Page 31 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
“Jack…” She leans her head on my shoulder, strengthening her grip on my arm. “Even without a head, you’re the most dashing one here.”
She touches the side of my coat, a striking black leather, rich and supple, yet rugged. The dramatic cutaway front flares subtly, allowing for the swift movement of a man of my former profession. The collar is high and sharp, concealing the back of her pumpkin head. Beneath the leather coat, my double-breasted waistcoat, a soft, matte leather, fits closely to my body, emphasizing my muscular frame. One I fully intend to use if anyone so much as makes my Belle uncomfortable.
It took her three tries before she settled on the perfect dress. A vintage, red plaid number with black stockings and nothing more than a Victorian cameo pendant around her lovely throat.
“Why, Belle!” the familiar voice of Mrs. Kravitson intrudes upon us.
Belle’s fingers dig into my arm, conveying her anxiety, but she is the portrait of respectability. “Mrs. Kravitson,” she cheerfully greets the town busybody.
I tighten my grip on my cane, steadying myself. I can hear the rustle of fabric as Mrs. Kravitson approaches, her voice carrying that familiar Southern twang.
“Bless my soul, Belladonna Holloway! Who might this be?” she asks, her voice warm but too curious. “Have you finally found a man? Congratulations, dear!”
Belle laughs lightly in her melodic tone that can charm any man, woman, or beast. “Jack here is just a good friend.” She pats my arm.
“My dear Belle, no man who dresses like him and holds your arm that way could ever possibly be ‘just a goodfriend’. You must bring him by the homestead. I will make my famous sweet tea and biscuits.”
“Thank you for the offer. I’ll be sure to talk to him, but he won’t be visiting too long,” she smoothly covers. “He’s with a theater troupe, playing the Headless Horseman tonight.”
“Is that so?”
I incline my head slightly, aware of the weight of curious eyes on me. I sense more approaching. Something in her voice chills me. Not in a frightening way, but something that stirs a sixth sense and a déjà vu, but I can’t quite place.
“He’s very dedicated to his role,” adds Belle. “He doesn’t speak to stay in character. But he will say just a few phrases.” She squeezes my arm, and I click the button on the small, cunning speaker inside my coat.
“Hello,” the speaker intones, my voice deep and slightly eerie. Not quite as rich as my natural tone, but Belle did her best with the compilation of royalty-free voices. I offer a slight bow of my head. “Good evening to you. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Oh! How clever!” Mrs. Kravitson claps her hands, clearly delighted. “Well, good to meet you, Mr. Horseman.” She chuckles, thoroughly charmed.
Belle squeezes my hand again, a silent signal. I tap my cane and offer a small, polite nod. “Thank you, but Belle is eager to show me the sights,” the speaker echoes, the mechanical undertone giving it an almost ghostly quality.
After a few more pleasantries from our nearby audience, Belle manages to tear us away from the pressing of bodies. It’s clear Belle herself, not only her bookshop, is a prominent fixture in the town. A local haunt, as it were. Fitting, as she has haunted me from the moment I heard her words.
Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Belle pulls me along gently, and I follow her to the bustling farmer’s market. Her excitement is palpable, her voice bubbling with exclamations of various finds.
“Oh, Jack, these mums will be perfect for the display windows. And I simply cannot leave without the Simmonssorghum syrup. It’s the best with biscuits and pancakes during the fall.”
Proud heat spreads through me as she bustles about the market while loading my arms with bags of her local fare purchases and greeting everyone with her contagious, sparkly disposition.
She helps herself to a variety of fresh produce, artisanal goat cheese, beeswax candles, herbal soaps, and homemade apple cider donuts. After we stop at the car to drop off the first assortment of packages, Belle pauses at another vendor for a snack. Through her senses, I can faintly smell the cinnamon-roasted chestnuts. Sweet and spicy, but it can’t vie with the natural rosemary and cinnamon scent that becomes my beautiful girl.
“You know I can’t resist your homemade apple butter, Miss. Evelyn,” she chimes in a few minutes later.
“Saved a jar just for you, Belle,” the other woman responds, her tone far younger than Kravitson. “More clove in this one, honey. Oooh, but who is Mr. tall, dark, and handsome stranger?”
I chuckle to myself because Belle’s grip has tightened on my arm, and I sense her prickle of annoyance. Not on account of repetition. No, she’s taken a slight step in front of me, a protective response to the other woman advancing toward me.
“This is Jack, and he’s in character as the Headless Horseman. He won’t speak, but he’s mysuitorin his era’s terminology.”
“So dark and mysterious! Maybe I’ll get to steal him away for a dance at the hoedown.” Evelyn goes so far as to tiptoe her fingers along my other arm.
Belle blows a windstorm through her nostrils. “I don’t know if we’ll make it to the hoedown, but thanks, Evelyn. Oh, I’ll take an extra jar and include it in my next raffle book box.”
“Anything for you, Belle. I’ll see you around, handsome,” Evelyn chirps.
After her purchase, my sweetheart hauls me away as quickly as possible.
Is someone a little jealous?I nudge the side of her head with my pumpkin.
