Page 23 of This Haunted Heart

“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 withmymoney,” 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’mnothowever.” 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 purpleheather 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.

Chapter 7

Lochlan Finley

Ispun about, scanning distant tree lines and the spaces between the cabins for her familiar form, her charcoal dress and the raven scarf in her hair. It was so close to nightfall. Surely, she wouldn’t dare—

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