Page 2 of A Curse On Black Lake (Black Lake Gothic Cowboys #1)

Chapter one

Eliana

Black Lake, Texas

Fog sits over the ground like a heavy wet blanket, and I can hardly see the steps I take, clouding my way to safety. He’s chasing me, but I don’t know why.

Panting as the thick air clogs my throat, I run as fast as I can through the trees, the dim moon my only light.

The ground beneath my bare feet feels wet the closer I get to the lake.

Leaves brush my hair, and his footsteps feel like they’re pounding behind me.

But I don’t look back. If I look back, something tells me I will never look forward again.

Run, run, run. He’s coming for you.

I force my lungs to drag in more air and change direction, going away from the lake. Then I hit a solid wall of a man.

Too stunned to speak or scream, I look up and … I’m not terrified at all. His cowboy hat shades his features, so I can’t see his eyes.

His large hand gently takes my arm, pulling me behind him.

“No, we have to run!” I whisper to him. I don’t know why. I don’t know who this is. But I feel like I have to. He has to come with me.

The man takes a step forward, and a gun materializes in his hand. He aims at the hooded figure in front of us.

There is no talking or begging. The man who pushed me behind him fires.

The hooded figure falls to the mossy, wet ground, and my feet start to sink into the mud.

I look up to ask for help, and his hand is already out.

Then the hooded figure appears behind him, and I scream.

My eyes spring open, and I sit up, looking around.

I’m in my bed, the shades are drawn, my quilt is at my waist, and it smells like lavender, my favorite scent.

My nightgown is soaked in sweat, and my heart beats erratically in my chest. Eyes burn, lungs gasp, and an acute sadness grips me like it’s squeezing its large hands around my neck.

He wants you.

“Who?” I ask them.

Another will help you, and you will help him.

“What? Who?” I nearly scream.

They go quiet, and I take a deep breath, trying to remember the man in the cowboy hat. It feels like I knew him even though I couldn’t see him. I felt safe with him, and I wasn’t worried about what would happen to me.

The hooded figure was a predator. I was the prey, but…the man in the hat was the protector. The one strong enough to defeat the predator, like a sheepdog and his herd.

Most days, I believe I’m losing my mind. The Spirits speak to me. For a long time, I thought they were all bad. Some were. Many are not. I sit between the world and the other side. I straddle the veil, able to know what others do not.

Or I’m crazy. That’s possible too.

The people of Black Lake believe I’m insane, possessed by the devil or a witch. More often than not, the only way for me to deal with the Spirits is by talking to them. Some get frustrated when I try to ignore them, and talking is how I calm them down.

I climb out of bed and go to Gram’s room to check on her. She’s slipping from this Earth, I know that, and she knows it too, but it still rips my heart out.

She’s all I have.

Her eyes are closed, and her breathing is steady.

I stare at her curly, salt and pepper hair and peaceful expression.

It’s a terrible blessing to watch someone you love slowly wither away, but I know it’s a blessing to be able to say goodbye.

I couldn’t do that with my parents, gone too young, too quickly.

Leaving her to rest, I shuffle to the kitchen and make some tea.

I won’t be able to sleep again. The clock reads three in the morning, and a heavy fog, like the one in my dream, covers the ground, sending a shiver down my spine.

The branches of the trees in the back of the garden look like skeletal hands reaching out for me, trying to tug me back to the place of my nightmares.

Ignoring the strange call, I take my tea and grab my journal to write down what I saw.

Grams always told me to write them down, especially when they’re vivid.

“What are you doing up so early, my flower?” Grams asks me, pulling me from my pen and paper.

I look up and she’s leaning on her cane, staring at me as if she already knows my dream was bad.

“You had another one, didn't you?” she asks.

I nod and swallow. Feeling parched, I reach for my tea, but it’s long gone. Snapping my journal closed, I place it on the side table and get to work on breakfast. I open a jar of canned peaches from last year and throw a piece into my mouth. I need a little food in my stomach.

“Will you tell me what this one was about?” she asks as she sits at the table.

“I’m not sure I should,” I say, grabbing a skillet from the old white painted cabinet.

“You know I’m not long for this world, girl, tell me what you saw,” she says.

I get the skillet hot and turn the heat on for the kettle before grabbing the eggs collected yesterday.

“I was running through the woods, parts of the bayou, and someone was chasing me. The Spirits kept telling me to run. Then a man appeared and…” I trail off, suddenly feeling like I shouldn’t tell her the way I felt with him.

“And?” She pushes.

She’s going to drag it out of me anyway. “And he helped me. He killed the one chasing me, but then … I woke up.” I’m still not sure what to make of it.

“What did they tell you?” she asks.

“Grams, please,” I groan.

“You can’t keep it all in, flower. You have to tell someone.”

I groan, checking the eggs as they fry. The kettle whistles, and I make her tea, setting it in front of her. I need coffee now. I check the cabinet for coffee beans, and of course, we’re out. It’s one of the few things we can’t grow.

“They said he wants me, and they said another will help you, and you will help him.”

She hums and takes a sip of her tea.

“Do you believe they’re talking about two different people?” she asks.

I flip the stove off and put her eggs on a plate. My stomach is in knots, and I’m not hungry anymore.

“That’s the only thing that makes sense,” I mutter and make myself more tea. Beggars can't be choosers.

“You know they aren’t always logical,” Grams snaps.

“Yes, I’m aware,” I say deadpan, sitting across from her.

“Do you—”

“Grandma, please, I don’t want to keep thinking about it. We need to harvest the lavender today. I need to strip the lemon balm and get it jarred up, and we still need to strain that tonic.”

She purses her lips and goes back to eating her eggs.

I stare off into space, too tired to move, but I’m burning daylight. I need to muck out stalls and clean the chicken coop too. It used to be me and Grams doing this together, but then she got sick from an illness with no name. As are many ailments in Black Lake.

She healed, but never fully recovered. She’s older, and it caught up with her, so most of the chores fall to me. Grams handles making tonics and salves for the apothecary and running the store.

Greer’s Apothecary has been in my family for many generations, going back to the start of this town in the 1800s. We’re healers and midwives. At one point, people thought my family were witches. We never have been. We just know how to work with the land, and listen to how it cares for us.

“I need a gallon of goat milk too, please,” she says.

I take another sip. The Spirits whisper to me, and I can’t make out what they’re saying. Sometimes they turn into a buzz in my ears. I’ve learned to ignore them. I hear them, but I don’t listen. Almost like white noise, but when they get louder, I have no choice.

“I’m sorry, flower.”

Looking up from my tea, I meet her eyes and reach for her hand. “There’s hardly anything to be sorry for.”

Her eyes glitter and then she blinks away the tears. After she finishes eating, I help her get dressed in her favorite overalls, and I throw jeans and a t-shirt on.

I don’t want her to worry about me or my dream. She doesn’t need the additional stress on her frail body, but I know whoever is coming will be here soon, if they aren’t in Black Lake already.

My dream was a warning.