Timeless Warrior

by Georgina Gentry

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

TIMELESS LEGEND It is a painting with a ghost in it—according to the guidebook in the Pawnee museum. Journalist Blossom Ann Murdock, in Oklahoma to research her family's roots, thought the painting might spark a good article. Now, as shadowy images seem to flicker and move, she glimpses the figure of a majestic Indian warrior within the frame, his eyes filled with torment, his powerful arms outstretched. . . TIMELESS LOVE Suddenly, Blossom finds herself wrapped in the embrace of a Pawnee brave named Warcry. The modern world has vanished. Surrounding her is a rugged frontier where two tribes are locked in deadly conflict. . . where a white woman's love for an Indian is forbidden. . . and where Blossom knows she has kissed Warcry before, ridden by his side, slept in his arms. Theirs was a love lost in the past, two hearts separated too soon. Until they're given a chance to defy fate—and to let their passions flame anew. . . TIMELESS WARRIOR The award-winning author of novels set in the Old West, Georgina Gentry is "one of the finest writers of the decade" ( Romantic Times). TIMELESS WARRIOR superbly recreates an exciting bygone era in a moving tale of a love that time cannot alter.

Release date: May 16, 2014

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

Saturday afternoon, June, 1995

“I hear there’s a ghost in the painting,” Blossom said to the volunteer leading the way into the old Oklahoma ranch house.

The plump lady smiled and nodded. “Well, that’s what some folks say. You’ll have to make up your own mind. Where you from, anyway?”

“L.A.” Blossom brushed her long brown hair back and followed the woman down the hall of the old Pawnee Bill home that was now a museum. “I’m a research librarian on assignment for a story.”

“Oh really? Doing a book?”

“Not exactly.” Blossom Murdock wasn’t proud that she sometimes free-lanced for Tattletale, the sleaziest, most sensational of the supermarket tabloids, but jobs were still scarce on the West Coast, and she couldn’t be choosey.

The older woman glanced over her shoulder at Blossom’s costume. “Well, you’re dressed for the part.”

Blossom looked down at the long blue cotton dress and high-buttoned shoes she wore. “I feel a little foolish,” she admitted, “but the airline lost my luggage and just before I got on the tour bus in Tulsa this morning, I saw this Western shop and thought, ‘hey, why not?’ ”

“Matches your blue eyes,” the lady said kindly. “In Oklahoma you can dress like a pioneer girl and no one will laugh. Now, just take your time and look around downstairs while I take the next group through. Then I’ll take you upstairs to see that painting.”

“Thanks.” Blossom took out a notebook and pen. The old West, and in particular Native Americans, had been an obsession with her as long as she could remember; even when she had been a very young child. She read everything she could get her hands on about those subjects. If the Old West hadn’t been her particular passion, she might never have read about this ghost painting.

Maybe she could tie it in with UFOs, Elvis, or something. That would be the only way a slimy creep like Vic Lamarto, the Tattletale owner, would buy the story. This detour to a little obscure town in Oklahoma might catch up her bills and pay for Blossom’s trip to Nebraska to try to trace her birth parents. She had taken a long time to get up the courage to delve into her own mysterious past.

Absently, Blossom doodled on her pad and looked around at the high ceilings and antique furnishings. A group of tourists brushed past her, laughing and talking.

The plump docent returned, glanced at her scribbling. “Oh, you drive one of those foreign cars?”

“What?” Blossom stared down at her pad. Oh, fudge! She had doodled B.M.W. B.M.W. B.M.W. “No, not hardly!” She laughed, feeling a little foolish because she’d written those same letters many times before. “I guess my subconscious must want one; but I surely can’t afford it!”

Or anything else; but at least she had finally gotten the bill paid for her adopted mother’s funeral. How would one of those feisty, headstrong beauties in the romance novels survive? Who was she kidding? She wasn’t a feisty, headstrong beauty, or she would have created a bigger fuss with that snippy clerk at the airline over the lost luggage. When she got back to L.A., maybe she would enroll in one of those assertiveness classes.

She paused, absently fiddling with one of her silver hoop earrings while she took inventory. At least the camera had been in her big purse as well as a few toilet articles, her ATM and credit cards. How long could this ghost thing take? By Monday, maybe she’d be on her way to begin her search into the mysteries of her birth . . .

