot frame from the cramped car and headed for the trunk just as an oversized Dodge pickup rolled to a stop behind her. Shading her eyes, she made out the shape of a straw cowboy hat through the windshield.
Oh, great—a good old boy to my rescue.
Beth Dearborn was
not
helpless. Lonely, yes. A failure, yes. Helpless, no. And these Southern gentlemen just couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of a woman who didn’t require rescuing on a semiregular basis. With a sigh, she opened her trunk and lifted her spare tire from its bed beneath the trunk floor. She wrestled it onto the hot pavement, then reached for the jack and lug wrench.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” a deep drawl rumbled. “Appears you got some trouble here.”
“No trouble at all.” Beth rolled the tire toward the rear passenger side. “Nothing this spare won’t fix, anyway.”
“Here, let me give you a hand with that.” He reached down. His large hand covered hers on top of the tire.
Beth’s breath came out in a rush of exasperation.
Don’t piss off the locals before you even get to town,
she reminded herself. Of course, for all she knew this guy was just passing through. She silently counted to ten, then glanced sideways at her unwelcome Sir Galahad.
Tall, dark, and handsome didn’t begin to describe her Good Samaritan. He wore a pair of sunglasses beneath the brim of his straw cowboy hat, and the open collar of his chambray shirt revealed just
enough tanned chest to give Beth an enticing glimpse of curling black hair.
All right, change of plans. Watching this guy change her tire might be a nice diversion, after all. She stepped back and wiped her suddenly sweaty palms on her jeans. “Uh, thanks.”
He flashed her a devastating grin as he set to work, muscles rippling beneath his rolled-up sleeves. When he stooped to slide the car’s jack into place, she tilted her head to admire the fit of his jeans, worn nearly white in all the right places. Very, very nice.
Since she kept emotional entanglements to a minimum by choice, her sexual encounters were way too few and even farther between. Sex was strictly for fun—she had a “no strings” policy. But a girl could look.
“You live around here?” she asked, hoping the small talk might help her recover from that sudden jolt of sexual awareness. Even so, she didn’t pick up strangers for one-night stands. She hadn’t sunk that low, and she sure as hell wasn’t that stupid. Walking a beat on the streets of Chicago before making detective had seen to that.
He glanced back over his shoulder and nodded, then made quick work of releasing the lug nuts on the flat tire. “Got a farm east of town.”
Sexy farmer.
Beth almost chuckled at herself. He was probably married and had a brood of kids on that farm of his. Besides, she was here on business. With that reminder, she drew a deep breath and took another step back. Her gaze drifted to the ring finger of his left hand. Naked ring finger…An unwelcome and uncharacteristic warmth—was that relief?—settled
over her, but she shook it off and cleared her throat.
A few minutes later, he had secured her spare tire, lowered the car, removed the jack, and placed the flat in her trunk. Beth thanked him and handed him a bottle of water from her cooler. He removed his sunglasses and dropped them into his shirt pocket, revealing piercing blue-green eyes.
Holy…
“I—I’d better be going,” she said, her throat doing an imitation of a desert.
“Thanks for the drink. You’ll find Gooch’s Garage on the edge of town. They can either fix your tire or replace it.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Beth cleared her throat. “Let me pay you for your—”
“No thanks, ma’am.” He slammed her trunk. “Drive safely.”
An odd expression crossed his face, and for a second she thought he was going to say something else. Instead, he shook his head and replaced his sunglasses. Without another word, he strode back to his truck, climbed inside, started the engine, and drove away.
“Whew!” She fanned herself and sank into her car, wondering if all the men in Brubaker were like that one. All Southern jokes aside, if that guy was an example of inbreeding, she was in favor of it.
Back to reality, Dearborn.
She dropped the Honda into gear and allowed the sound of passing cars to bring her back to reality. Eventually, she merged back into the traffic’s easy flow. The passing scenery around Brubaker made her want to slow down and take in the natural beauty—something she rarely did. All right, something she
never
did.
The Great Smoky Mountains ringed the valley on three sides like purple smudges against the vast sky. Easy to understand why agriculture was big in the area, since everything was green and lush as far as she could see. Rainfall was obviously plentiful, and she crossed numerous bridges over brooks and streams on her way into town.
But Beth didn’t have time to slow down and admire the scenery. She had a job to do.
After a brief stop at Gooch’s Garage, where a slackjawed yokel promised her a new tire by next week and tacitly assured her of the variety in the local gene pool, she headed toward the center of town. Once there, she couldn’t help staring.
When was the last time she’d seen a town square, except in the movies? There was even a clock tower in the center of a picturesque little park. Brubaker, Tennessee, proved small-town America was alive and well.
The sooner she got out of here, the better. She parked and exited her car, then stretched the kinks out of her legs and spine. At her height, she needed a roomier vehicle, but she could worry about new wheels later. The engine sputtered and gave a mighty shudder before falling silent, as if reminding her of its advanced age.
“Nice car,” she said, patting the hood and crossing her fingers. “Have a good rest.” The last thing she needed was to end up stranded here in Bumpkinville. That would mean paying for car repairs and charging a rental to her employer. The flat was more than enough trouble for one day.
She worked cheap, which put her in the good graces of her boss. Avery Mutual was reputable—for
an insurance company—but it kept investigators on a short leash and an even shorter budget.
Her mission was simple—make sure claims were legit. She slung the strap of her backpack over one shoulder and retrieved her bag from the trunk. Then she headed toward the old hotel across the square.
