Spirit of the Ruins Page 2

  “Owww!” A knot formed beneath his massaging fingers while he looked around him. An exercise in futility, to be sure. He knew no one would be there.

  No one was.

  “You know, you pick the damnedest times to show yourself. Or not show yourself,” he muttered. His head throbbed and his muscles still ached from his tumble of the day before.

  Regardless, he couldn’t keep from turning and walking into the thick, humid darkness that surrounded him, inviting the owner of the voice to make herself known again. He felt no fear, only an unexplainable protectiveness, something akin to what he’d felt for Daniel since the day their mother had died.

  That voice, that sense of someone watching him, never returned, but somehow he couldn’t force himself to leave. Maybe if he spent the night, got some pictures at dawn, he would get what he came for then.

  *******

  An explosion of thunder jerked him out of a restless sleep, slamming his knees into the steering wheel, sending knives of pain up his thighs. He blinked, trying to clear his mind and remember where he was and why he was in the car.

  Oh, yeah. The ruins. And the voice.

  Well, at least he couldn’t blame this particular pain on the phantom female.

  He rubbed the tops of his knees and stared through a windshield opaque with hurricane-force rain.

  Hell.

  Even with the wipers on high, he could still barely make out the columns through the blowing waves of water. If he didn’t already have a knot on his head, he’d bang it against the steering wheel in frustration. Another day wasted.

  He blew out a long breath and let his head fall back against the seat before firing up the engine and throwing the car into gear.

  Then he stopped.

  For a moment...for just the briefest moment, he felt her presence. Like a shiver that comes out of nowhere and disappears just as fast. He waited; waited for the husky whisper of his name, but it never came.

  He scrubbed his hand across a stubbled chin and jaw in dire need of a shave.

  All right, then. He couldn’t take pictures, but he could spend the time researching. He’d find out about this woman. He’d find out about this house. If there was information in the state of Mississippi, he’d find it.

  *******

  In Port Gibson he downed a fast food breakfast, then drove with one hand while he pulled his toothbrush and toothpaste from his shaving kit. When he rolled down the window to spit out the toothpaste, the curtain of rain that hit him in the face jolted him awake better than the high-octane coffee. Drenched from the neck up, he flipped open the glove compartment to pull out the towel he kept there, and a package of cigarettes plopped onto the floor mat. He sat at the red light and stared at them until the car behind him honked.

  “Oh, Dan, you little twerp,” he muttered. “I never thought you’d do something so stupid.”

  He blew out a breath and shook his head. They’d always been so close, especially since he’d taken over the part of both parents. But lately Dan had been pulling away; ever since he’d turned sixteen and gotten his license.

  Ty sighed. Maybe he wasn’t old enough to be raising a sixteen year old. Hell, he was only thirty, himself. Thirty-one on April seventh, which was only – he looked at the date on his watch… Today! Good grief, he’d forgotten his birthday again. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. Oh well, at least it hadn’t come and gone totally unnoticed, as it had the last two years.

  With another shake of his head he pulled into the parking lot at the town square, then snatched up the cigarettes and threw them back into the glove box. He’d have them to wave in Daniel’s face when he got home, but in the meantime he had to focus. He was here to do a job, pay the bills, and then he would go home and play Mr. Mom.

  By the time he checked the Chamber of Commerce, city hall, historical society, and every little antique shop Port Gibson had to offer, he was wet as a drowned rat, and still had no new information on the ruins.

  As he drove back toward Natchez he recognized - and fought - that niggling sense of desperation he’d fallen into the day before, when he’d squeezed off a couple hundred shots, looking for a ghost house and listening for a whispery voice. Why was he so obsessed? This whole thing had to have a logical explanation.

  He purposely passed the exit that would take him to the ruins. In the driving rain, the only thing he could accomplish there would be to get wetter than ever.

  The same balding clerk at the Natchez courthouse made a copy of the architect’s drawings for Ty, then scratched his temple as he handed them over.