She looked around the antique parlor again and scribbled some notes. The Pawnee Bill ranch had been everything Blossom had hoped it would be; buffalo grazing in the corral, crowds around the arena watching the trick riders and fancy marksmen. She had bought herself some Indian fry bread and paid to take the stagecoach ride. Now if she could just finish up in here and get some photos of that ghost painting.

A few feet away, an elderly volunteer took a camera away from an eager tourist. “I’m sorry, photographs are not to be taken in the house.”

Uh oh. Blossom took a deep breath, glad her little camera was safely hidden in her big purse. If she didn’t get the photos, Vic Lamarto wouldn’t want the story.

“Excuse me,” Blossom said politely to the matronly volunteer, “I don’t really know who Pawnee Bill was.”

The plump docent smiled. “Why, honey,” her Oklahoma accent had a decided twang, “Old Bill was a contemporary of Buffalo Bill Cody. In fact, they once were partners in a Wild West Show they advertised as The Two Bills.”

“Was Buffalo Bill ever in this house?”

“Oh, yes,” the woman assured her. “So was Will Rogers and a lot of the famous people; they all came up here on Blue Hawk Peak to enjoy the scenery and Pawnee Bill’s hospitality.”

Blossom paused and stared at a large portrait in an ornate frame that hung in the parlor. The subject was a handsome, gray-haired man in a cavalry uniform. He looked pompous, happy, and prosperous. The brass plaque beneath him read: Col. Lexington B. Radley, Friend of Pawnee Bill’s and Patriarch of Prominent Pioneer family, 1848-1945.

“I—I really came to see the ghost painting,” Blossom said, wondering how she could get a photo of it.

“That’s really not the most interesting thing about the ranch, you know, it has some tragedies in its past.”

The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped and Blossom shivered. “Air-conditioning’s awfully high.”

“It’s not even on, honey. Spooky, isn’t it?”

Blossom didn’t answer. Already, her mind was at work. Readers would like to hear about the cold, eerie feeling visitors got in this place. She scribbled a few more words in her notebook.

The plump lady smiled. “You said you were a writer?”

“Actually I’m a research librarian.” Blossom reached to fiddle with her silver hoop earring; looked around the dining room with its massive oak suite. “What about the ghost?”

The docent leaned closer. “Some say it’s a Pawnee brave’s spirit who was trapped there long ago because of his love for a white girl.”

Blossom smiled. “Really? Sounds like a romance novel.”

“What?” the woman said.

A gray-haired docent was just passing and stopped. “Oh, you know, Bertha, those steamy paperback books with the half-naked people on the cover.”

“Oh, those! Romances. Such trash!”

Blossom hesitated, feeling disloyal for not rushing to defend the stories she read. She wanted to say that if it weren’t for the romance novels, she wouldn’t have any love in her life at all, but decided it was not something to admit to. “May I see the painting?”

“Let’s give you the whole tour, my dear,” the volunteer said. “You know, Pawnee Bill died in this house and his young adopted son was killed in a tragic accident; hanged himself right out there off the windmill.”

Adopted. Like herself. Maybe next week, she would solve the mystery that had opened up when she found the faded newspaper clipping.

The two ladies showed her through the house, which for its day must have been luxurious with a wonderful view from the front porch of rolling valleys. Blossom closed her eyes for a long moment and dreamed of running across the prairie in her long blue dress. A handsome warrior would gallop up out of nowhere and throw her across his horse. They would ride away together to live forever wild and free. He would be the epitome of every Indian hero she had ever imagined or fantasized about; a timeless warrior who belonged to her alone. She wouldn’t have to worry about Tattletale or Vic Lamarto, or all the lonely nights reading romances in her cramped city apartment. “Could you show me the painting now?”

The pair led her up the stairs, talking about the secret door in the upstairs bathroom that led out onto the roof.

A secret door, Blossom thought as she scribbled in her notebook, this gets better and better.

“Here it is,” the guide said.

Oh, fudge! Blossom stared with disappointment at the painting hanging on the stair landing. Even if she could get a photo of this Western scene, it wasn’t lurid or sensational enough for Tattletale, although the confused scene of Indians and a galloping herd of buffalo seemed so real, she could almost hear their snorts and the sound of thousands of running hooves, smell the scent of their bodies, feel the dust wafting up on her own perspiring skin. “It almost looks like reality frozen in time,” Blossom said, “but I don’t see any ghost.”

“You can only see that if you stand at a certain place at the top of the stairs.” The volunteer gestured.

