Page 30 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
I remain there, feeling the gentle tug as she fastens the pins, securing the head to rest snugly against my neck while she attaches it to my suit. Her fingers are nimble, but I can feel their slight tremor. She’s nervous or unsure of how I will respond.
I wish I could see her face, her expression. I wish I could see the pumpkin she’s made for me. But all I can do is feel—feel the warmth of the wool against the emptiness where my head should be. Feel the way her breath catches just slightly as she leans in close to my neck.
I want to say something, but no words could hold my emotions. I let my hand find hers again. I want to kiss her—God, how I want to kiss her. But instead, I stand, coil one hand around the side of her neck, and tug her close to me. She will never comprehend the depths of what she means to me.
Belle Holloway…I lean closer and nuzzle the side of the knit texture along her cheek. She shivers at the touch.
“I know, I know,” she teases sweetly, playfully. “You’d kiss me if you could.”
No. If I could, I would kiss you and lick you until you were head over heels for me.
“I think we’re already in danger of that, Jack Moore.”
Tell me, did something else aside from your desire for my daily welfare prompt this act of generosity?
“Well, um…” she trails off.
I grip her chin, lowering my makeshift head.Belladonna…I giveher Sir’s tone.
“I was wondering…you don’t have to if it’s too much. No pressure or anything. But the shop is closed tomorrow because it’s the Harvest Festival. Other than Halloween, it’s the biggest day of the season. Most come with their significant other.” When I do not respond to the term, she seems to grow more flustered. “Significant other is a word for a companion. Um…romantic partner.”
I shake my “head” with a chuckle for the first time and ask,Are you asking me to accompany you as a suitor, my Belle? And you, as my sweetheart?
Her cheeks are so flushed, I feel their warmth beneath my very glove. “I-I guess if you want to.”
You listen, and you listen well, Belladonna Holloway,I turn her words back on her, pressing upon her chin.If you believe I will allow my sweet summoner to attend an extravaganza alone, bereft of a beau, when any may consider it an invitation to the contrary, you are sorely mistaken.
Her lips part, a retort forming, but I press on, my tone steady and firm.In my era, no woman would have been without an escort at such a celebration. Do you not know the power you wield, or how many might seek to take advantage of a moment’s solitude? Over the past week, I may not have seen the eager glances cast in your direction, but I have felt them. Like arrows loosed toward a target, one I have touched too many times to know what a high prize she is.
She squeezes my hand and stands on her tiptoes. “Jack, are you implying I cannot handle a few admirers?” A challenge lingers in her teasing—one I will not meet with levity.
I am implying that nothing would be enough to warrant me loosening my hold on you tonight. Or tomorrow. You will go nowhere without me, not while shadows linger and secrets hide among these festivities.
She stands on her tiptoes and kisses my wool cheek. Thanks to the straps, I feel an echo of it.
“I think I can live with that.”
SUNDAY’S HARVESTFESTIVAL
Belle’s excitement radiates through the grip of her hand as she leads me through her small town’s harvest festival.
Though darkness shrouds my world, the sounds of laughter, chatter, and the rustling of autumn leaves paint a vivid picture, along with Belle’s subtle descriptions. One or two-line notes she whispers to me.
Hay crunches beneath our feet. The October air is crisp and blustery, but the golden sunlight is plentiful. Hints of pumpkin spice perfume the air, followed by roasting chestnuts and bonfires. If I had eyes, I imagine the small town in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains must be quaint and lovely, a picturesque and pastoral portrait of autumn.
I remember those Mountains and their untamed beauty—a wildness that still speaks to me—something eternal, steadfast, and transcendent. Their ridges and valleys carve deeply into my memory. They still rise like ancient giants, their slopes painted in shades of crimson, amber, and gold in the fall. Even now, I envision the ever-present fog rolling across the dark forested peaks. Or the way the sun would splinter in prisms to illuminate the endless sea of trees that stretched far beyond the city where I once lived.
From what Belle has shared, my region was ironically larger in population than her town.
Since the curse, the Appalachians have been a constant companion. I’ve listened to their language in the changing of the seasons. I’ve drifted as the shadow, disturbing predators and prey alike to run. I have played the phantom roaming the campgrounds, hearing the voices and stories of tourists on Hallow’s Eve and no other time.
But no stories have compelled me more than my sweet summoner.
The soft pressure of Belle’s hand guides me, while I lightly tap my cane against the ground, feeling for roots or cobblestones. She tugs me forward, almost skipping with joy, and I can’t help but feel a smile inside me. Nor can I deny the tension locking my spine and hardening my muscles. Belle may not be unaware of her beauty or the attention she garners from it. But something in hercharacter, her background, or both, has prompted her to dismiss it. She counts it as trite.
At some point, I will urge her to tell me why.
For now, I cling to her hand with the sound of children scampering with laughter nearby. The faint strains of a fiddle play a jaunty tune. Off to our left, a grand wagon carts visitors on a hayride.