  “D’ya do a search on the internet? Amazin’ what you can find if you know where to look.”

  Ty glanced at the computer on the clerk’s desk. He hated to admit he was cyber illiterate.

  “Um...I don’t suppose you’d be willing...” He let the words trail off, but William, according to his name tag, jumped at the chance to show off his skills.

  Ty hovered over William’s shoulder while the antique modem dialed, screeched its connection, then all sorts of...things...blitzed across the screen. William whipped around the cursor, clicked the mouse, typed in information so fast Ty gave up trying to keep up with him.

  The computer made its ratcheting sound as one website after another appeared on the monitor, all of them praising Windsor Ruins, none of them giving any information he didn’t already have.

  After checking every site on his search, William finally looked over his shoulder at Ty and shrugged.

  “According to these, looks like all the history went up in smoke with the house or floated away with the floods.”

  Ty let out a long, contemplative breath. Dead ends everywhere he turned.

  “Too bad the people at Canemount didn’t have more on the house,” William offered. “Mind if I ask why you’re so interested?”

  Ty blinked and cocked his head.

  “Canemount?” He hadn’t heard that name mentioned.

  “Sure. The ruins sit on the Canemount Plantation property. The state only owns the little patch of ground the pillars stand on.”

  Ty’s heart kicked into double time. “Where can I find it?” He pulled a ten from his wallet for William’s trouble.

  William waved away the money. “It’s out near the ruins, off the Trace and Highway 61, on 552 West. You mean you haven’t – ”

  “Thanks, William!” Ty tossed the ten on the counter anyway and nearly ran for the door. “I owe you one.”

  He cursed the forty-five minute drive it took to get to the ruins, shaving off as many of those minutes as possible.

  The rain had let up somewhat, but the sky was still a dark, dingy gray when he found the entrance to Canemount, turned up the drive, then raked his still damp hair off his forehead, trying to make himself presentable. He gave up any hope on the wet jeans and tee shirt.

  A half hour later he climbed back into the car, somewhat dryer but not at all wiser. Though the owners of Canemount tried to be helpful, the towering remains of Windsor seemed to be an excellent keeper of secrets. How could something that had once been so magnificent remain such a mystery?

  When he turned the key in the ignition, the wipers squeaked and skipped across dry glass. The rain had stopped. In fact, the clouds had broken up and the sinking sun burned through a patch of blue that grew wider with every moment. The faint, smeared palette of a rainbow arced across the sky.

  That had to be a good omen.

  He roared down the drive and sped the short distance to the ruins. Even if he couldn’t get there before the rainbow dissipated, he might still catch a glimpse of the house again.

  The car skidded as he turned off the road, sending geysers of muddy water erupting when he hit one water-filled rut after the other. He slid to a stop in the deserted parking lot, jumped out, slung a camera over his shoulder as he took up his position, then waited for those magical rays of the setting sun to reveal the house.

  “C’mon, baby. Show yourself. Show yourself,” he chanted. He kept
glancing over his shoulder, watching the sun draw ever nearer to the treetops. How low in the sky had it waned when he’d seen the house?

  He waited for what seemed like hours, as if time ceased to pass, trapping him forever in the moments before sunset.

  He nearly jumped out of his skin when the translucent form of the house began to appear.

  His breath caught in his chest and he stared at the sight, afraid to blink, afraid to breathe. He stood motionless, taking in every detail, his camera forgotten. Like a time-lapse photo slightly out of focus, the house developed before him, gaining solidity until only the blurred edges told him it wasn’t really real. Almost against his will, he walked slowly toward the front of the mansion, toward the manicured lawn that had been a pasture only moments before.

  The house sat regally among the crumbling columns, a haunting, commanding presence; a ghost house, yet still seeming to resonate with life.

  His whole body jerked, his heart thundered in his chest, and he stopped dead in his tracks when, to his utter amazement, the front door opened.

  He’d thought of the house as nothing more than a static, blurred projection, like a hologram poised within the columns.

