Page 6 of This Haunted Heart

Lochlan Finley

I ’d nearly given myself away when I said I’d keep her for twenty years. The retort had sped from my mouth before I could catch it back. I didn’t truly know how long I planned to keep her . . .

All I knew was that there were things she had to answer for and consequences I would no longer endure without her. My punishment was hers to share in. My grief was hers to carry.

The reinsman and the conductor seated beside him were not thrilled when I informed them we would need to backtrack at least two miles before taking the road east to a destination out of the way from what we’d discussed. It was a road I’d made myself familiar with because I was not fond of traveling through Light Lily either.

The conductor lifted the curtain that separated his seat from the cabin and poked his head in. His sable coat and mustache had gathered a great deal of traveler’s dust. “But the post, sir,” he said, glancing forlornly at the mail bags. “They’ll be delayed.”

The promise of more money ensured he did not question me long. Once we’d cleared the township, we ate a quick meal. The driver slowed the stage so we could walk beside it for a stretch to work the soreness out of our joints without putting us farther behind schedule.

Rynn kept her word, eating when instructed and strolling where I told her to. I was not foolish enough to believe that this compliance would continue indefinitely, and I did not let her out of my sight.

But why had the bridge upset her so?

I wondered over her outburst as we stretched our legs. I could make sense of her resistance to being so close to the old estate we’d grown up in, but why that bridge in particular? It was miles from the old manor. Its significance gnawed at me.

There were so many questions I wanted to demand answers to. It was growing harder to remain patient and careful around her. But knowing who I was would only make transporting her even more difficult. She’d reacted poorly to Light Lily’s covered bridge. She’d react even more viscerally to my identity.

Fortunately, I’d cast off my adopted surname as soon as I could. She didn’t recognize Finley and knew nothing about the birth mother and sister I’d reconnected with in adulthood.

Gray clouds gathered over our heads like harbingers of doom. It began to shower, so I helped the conductor throw a canvas over our luggage. To avoid getting a stuck wheel, we waited out the worst of it under a collection of thick maple trees. After the rain calmed, we set off again. I found the steady beat of the light drops against the roof comforting. Rynn gnawed on her thumb nail like the opposite was true for her. She flinched at every sound.

Soon the rain ceased and the skies cleared. I filled my lungs with the refreshing scent of renewal that wafted in through the windows, glad the roads remained free of other travelers. We were alone out here, a state I preferred.

As evening began to darken the skies and night loomed closer, we came upon an inn near a small apple orchard and an empty trading post. A hanging sign labeled the collection of workers’ cabins behind the large two-story cottage as Drasland.

I frowned at the state of the carriage house. There was a buggy and a simple buckboard wagon out front already. I’d had enough of being near strangers. It had taken a lot out of me to endure them in the way I had these last few days.

“What’s wrong?” Rynn asked, peering out the window beside me.

“It’s busy,” I grumbled. “I’d rather it wasn’t.”

She snorted sharply. “This isn’t busy.”

“Maybe to a city person like you.”

Easy for her to say, considering her former lifestyle. Rynn had always liked people. Meanwhile, I spent most of my time with only ghosts for company, and as spirits were not corporeal, they did not crowd and never tried to engage me in tedious conversation.

If they didn’t suffer caprices of their own, I’d prefer their company.

“It’ll be dark soon,” she said, an edge of nervousness in her voice. Her spine pulled up straight.

I was no fan of the dark either, and my shoulders stiffened. “ We’ll be settled inside long before then.”

“Not if you don’t climb out of the stage,” she said pointedly.

“I’m going . . .”

“No, you’re not. You’re quite literally just sitting there.”

“I’m not in the hurry you apparently are.” I slid my top hat onto my head, crossed one leg over the other, and rested back against the seat cushion.

A malicious amusement lit her hickory eyes. “Are you waiting for the lot of them to go inside first so you don’t have to speak to them? There’s only . . .” Leaning over me, she made a quick count. “Three! There are three people out there, and not a one of them looks particularly intimidating. Especially the petite one with the lace flowers on her dress.”

“I don’t like a crowd. People exhaust me. We can wait until they’re done being overly polite with each other. It won’t hurt either of us to sit a bit longer.”