Her heart beating with anticipation, Blossom went up the stairs, turned to look. “I still don’t see—oh, my God!” Her mouth dropped open as she looked down toward the painting. It was still a big Western action scene—except now in the background, she saw a shimmering blur that seemed almost alive.

A chill went up her back. “What—what is it?”

Her guide shrugged. “No one knows and everyone who looks at it sees something different. The legend is that it’s a handsome Indian brave who is trapped there somehow because of a beautiful girl.”

A beautiful girl. Well, that let Blossom out. Everyone said she had the most spectacular blue eyes, but no matter what lipstick she bought or what she did to try to improve her looks, she knew she looked like a million other women.

Blossom didn’t say anything for a long moment, staring transfixed at the painting. The shimmering blur in the background seemed to breathe and move ever so slightly—or was that her vivid imagination? “A beautiful woman,” she repeated, scribbling in her notebook, “that’s good, sort of smacks of Snow White or something; does she have to kiss him to get him out of the painting; like a frog being kissed by a princess?”

The older lady laughed. “Nobody knows, although the local Indians say the secret is a circle; but even they can’t explain that; it’s hearsay handed down by their ancestors.” She looked around at the growing crowds. “If you’ll excuse us, my dear, we’ve got others to show through the house before it closes. You just take your time and browse.”

“I’ll do that,” Blossom nodded, still transfixed by the eerie, shimmering presence in the painting. A circle; she thought, can’t do anything sensational with that. She leaned on the banister, imagining that somehow she was here alone late at night. The moonlight would shine through a window, spotlighting the painting in the darkness. She would tell the handsome brave to step down from the painting and suddenly, he would be right here with her.

“You are the one I’ve been waiting to free me,” he would whisper in a deep, sexy voice, “only you, darling Blossom.”

He would sweep her into his arms and he would be so strong, she would be giddy as he held her close and kissed her. When Blossom closed her eyes, she could almost taste his warm lips.

Be sensible, Blossom, she scolded herself, what would you do with an Indian brave if he suddenly stepped out of that painting? He wouldn’t even have a Social Security number, a job, or be able to drive a car.

So what? Anyway, he’d be riding a spirited paint stallion, not a car. Feeling a bit foolish, she glanced around to see if anyone was watching her, but all the volunteers were busy. She had everything she needed but photos. Blossom paused, trying to decide what to do next. It was against the rules to take photos, yet if she came back without them, that jerk Vic Lamarto would laugh and throw her out of his office. Deep in her heart, Blossom thought that she didn’t deserve to be treated any better. If she had been worthy, would her real mother have abandoned her?

The late afternoon sun’s rays slanted across the tree tops and valleys surrounding Blue Hawk Peak. Soon it would be closing time and her tour bus would be leaving for Tulsa.

She simply had to get those photos. Nervously, she pulled at her silver hoop earring. What should she do now? She couldn’t take the forbidden picture with all these people watching; a guard would probably confiscate her camera and maybe even press charges.

A thought occurred to Blossom; a thought so daring, it almost scared her. Suppose she hid until they locked up the museum, took her photos, went out that secret door upstairs and down a tree or drainpipe? Of course, she would miss her crowded tour bus, but they might not notice she wasn’t aboard. The town of Pawnee was only a mile or so down the road. Maybe she could rent a car there.

No, Blossom shook her head, it was just too daring and she winced at the image of being arrested if the caretaker caught her. She went down the stairs and into the parlor, looking around and trying to make a decision. In her mind, she saw Vic Lamarto’s scowling fat face. The rent on her tiny furnished apartment was almost due. She needed this sale badly enough to chance what the caretaker and the local sheriff would do to her.

Wandering through the ranch house, Blossom paused idly in the parlor, thumbing through an old book on a sideboard. Its yellowed pages were full of Western history trivia. Blossom got out her notebook, glanced at the clock on the mantel as she thumbed through the old book, absently wasting time. Did she dare try to get the photos? Did she dare not to? She didn’t have long to make up her mind.

Her thoughts were not on the pages before her as her eyes skimmed a line of print.

. . . during the Massacre Canyon battle with the Sioux that August, a warrior named Ter-ra-re-cox was killed in a vain attempt to rescue an enemy boy . . .

Laughing tourists brushed past her as she struggled with her decision. Blossom had never done anything daring in her whole dull life. She flipped the pages of the book, glanced at the dim picture of a granite memorial and the caption under it: . . . one of many unanswered questions. No one knows how many pioneers are buried some place other than their family plots . . .