  He did not expect activity.

  “I need no bonnet, Magnolia. The sun is nearly down, and I am merely going for a stroll.” The voice, her voice, somehow managed to filter its way through the deafening roar in his ears. A laugh, as golden as the sunlight, followed. “You are such a mother hen.”

  Green and blue plaid skirts gathered up at the back with some kind of red ribbon trim appeared first, and then nothing else registered as she emerged through the oversized front door, backing out as she continued to tease someone inside, then turning to step onto the veranda.

  This was the owner of the voice that called to him. A woman so beautiful he unconsciously sucked in his breath at the sight of her. Was she the spirit of Windsor Ruins, rather than the house itself?

  She turned and crossed the gallery, then descended the steps as she raised her face to the sky. A mane of shiny dark hair curled nearly to her waist. Ty watched, mesmerized, his breath shallow, as she wandered away from the house, as the spring in her step died and her joy faded, replaced with introspection.

  He felt like a peeping Tom invading her privacy, seeing a side of her she obviously wanted no one to see, but he couldn’t force himself to turn away.

  She wandered across the front lawn, passing in and out of puddles of light that bathed her with end-of-the-day gold. He moved with her, cursing the live oaks that occasionally blocked his view. He watched from nearly thirty yards away, but could still see a sadness, if not in her eyes, then in the bow of her head and the lag in her step.

  The breeze lifted her hair and swirled the dark curls across her face. She tossed her head, clearing her vision, then her steps slowed even more, until she stood utterly still, as if staring off into space.

  She turned so quickly he had no time to react. Their gazes locked, and a dozen emotions crossed those beautiful features: shock, disbelief, wonder, and then a look of sheer, unadulterated joy.

  “Tylar!” she breathed, in the voice that had haunted him for days.

  The sound of his name on her lips, that look of joy in her eyes, slammed into his chest with the force of a prize fighter’s fist. He stared at her in shock, but before she could move he flattened himself against the nearest tree and tried to jumpstart his brain.

  She’d seen him. It had never occurred to him that she could see him. And not only had she seen him, she’d recognized him. How could that be?

  He scrubbed his hand across his face, shoved his fingers through his hair, then pushed away from the tree.

  There was only one way to find out.

  He rounded the oak, formulating a list of witty introductions and ice-breakers to keep from scaring the daylights out of her, but instead, a sick desperation welled up in the pit of his stomach.

  The immaculate front lawn had reverted to a cow pasture. All signs of the house and its breathtaking occupant were gone.

  He looked over his shoulder, already knowing that the sun had set behind the trees. Did the angle of the sun light the image of the house? Would he have to wait until sunset on the next sunny day to see her again? Would he lose even that opportunity as the sun moved across the sky with the seasons?

  Most importantly, who was the raven-haired vision, the heart-stopping beauty, who sighed his name and lit up with joy, with all the passion of a lover?

  CHAPTER T WO

  Windsor Plantation, 1867

  Callen Windsor McCall’s heart nearly burst in her chest. She struggled to draw the breath snatched from her lungs. For the first time in her life, she thought she might swoon, but she fought that reaction and stared at the husband she’d been told had died on the battlefield, fighting the North.

  “Tylar!” she breathed, her shock and joy paralyzing her until he staggered back against the trunk of a tree and out of sight.

  Dear heavens, was he ill? Still suffering from an injury? What had he been through to make his way home after all this time?

  She lifted her skirts and ran across the lawn, never taking her gaze from the tree against which he’d fallen. Her heart sang and her spirits rose for the first time since her brother had told her Tylar had died...on that very day five years earlier.

  All would be well now. Tylar was home!

  She rounded the tree, ready to fling herself into his arms. But her sob of joy changed to a cry of despair. She whirled around to look behind her, then circled the huge oak and all those nearby.

  Where had he gone? He could not have left without her seeing him. She dashed from one tree to the next, calling his name, fighting down the hysteria rising from the very center of her soul.