The Brubaker Arms was a sweet three-story brick Victorian, complete with turrets and gingerbread. She grimaced. Just looking at it gave her a toothache. But Beth didn’t care as long as the bed was decent and she had her own bathroom. She’d hit bottom and was still on the low rung, but not low enough to share the john with strangers.
As she strolled across the quaint little park, she had the feeling of being watched. She looked from side to side, counting several gazes focused solely on her. She chuckled and rolled her eyes toward the brilliant blue sky. These people must be bored stiff to waste their time staring at a gangly newcomer. Of course, if they knew everything about her, they would be even more likely to stare.
Or run for the hills.
This ex-homicide detective and recovering drunk used to relive murders on a routine basis, folks.
And thank God she didn’t have to do that anymore. Beth barely suppressed a shudder as memories threatened to emerge from the vault she kept sealed at the back of her mind. Carefully, she slammed the door shut again and turned the key.
She was a stranger here, she reminded herself as she crossed the narrow cobblestone street to the hotel. She’d been in the South for almost three years now and was well versed on the significance of being a Yankee in God’s country.
Focus on the job, Dearborn.
She was here to either prove or disprove that Lorilee Brubaker-Malone—hometown girl for sure—was alive and well. Somewhere. In this case, the seven-figure policy alone was enough to raise suspicions, but the lack of a body screamed insurance fraud as far as Avery Mutual was concerned.
Beth preferred to think of her assignment as a fact-finding mission, but she couldn’t deny the bottom line. Insurance companies preferred not to pay claims. She uncovered the facts and left the rest to her employer. What happened afterward was none of her business. She did her job, did it well, and moved on to the next assignment.
Easy. Simple. The way she liked things. The way she liked life…
She pushed open the front door of the hotel and strolled through the lobby. Blanche DuBois and Minnie Pearl would be right at home here.
Beth paused at the front desk and looked around. Waiting. Anytime she entered an old building she had to stop and consider if anyone had ever died a violent death there. And if they had, was their spirit still in residence? She couldn’t place herself at risk, even if it meant moving to the dumpy motel she’d passed on the edge of town.
Avoidance of spirits who’d died violently had given Beth three peaceful,
sober
years. Like an unused muscle, her gift—her curse—was wasting away. That was the plan, anyway, and so far it seemed to be working. She couldn’t be happier. Her cousin Sam insisted that someday she would regret the loss of her empathic gift.
That’ll be the day.
She drew deep, even breaths. Nothing. The place was deserted, apparently by both the living and the dead. Sometimes even she had to admit a pang of loneliness after a lifetime of encountering spirits on a semiregular basis.
No, don’t go there, Dearborn.
The living weren’t any speedier than the dead in this place. After a few minutes, she tapped the bell on the counter, wincing as the metallic ringing echoed off the high ceilings and polished woodwork.
A short, bald man appeared in front of her as if by magic. “May I help you?”
“Elizabeth Dearborn,” she said, noting the tiny twitch in the man’s jaw at her decidedly Yankee accent. “I have a reservation. Avery Mutual made it.”
The man keyed her name into his computer terminal and nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I have it right here, and this here says third-party billing.” One woolly eyebrow arched almost imperceptibly. “We’ll need a credit card for incidentals, of course.”
This was always a problem. She hadn’t qualified for a company credit card. Managing not to groan, she flashed the man the best Southern-belle smile she could muster, and even batted her lashes for good measure. Scanning his name tag, she said, “I don’t do incidentals, Mr. Wilson, so that won’t be necessary.”
Perspiration popped from every pore on the man’s shiny head. Obviously taken aback, he asked, “You don’t intend to make any phone calls during your stay, ma’am?”
“The only calls I’ll make are for business, and my employer covers those, too.”
The first thing a drunk loses is her credit.
She couldn’t
rent a car, reserve a hotel room, or even place an order from the J. C. Penney catalog without a credit card. Life as she’d known it had come to a screeching halt, but she was rebounding. Thank God Avery Mutual covered all her expenses. “If you require a cash deposit, we can call Memphis and get one authorized.” She batted her lashes again and didn’t bother to inform the man she had a company cell phone in her backpack. It was none of his damned business.
He looked at his computer monitor again, his face reddening. “My apologies, ma’am. The reservation does indicate that Avery Mutual will cover everything.”
“Good.” She smiled and shifted her weight. “This room has a private bath, right?”
“Of course.” Mr. Wilson slid a form and a key across the counter. “Sign here, please. Do you require the bellman, Miss Dearborn?”
“
Ms.
Dearborn.” She scribbled her signature on the hotel registration, then returned it to the redfaced man. “I travel light.” She reached for the key. “Bellman gets a break.”
“Very well, ma’am.” He obviously didn’t intend to address her by name again. “Enjoy your stay.”
Beth turned to leave, then remembered something she would need. “Is there a local directory in my room?”
“Yes, ma’am.” If Wilson lifted his chin any higher, he’d be staring at the ceiling. “And just dial the front desk if you require anything.”
“No charge for that?” She winked again and held up her hand. “Just kidding, Wilson. Chill.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“By the way, do you know a family named Malone?”
She waited, knowing damned good and well he knew.
“Ty Malone is well-known in Brubaker, ma’am.” Wilson’s brow furrowed and his eyes developed a suspicious glint.
“Yeah, that’s the name. Tyrone Malone.” Of course, Beth already had all the particulars—name, address, birth date, marriage date, number of children—so she was fishing more for reaction than anything. “Man’s parents should’ve been shot for sticking a kid with a rhyming name,” she added under her breath, then headed for the staircase with her typical longlegged stride. She’d learned years ago to flaunt her height. In her line of work a woman couldn’t think petite, even if she was. And Beth wasn’t. “Is the local library close?”