Yawning, Blossom started to flip the page, then took a good look at the name on the stone in the photo. She could barely make the inscription out: Blossom May Westfield, born 1851, lost in a stagecoach massacre, body never found.

So someone else had been stuck with the same old-fashioned first name. It was weird, though, to see it on a tombstone. She went back and read the text again, wondering about the pioneer Blossom and what had happened to her.

Around her, people were moving toward the ranch house door.

“We’ll be closing in a few minutes,” one of the guides said, “everyone hurry and finish your tour.”

Oh, fudge She didn’t want to have to face this decision. She wanted to run out the door, get on the waiting bus to Tulsa. What would the museum do to her if they caught her? Yet bills would soon be coming due, and this was the only assignment she had right now.

Her heart beating hard with trepidation, Blossom went up the stairs, pausing at the top of the landing to stare at the painting in the pale last rays of sun. The longer she looked at the shimmering presence, the more she felt drawn to it. Even then, she wasn’t certain a photo could do it justice.

Glancing around, Blossom noted the docents all seemed to be busy with tourists asking directions back to the freeway. Quickly, Blossom slipped into one of the upstairs bedrooms, the room the docent had said Will Rogers preferred. His picture hung over the bed. She might just hide here until the place closed. From the occasional noises from downstairs and the sound of cars starting their engines in the parking lot, people were leaving. She heard footsteps up the stairs.

“Last call! The museum is closing!” A woman’s voice echoed through the upstairs, “We’re about to lock up!”

Suppose that volunteer came in here?

“Don’t give me away, Will.” Quickly, Blossom crawled under the bed, lay there, gasping for air. She heard the docent come into the bedroom, still announcing that the ranch was closing. From here, she could see the woman’s black shoes as she paused and looked around.

Blossom’s heart pounded so loudly, she wondered if it could be heard. Was she out of her mind to be doing this? This was the sort of thing feisty heroines did in the romance novels she loved.

“Flo, is everyone out?” A man’s voice downstairs.

The shoes creaked across the floor and out into the hall. “Yes, Mac,” she called. “I checked all the rooms; you can lock up now. My! We are getting a lot of tourists these days, aren’t we?”

The conversation faded to a blur as the footsteps clumped down the stairs. After a few minutes, Blossom heard the outer door close. Her palms felt sweaty as she crawled out from under the bed and looked up at the painting. “Thanks, Will, for not giving me away.”

From the windows of this room, she could see the curving highway out front at the bottom of the hill and the cars leaving. She heard the roar of the big tour bus starting its engine. If she ran, she could still catch it.

Blossom almost lost her nerve, knowing there was yet time to run downstairs, pound on the door, shout for help. She could make an excuse about accidentally becoming locked inside. Then she thought again about her rent that was due and facing Vic Lamarto. No, she would get that photo.

Blossom listened to the bus roar away, knowing that it was so crowded, no one might even realize she was missing. The thought occurred to her that if she dropped off the face of the earth tomorrow, no one would realize she was gone. Her adoptive parents were both dead; she had no siblings, no boyfriend. The shy farm girl had never fit in or made close friends in the bustling city of Los Angeles.

The sun was sinking as she went out into the hall and looked around. She must remember to stay away from the windows where someone might spot her. In the gloom of the coming night, the empty house seemed to echo with her footsteps. Being alone in the old ranch gave her an eerie feeling. She could almost believe those stories she’d overheard the docents telling.

Blossom went to a window, cautiously pulled back a lace curtain, and peered out into the twilight. The parking lot at the back of the house was empty now, the windmill where the boy had hanged himself stood starkly silhouetted in the waning light. A fat yellow cat crouched among the old-fashioned roses by the fish pond, staring at the water. Lights came on in the caretaker’s house a few hundred yards away. An elderly beagle and an ugly, mixed-breed chow lay on that porch, evidently waiting to be fed. Uh oh. Would those dogs bark when she tried to cross the grounds? Just then, the caretaker opened the door and let the dogs in. Blossom breathed a sigh of relief.

To the west, the sky turned a brilliant scarlet and purple with the setting sun. Oklahoma must have the most beautiful sunsets in the world, Blossom thought with a sigh, although her home state of Nebraska was lovely, too. As she watched the lavender and blue shadows deepen across the valleys around Blue Hawk Peak, she could almost visualize a handsome Indian brave galloping across the rolling prairie to carry her off.

