Page 17 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
And then, I turn, lowering my brows in a dark curiosity as we approach a small plot of land, strangely untouched by the surrounding wildness. The grass is neat, unnaturally so, as if something unseen holds back the strangling weeds.
Oh, god, no. Jack sets me down, and I feel the desperate plea in his hands. Tears burn in my throat. Before I step forward, I take his hand, threading my fingers through his.
“I’m here, Jack.”
He says nothing, but his grip on my hand strengthens. I don’t mention anything about how the little bones in my hand hurt.
Jack leads me to the three headstones rising from the earth. Pale and worn by time, they stand in a mournful row. The names are carved into the stone with a hand that once cared deeply, and below each name, a small, loving inscription.
I step closer, feeling a chill run through me as I take in the names etched into the stone. The first is taller, more elaborate.
“Catherine Eleanor Moore,” I whisper. His wife. I hover my fingers above the headstone, but I can’t bring myself to touch it.
The name is clear. He’s spent hundreds of years carving stoneafter stone to preserve the memory. Delicate flourishes of a hand that loved her dearly.
My eyes drift to the smaller stones beside hers. A fist grips my heart, and I struggle with my withering breaths. Two children, their dates brief and heartbreaking.
“Elias Henry Moore.”
Shoulders pulling inward, I hug my chest with one arm, but there is no shielding myself from the pain carving through me. Pain that must be like a thousand blades for him. Or a deep, abysmal hollow, a gap that could never be filled.
Heartache spreads through my chest as I speak his daughter’s name. “Lillibeth Catherine Moore. Oh. Jack!” My knees give way. I fall to the earth, not letting go of his hand. But I can’t stop the mournful tremors shuddering through me, the creeping chill of death clawing at my spine.
I can’t stop the tears—they spill down my cheeks, hot and heavy, and I clutch at the grass beneath my fingers, trying to steady myself against the sorrow.
Jack moves behind me, and I feel him drop to his knees, his arms wrapping around me, strong and steady, as if he’s trying to hold me together. I can feel his chest pressing against my back, heaving with his trembling.
Then I hear it—the sound of his weeping inside my mind. Raw and haunting. Like a confession. Uncontrollable waves of soft sobbing. Breathy, muffled sounds with gasps that feel like a knife gutting my heart. It shatters me. He’s trying to hold on, to be strong, but the grief is tearing through him, the pain he’s kept locked away for so long. The emotions must drown him.
I turn to him, curling up in his arms so I may wrap my arms around him. As tight as I can, trying to anchor him, trying to let him know I’m here. Pressed against him, I wish I could take it all away. Even if it means I’d have never known him, I would take away the anguish in a heartbeat.
His sobs are quiet, but they echo in my mind—each one like a shattered whisper. His fingers bore into my sides, holding on as if I’m the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
“I’m here, Jackson Elias Moore.”
Jack,he pleads, the sound of vulnerability, human fragility. He wants a new name, a new beginning, the plea like a promise of his belief in me, his hope.
I wish I could find the right words, but all I can do is hold him, hold us both, and let my own tears fall. For him, for what he’s lost, for the years of silence that have weighed so heavily on him. A weight he’s feeling more than ever because he’s nearly falling against me.
I’ve never felt so helpless, but also determined to stay right here, with him, in this moment. My heart breaks for his loss, and he can have the pieces, the shards…if they might fill the unfillable gap.
He doesn’t need to talk or tell me anything. The graves speak a thousand words.
I softly press my lips to his neck. He shudders, his breath hitching in his throat. His grief flows between us, for what he’s lost, for the pain he carries with him like a brand.
I squeeze him tighter, pulling him closer, letting him bury himself as much as possible in my embrace, and I murmur, “I’m here, Jack. I’m right here.”
The crying fades. He’s retreating into himself, leaving those soft sobs and trembling breaths until there is silence once again. And the melancholic intimacy we now share. I still don’t let go of him.
Thank you, Belle Halloway, he finally says, the emotion and intensity still present from how he un-stitched himself and laid his soul bare.It has been many years since I last grieved for them. And I have never once grievedwithsomeone.
I run the risk of falling in love with him here and now. Is it possible to fall in love with a faceless man? When love is blind, I imagine it is. And with my deep-seated identity of loving the broken and tragic things of this world, Jack is the greatest I’ve ever known.
I say nothing, giving him my strength, my touch. He doesn’t release me, though his chest rises. His hands divide, one shifting to my waist and the other fisting my curls and anchoring that fist against the nape of my neck. He’s bracing himself…for something.
The year was 1802…he begins. I lean my head against his shoulder, prepared to listen to everything.
I came from old wealth,he says, his voice a deep tone of pride and regret.I was raised to uphold honor, but I carried a darkness within me—a hunger for control and dominance.
