Page 1 of Horned to be Wild (Harmony Glen #7)
CHAPTER ONE
T his is Rose Cottage?
Lila stared at her recently inherited property in dismay.
The name had always conjured up images of a charming little cottage with roses around the door, not a dilapidated house half-hidden behind a curtain of overgrown vines and untamed bushes.
While there were roses mixed in with the other vines covering the facade, late-blooming summer roses that filled the air with their scent, that was where the charm ended.
Mr. Southhill, the courtly satyr lawyer handling the estate, had told her that the cottage had been left empty when Great Aunt Eleanor moved to a nursing home.
Lila hadn’t known about the move—but then again, she hadn’t really known much about her great aunt at all.
She’d never even met her in person. Eleanor had sent her Christmas and birthday cards every year for as long as she could remember, always including a brief note in her elegant, cursive writing.
But the notes were witty—and frequently acerbic—tales about the town and its residents, never about herself, and Lila’s occasional suggestion that she might visit had been completely ignored.
Unfortunately she hadn’t realized the amount of damage two years of neglect could cause.
Peeling paint flaked from the weathered siding, the porch sagged dangerously in the middle, and weeds had overtaken what must have once been a pretty front garden.
The cottage did have good bones—a wide front porch behind the curtain of vines and some exquisite gingerbread details—but it clearly needed a lot of work.
She’d hoped that her savings and the modest bequest which had accompanied the house would be enough to support her while she focused on her artist business, but if the cottage needed substantial repairs it wouldn’t last long.
Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks , she thought, trying for her usual optimism as she climbed out of her car and forced the door closed.
Her “new” car was an ancient, worn-out vehicle with rust around the wheel wells, but she’d driven it all the way from New York city to Harmony Glen without any problems. Thank goodness she’d left both the city and her ex behind.
Her efforts to believe that Jeremy’s constant criticism of her art, her weight, and her ambitions was intended to be helpful were already stretched to the limit, but his reaction to her inheritance had been the last straw.
“You’ll sell it, of course,” he said complacently. “Despite its less than desirable location, it should fetch enough to make a nice little addition to our house fund.”
“First of all, I haven’t agreed to move in with you,” she said, gritting her teeth, but he waved a dismissive hand.
“Don’t be silly, darling. Of course you will.”
“And second, what do you mean by an undesirable location? Great Aunt Eleanor always said that Harmony Falls was a charming little town in her notes.”
“Charming? Don’t you realize it’s one of those mixed towns?” His mouth pursed as if he were sucking on a lemon.
“Mixed?”
Not surprisingly, he paid no attention to the dangerous note in her voice.
“You know—monsters and humans living together.”
Monster was the generic term for anyone who wasn’t completely human, and she glared at him.
“And you know that Etta has fairy blood, don’t you?”
Since he’d never liked her best friend, it probably wasn’t the best argument, but he simply waved his hand again.
“At least she looks human other than that ridiculous hair. I’m talking full on monsters—orcs and minotaurs and God knows what else.”
She’d stood there looking at the smug superiority on his face and she’d finally accepted that it was over.
Not that he’d believed her, of course, but with Etta’s enthusiastic support, she’d ignored his attempts to win her back.
She’d spent the last two months resigning from her job, wrapping up her lease, and putting most of her belongings in storage.
And when she’d finally left the city, she felt a sense of freedom she hadn’t felt in years.
If a ramshackle cottage was the price of that freedom, it was one she was willing to pay.
As she picked her way through the tall grass towards the sagging porch, a cool breeze rustled through the trees, the crisp scent of pine mingling with the sweetness of the roses.
Despite the cottage’s condition, the setting was undeniably beautiful.
Afternoon sunlight filtered through the dense forest behind the cottage, dappling the overgrown yard with pools of golden light.
Before risking the porch steps, she paused to look around.
On the other side of the road, there were several streets that she knew led into the small downtown area of Harmony Glen, but she couldn’t really see the town from here.
She only hoped that her impression of the town wasn’t as misleading as her impression of the cottage.
On the right side of the cottage a rutted dirt track disappeared into the woods, and another small house was barely visible through the trees on the left.
A bird trilled somewhere in the woods, the only sound interrupting the peaceful silence, and her positive outlook began to return.
Surely she’d be able to make this work. After all, the inside could be in perfect shape.
She just needed to apply a little elbow grease to the exterior.
She almost tripped on the cracked bottom step, then carefully made her way up the remaining steps, staying close to the edge and testing each one before she stepped on it.
The porch was almost as rickety as the steps, creaking ominously as she crossed to the ornately carved front door.
The stained glass panel in the upper half was coated with grime and the wood was in desperate need of cleaning and polishing, but she could see the elegant lines behind the dirt.
Reaching into her oversized tote, she found the old-fashioned key Mr. Southhill had given her and inserted it into the engraved brass lock, half expecting it to stick.
Instead, it turned easily and the door creaked open with a mournful sigh to reveal a spacious hallway with an arched opening to the kitchen at the rear.
The cottage smelled of dust and roses, but the ceilings were high and the wooden floors were in surprisingly good condition.
“Home sweet home,” she whispered, the words hanging in the musty air.
She flicked the light switch to the right of the door and a dusty chandelier flickered to life above her. Half the bulbs were burnt out but at least she had power. Thankfully Mr. Southhill had kept his promise to have the utilities turned on.
On one side of the hallway, a wide cased opening led to an old-fashioned front parlor with heavy curtains drawn over the windows and the furniture draped in yellowing sheets.
Sliding doors at the back of the opened to reveal a large dining room.
She pulled back the curtains from the tall windows and light flooded into the room despite the overgrown bushes outside.
This will make a perfect painting studio , she thought delightedly, and the butler’s pantry between the dining room and the old-fashioned kitchen would be a perfect place to organize her supplies.