“Don’t I wish!” Blossom sighed. Her one sexual experience had been quick and disappointing in the backseat of a high-school football player’s car. If he hadn’t gotten Blossom drunk, it never would have happened. When it was over, she had felt cheap and used and was only grateful she didn’t get AIDS. AIDS had killed her adoptive mother, even as cancer had taken Dad years earlier.

The full moon rose and flooded through the windows, throwing distorted shadows across the worn floors. Outside, the wind picked up and tree branches brushed against the roof and walls of the house, sounding like ghostly whispers. The hair rose up on the back of Blossom’s neck, as she heard a coyote wail somewhere off in the distance and the sound echoed and reechoed.

“Stop it, Blossom Ann Murdock!” she scolded herself, “you know there’s no such thing as ghosts, even though at night, this place could do for a movie set.”

What was it she’d overheard a docent telling a tourist? One time, the cleaning ladies had heard distinct footsteps coming down the stairs. Since there was not supposed to be anyone else in the house, they went to investigate. There was no one there.

Another time, the caretaker had seen smoke coming from the ranch chimney. Alarmed that some vagrant might have broken in and started a fire, he had rushed inside. There was no fire in the fireplace nor anyone in the house.

Locals said the place was haunted because of the freak accident here at the ranch. Long ago, Pawnee Bill’s adopted son had been playing with a lasso atop the old windmill and had fallen, the rope around his neck. In her mind, she saw the small body swaying back and forth in the wind. She wondered suddenly which room Pawnee Bill had died in.

“What difference does it make?” she asked aloud, “all you’ve got to do is get the photo; you can add the eerie stuff later.”

She heard a noise and peeked through the window to see the caretaker come out of his house, accompanied by the dogs. The trio strolled across the grass, making their rounds one last time while the beagle heisted his leg on a fence post and the chow chased the cat away from the little fish pond. The caretaker pushed back his cowboy hat and lit his pipe.

She must wait until she was certain they were going to be inside and asleep. If the dogs picked up her scent, they might bark and alert the man. Blossom sat down in a chair so she could watch the director’s cottage, wondering if there was a burglar alarm. It seemed like a long time before the trio went in. Outside, a rocker on the porch moved back and forth in the wind. It would be easy to imagine a specter sitting in that chair. She shrugged off the thought. Even though the night was warm, the house was chilled. Blossom decided not to pursue that thought; she was already as scared as a child at a Halloween movie.

Finally, the lights went out at the director’s small cottage. At last! Just how she would rent a car when she walked into town, she wasn’t sure; especially as late as it was. Maybe she could get herself a motel room for the night and catch a bus out tomorrow. Many of these sleepy little towns still had bus service.

With her big purse hung over her arm, Blossom tiptoed up the stairs and stood looking at the shimmering image in the painting. Strange how it seemed to come alive in the darkness . . . or maybe it was only that the stories that went with it had her imagination running wild.

Her earring was bothering her again. Absently, Blossom took it off and rubbed her ear. They were a pair of antique silver hoops that she had owned so long, she didn’t remember how she had come by them.

The moon outside was big and round, throwing a circular shadow across the furniture. Circles, Blossom thought, what was it the docent had said about circles and this painting? There weren’t any circles in it that she could see. Abruptly, she remembered from her research that to the Native American the circle was sacred because it was eternal, with no beginning and no end. Blossom had researched the Hopi Indians once and remembered now that when one painted a circle on pottery, he always left a small break in the design to let the energy and the spirit escape.

This place was really beginning to make her uneasy, Blossom thought as she laid the earring on the edge of the wide picture frame. She would need both hands free to deal with the camera. Blossom stared at the image in the moonlight. The longer she looked at it, the more the specter seemed to take shape—come alive. When she had first seen it, the image had been only a shimmering blur. Now as she stared almost hypnotized, the blur in the painting became a man, a bare-chested, handsome Indian brave who looked deep into her eyes and reached out both his hands toward her; his dark, passionate eyes seemed to beg wordlessly.

“Oh, if only it could happen,” she said to herself. What would she do if he suddenly came to life, stepped out on the stair landing and took her in his arms? Never mind that he wouldn’t fit into modern-day society. Sometimes Blossom felt like she had been born into the wrong place and time. Sometimes she felt as out of place in this modern world as a Victorian lady.