“Finley, this is not by any stretch of the imagination a ‘crowd’. They could fit inside this stage with us if we were so inclined, and there would be elbow room to spare.”

I shuddered at the mental picture she drew, though she was right. This Concord was built for at least six passengers. “By my definition it’s practically a horde out there.”

Rynn brought her face closer to mine, eyes narrowed to slits in her angriest hellcat expression. “If you thought I behaved dramatically before,” she warned, “just wait until you see what happens when night falls and there aren’t big city streetlamps about to light the way.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “Fine then, come on, hellcat,” I said, shoving open the door and climbing out. I’d nearly forgotten that we needed to behave as though we were married. Turning back, I offered her my arm reluctantly .

She frowned at it.

“You’re my wife,” I whispered.

Her lips turned down farther, but she took my arm, plastering a forced smile on her face that didn’t reach her eyes. I helped her climb down, resisting the urge to push her into the nearest mud puddle with every aggravated fiber of my being.

First, I made things right with the driver and stage conductor, adding a generous amount to the total owed.

“You had best not be paying him with my money,” Rynn muttered under her breath.

It wasn’t her money, but I grinned at her show of irritation, suddenly in a better mood.

The inn was owned by a family of four and their lanky chocolate-coated Great Dane. The husband and wife exchanged a few words in Dutch before the husband, a stocky man with fair skin, spoke with the stage driver and conductor about resting themselves and their horses. Two adolescent boys started on our luggage with my permission, unstrapping my trunk from the roof.

I asked the wife about the cost of a room and travel farther southeast into the heart of Blackwood County, worried we’d have to squat a while before another Concord passed through in this more remote area.

She nodded as she listened to my questions. The top of her blonde head was covered by a lace-and-straw bonnet. “Another stage will pass through here by tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “We see at least one every day unless it’s the Sabbath. Usually, they’re full of mail parcels but sometimes passengers.”

“Goodenavond,” Rynn said pointedly, with a sideways glare at me because I had not bothered with niceties before getting to business. I was well out of patience with niceties .

“Goodenavond!” the woman said with a friendly smile.

“Ik wil mijn man verrassen. Hij spreekt geen Nederlands. Kunt u hem misschien voor me afleiden,” Rynn said, her tone springy and light.

I was immediately suspicious.

“Oh! Ja, natuurlijk. Ben jij Nederlands?”

Rynn’s lips parted around her next response, but I cut her off, recognizing the last phrase spoken. “She isn’t Dutch, but she’s quite the linguist. I’m not however.” I squeezed Rynn’s arm warningly in mine, reminding her to behave. “She’s going to take pity on her husband now and switch back to English for his sake. Aren’t you, dear?”

She patted my fingers harder than was strictly necessary. “Of course I will, darling,” she said through her teeth.

Instead of being shown to our rooms, the inn owner insisted on a small tour of the grounds in the fading light as the sky turned dusky purple above us.

“What did you do?” I growled at her under my breath.

“Just being friendly,” she growled back.

“Liar.”

“Ask her yourself, then, why don’t you?” she hissed, jerking her arm out of mine so she could cross both of hers over her chest defiantly.

With reluctance, I let the matter drop.

The wife, who introduced herself as Eva, shared the history of the inn and the planting of the orchard by her husband’s family as we walked through short rows of white flowered apple trees, breathing in the tart scent of the blossoms. I made polite noises as needed to encourage her story along faster.

When we came to a small woven wicker basket, I paused. It sat near a gnarled collection of tree roots. A handful of purple heather and lilacs rested on the lid, bound with twine tied into a loose bow.

“Is that a gift for the weaver women?” I asked her.

“That’s right,” she said, pushing yellow hair that caught in a wet breeze out of her face. “My husband is a little superstitious. He swears their favor brings us wisdom and good fortune. He collects fallen blossoms off the ground and any scraps of fabric lying about the house for them, and I bake them a loaf of bread at least once a week. My boys will leave it in the woods here shortly so it’s there before midnight.”

“Your husband is a wise man,” I told her. It was then I realized Rynn was being inordinately quiet. I turned to see what she was getting up to, and my heart lurched.

She was gone.