The kitchen had an ancient refrigerator and a cast iron stove that looked older than Lila, but when she cautiously opened the refrigerator door, cold air wafted out and the water from the old-fashioned faucet ran cool and clear.
A row of windows along the back wall looked out into the jungle that had once been the backyard.
The bathroom was equally old-fashioned, but everything worked and the big clawfoot tub just needed a good clean.
The front bedroom opposite the parlor had more tall windows, and she stripped off the sheets to reveal sturdy carved oak furniture.
The second bedroom had been used for storage and was piled with a cluttered assortment of objects.
No wonder she never wanted visitors .
All in all, it could have been far worse and her optimism returned. She was smiling as she called Etta.
“Are you there? Are you settled in? Have you met any monsters yet?” Etta’s questions tumbled over each other, and she laughed.
“Yes. No. Not yet. I need to clean the cottage before I do anything else. If it’s going to need a lot of repairs, I want to know sooner rather than later. Besides, if I put it off, I’ll never find the time once I start painting.”
“How does it look?”
“A little neglected, but it’s really quite charming,” she said firmly. “I’ll take some pictures after it’s clean.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come up and help you this weekend?”
“No, it’s fine. I know how busy you are at the beginning of the school year. And besides, I don’t really have a place to put you yet,” she added truthfully.
“Okay. But call me every day and let me know how it’s going.”
“Of course I will.”
After answering a few more questions, she hung up and looked around the room. Time to get to work. The days were already growing shorter at this time of year and she wanted to make as much progress as possible before dark.
She unloaded the car and put away the groceries she’d picked up at the big supermarket the next town over. As she was filling one of great aunt’s pretty vintage glasses with water from the tap, the hair on the back of her neck suddenly prickled. Was someone watching her?
Walking out onto the small back porch, she surveyed what had once been an attractive garden.
The paved area outside the back door must have been a charming seating area at one time, and remnants of stone pathways peeked through the weeds, leading towards the edge of the dense forest behind her property.
Nothing moved—even the breeze had died down—but the sensation of being watched intensified.
Then she caught a glimpse of an enormous silhouette at the forest’s edge and her heart started to race.
Even though he was partially hidden by shadows and underbrush, he was massive, easily seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and a powerful build.
She couldn’t make out his features but impressive, curved horns rose from his head. Not human.
Their eyes met across the distance—amber eyes that seemed to glow in the forest shadows—and a curious shock went through her, as if the very air was charged with electricity.
Her breath caught in her throat as his eyes remained locked on hers.
But then he stepped back and disappeared into the forest, silent despite his size, and the world started to move again.
She took a long, shuddering breath and tried to calm her racing pulse.
A minotaur.
She knew what minotaurs were, of course, and even in New York she had encountered the occasional monster. But somehow seeing an occasional orc on a crowded city street wasn’t quite the same as having a minotaur in her backyard.
I knew what I was getting into , she reminded herself. She would have to seek him out and introduce herself. He was most likely a neighbor and she didn’t want him to think she was prejudiced against his kind. But first she needed to deal with the dust and dirt that had greeted her arrival.
The next few hours passed in a whirlwind of cleaning, and it was long past dark by the time she was able to retreat to the now clean bathroom with a glass of wine for a long, hot soak in the big tub.
All of the dust sheets had been removed and thrown into the fortunately still working washing machine, although the dryer was not equally cooperative.
She’d have to dry them on the clothesline in the morning.
The furniture had been dusted and the floors mopped.
Tomorrow she would tackle the curtains and the windows. And the outside.
The thought made her groan. Cleaning was one thing, but any type of repair work was well outside her experience. She still wanted to give it a try before she hired anyone to help.
Maybe I can ask my neighbor , she thought, her heart giving an odd little flutter at the idea.
He would certainly be strong enough to handle any of the heavy-duty repairs the house might need.
No . She’d just escaped one relationship; she wasn’t looking for another.
And why had the word relationship even popped into her mind?
She groaned again and ducked her head under the water, determined to put any thought of her mysterious neighbor out of her mind.
But despite her physical exhaustion, she ended up tossing restlessly rather than falling asleep.
When she finally gave an exasperated sigh and switched on the bedside light, she noticed that the top drawer on the nightstand wasn’t quite closed.
When she tugged it open, she found a leather-bound journal.
Her great aunt’s flowing script filled the pages, interspersed with delicate watercolor sketches of wildflowers, birds, and forest creatures.
Eleanor must have been an artist too—something else she hadn’t known.
A sketch of massive, curved horns partially hidden by foliage caught her eye, and she read the entry beneath it.
“Torin brought firewood today. He always insists on refilling my supply before the first snow, even though I’ve told him I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
Torin. That must be her minotaur.
She continued flipping through the journal and found more references to him.
“Torin pointed out the most extraordinary mushrooms today. I’ve never seen such an incredible variety of color and shape. He pretended not to be interested when I sketched them, but he can’t fool me.”
“Torin stopped to tell me about the migration of the fireflies. We sat together on the back porch and drank iced tea and watched them rise in the woods, a wave of shimmering gold. Thankfully he had the good sense to keep quiet rather than fill the air with meaningless conversation like most people.”
She snorted a laugh at the last comment.
Judging from the journal, her great aunt had been as acerbic in person as she had in her letters.
But despite her occasionally scathing comments, it was clear that Torin was a regular visitor and that Eleanor trusted him.
She definitely needed to introduce herself.
The thought of seeing him again sent an odd little shiver down her spine but she refused to dwell on it, determined to put the mysterious minotaur out of her mind and get some sleep.
Putting the book aside, she finally fell into a restless sleep filled with dreams of a giant figure looming over her, the scent of roses filling the air.