“Mr. Lamarto would say I read too many historical romances,” Blossom thought aloud. This ghostly old ranch and the fact that she was here alone were making her imagination run wild. In the distance, she heard the faint rumble of thunder.

Uneasily, Blossom looked toward the window and realized that storm clouds were building on the far horizon and might soon hide the moon, so that she would be in total darkness. Thunder. What was that old, old memory she always associated with the sound; that forgotten fragment from a long time ago?

Maybe she could remember if she would ever confront it, but she was afraid she couldn’t deal with it or wouldn’t want to know that reality. Anyway, what did it matter? She’d better get her photos and get out before she had to walk to town in the rain. She stared at the confused scene of Indians and running buffalo again. Even more now, the handsome Indian brave seemed to be reaching out to her, as if begging silently for her to take his hands and pull him out of that painting into the real world.

“This is so silly!” she said, and her voice seemed to echo through the deserted house. The thunder rumbled in answer. The specter’s dark eyes implored her; it was almost as if she could feel his arms around her and hear him whispering the sweet, passionate things romance heroes said. Almost as if hypnotized, Blossom with her reticule still on her arm, moved closer to the painting. His hands seemed to be reaching out to her, begging her to take them . . .

Blossom reached up and put one hand against his. Strange, it felt almost warm, even though she knew it was only canvas. A wish, she thought, I should make a wish.

“I wish this handsome hunk would come alive,” she murmured, without taking her hand from the canvas. In the distance, the thunder rumbled and she held her breath a long moment, then breathed again, feeling silly. Yet the man in the painting looked so very much alive. Strange, she almost felt his big hand clutching hers as the other one reached out to her. As if hypnotized, Blossom slowly reached to touch that hand with her free one, making a circle. Instantly, she felt a surge of power, as if she had closed an electrical circuit. Too late, she remembered the Indian belief. She had unleashed the magic. She had completed that circle.

The sheriff pulled up in the museum yard, slammed on his brakes, and jumped from his squad car, his hand on the pistol in his holster. “Mac?” he yelled. “Is that you?”

The museum director held onto his barking dog as he rounded the corner of the ranch house. “Yep, Buster. The alarm go off down at the station, too?”

“Lightning, I reckon.” The sheriff nodded, visibly relaxed, and looked toward the distant flashes splitting the dark sky on the horizon, lighting up the scudding clouds drifting across the full moon. “Most likely a short in the wiring caused by that storm.”

“Most likely” Mac let go of the chow that sniffed the sheriff and wagged its curled tail. “I’ve already checked the doors and windows, looking for any sign of forced entry; nothing.”

“Wal, we’ll take a look-see anyhow.” The sheriff followed Mac to the door as he unlocked it, and they went in. Mac fumbled for the light switch. “Hmm, strange, lights are working.”

The dog lay down in the hallway and yawned.

The lean sheriff nodded toward the dog. “Some watchdog! That the new one someone dumped on the highway?”

Mac nodded. “But if there was an intruder, Dog would be barking her head off.”

“Helluva name for a pooch!”

“Well, that’s the best I could do,” Mac said. “You take a quick look around downstairs and I’ll look through the upstairs.”

“Damn!” Buster drawled, “why is this place always so cold, even in hot weather?”

“It just is,” Mac shrugged and started up the stairs.

The distant thunder rolled and the lights flickered.

The officer looked around uneasily and Mac paused on the stairs. “Don’t get jumpy. There isn’t a living soul here besides us, Buster. Bad night, though; may get a tornado yet.”

“Hope not; there’s a good old John Wayne movie on the late, late show.”

“That is, if the power stays on,” the other volunteered. “Rain moving in faster than a New York minute. Let’s look quick.”

They both hurried from room to room with the lights flickering off and on, then met in the downstairs hall where the red dog now thumped its tail against the oak floor.

“Told you it was nothing,” Mac yawned, “now you can return to your movie, and I can go back to bed.”

“Just thought we ought to make sure. It ain’t Halloween, but you never know what high-school kids is liable to do these days.”

The three went outside into the warm night where an occasional raindrop splattered the dusty walk.

Mac paused to lock the door. “Like I told you, Sheriff, there isn’t a living soul inside this house; no, not a living soul!”

Was she falling or hurtling through space? Whatever was happening to her was so frightening, Blossom squeezed her eyes shut, willing it to pass. It was just another of her nightmares, she thought in sudden terror; she had had unexplained nightmares all her life, most connected with rumbling thunder.

Stairs. She had been standing on st