  She’d seen him! She had not imagined it. Though it had seemed as if her very thoughts had conjured him, she would never have imagined her husband so casually dressed, jacketless, his shirt looking more like some form of undergarment, his trousers an odd, tight-fitting blue fabric. His normally clean-shaven face had been darkened with the stubble of at least a day’s growth of beard, but he no longer wore the fashionable, long sideburns. Indeed, he wore no sideburns at all, which only accentuated the strength of the jaw she loved so dearly. No, if she had merely imagined him standing there, he would have looked as he did in her memory, a dashing figure in Confederate gray, smiling down at her, with the smile of a friend who had married her, not for love, but as a good deed.

  She would not have imagined his shock when she turned to face him, or the flash of lust in his eyes before he fell back against the tree.

  She searched the grounds as deepening shadows crept across the lawn, then disappeared with the dusk. Where had he gone? What had he been through to be dressed in such a manner? Why had he even shown himself if he had no intention of staying?

  She sank to a wooden bench nestled beneath one of the oaks. Perhaps he had only come to say goodbye. Perhaps he had no desire to deal with her brother, to put up with more of the interminable misery Stephen could inflict on Tylar, the overseer’s son, for having the temerity to wed the daughter of the plantation. And Callen could never blame Tylar if he chose to end the marriage. Though she’d loved him for as long as she could remember, even when they’d played together as children, Tylar had never treated her as more than a very good, very dear friend, and she had never wanted to burden that friendship by confessing her love.

  No, Tylar had wed her only to keep her father from misguidedly marrying her off to Morton Thom, a wealthy old widower with a houseful of children and a face like cracked leather. Her marriage to Tylar had been an unselfish act of friendship on his part that she had always hoped would blossom into love. But the war had killed any chance of that. Or so she’d thought.

  She sat there, refusing to cry, watching the smeared blaze of orange clouds on the horizon deepen to red, and then violet, and then to a dark slate against a pearl gray sky. She watched for any sign of him, praying he would show h
imself again, even if it was for a final farewell. She would let him go. She wouldn’t tell him all she longed to tell. She would not have him stay for any reason other than that he loved her. But at least she could see his face once more, trace the precious outline of his jaw, smooth the dark, sun-kissed brown hair from his forehead and look into eyes the exact same color as that hair. How could anyone ever say brown eyes were boring? Hers, perhaps, being so dark they were nearly black. But the gold in Tylar’s eyes held passion, tenderness, strength, caring, and a fiery heat that could melt her spine with a glance - even when he only looked at her as a friend.

  “What you doin’ out here, Miz Callen, with nairy a shawl and the dew ready to creep right into your bones?”

  Callen jumped in surprise, her hand to her throat, but Magnolia merely draped a crocheted shawl over her shoulders.

  “And you knows better’n to sit out here by yourself at night. They’s all kinda trash walkin’ the roads now, beggin’ for everythin’ and takin’ that what ain’t gived. Even if you is helpin’ them poor devils, it ain’t fittin’ and it ain’t safe. Not lest they comes to the house proper.”

  Magnolia’s beloved old features blended with the night as she sank to the bench next to Callen. Never one to recognize boundaries, neither race nor class, even during her slavery, Magnolia mothered everyone equally, whether they wanted it or not. Callen could never remember a time when she did not want the mothering, nor a time when the loving woman failed to offer it.

  A warm, affectionate arm slipped around her waist and Callen settled back to rest her head against Magnolia’s thin shoulder. It felt so good to be able to set everything aside, even for a moment. But as much as she loved the dear old woman, she would give all but one thing if only it were Tylar’s arms pulling her close.

  “You cain’t fret about it, baby. You either gonna stand up to that brother of yourn, or you gonna marry that new beau he gots sniffin’ ’round you. Too bad Evan Hennessey ain’t as old as Morton Thom. Then mebbe you could hope he’d just drop clean dead on the weddin’ night.”