“Two nights ago, yes. We’ve been so busy these past few days…he may have slipped in unnoticed.”
After pressing the numbers, he scanned the rooms. “You did this much work in a few days?”
Pride lit her face as she stood, admiring their handiwork. “Yes. We have a lot more to do though.”
With a wince, he held the phone to his ear. “More?” He couldn’t imagine where she got the energy. Glancing around, he noted that with the curtains down and the faded wallpaper gone, the rooms appeared much more inviting.
She smirked. “I may keep the stair railing as it is.”
He stifled a smile. Touché. He held her gaze as the call rang through. Even the small connection charged the air between them.
A man picked up. Eric tilted the receiver to his mouth. “Hello, Tom? This is Doc Hendricks. I’m out at the old bed and breakfast on Yellow Breeches Road.”
The old bed and breakfast. Probably shouldn’t have called it that either.
Joss drifted into the front room with ethereal grace. She’d have fit easily into the home’s setting in the nineteenth century. The house must have been magnificent when its original owners built it in the late 1800s. Even as he argued with Tom about the horse’s proper care, Eric envisioned her in a lacy gown. Imagined the two of them riding in a horse-drawn wooden sleigh, its runners gliding across snow-covered roads.
The stable manager denied ignoring the horse’s needs. Eric knew better. Hanging up, he muttered, “Incompetent ass.”
Joss turned. “Will the horse be all right?”
Eric trudged to the hallway. “No thanks to Larsen. I’d like to take a crop to him.”
Annie frowned. “Shouldn’t the owners have looked after their horse?”
“Yes. Unfortunately they lavish their attentions on their prize Saddlebred, who brings home the pretty blue ribbons. And put too much trust in Tom to follow through with his responsibilities as stable manager.” He stared at the face of the grandfather clock when it chimed eleven. “Is that the correct time?”
Joss set the paint roller in the pan. “Sorry, it’s never right.”
Glancing at her watch, Annie frowned. “It is now.”
With a breathy laugh, Joss’s body went rigid. “What?”
“Eleven o’clock.” Confusion crossed Annie’s face.
“It can’t be.” From Joss’s reaction she might have said a bomb was about to explode.
“Why not?” Had he missed something?
Blinking hard, Joss glanced at the old clock, then at him. “This clock never tells…the right time.” Her voice faded as she spoke the last words. Her narrowed gaze swept over him, leaving a trail of heated pinpricks.
Blood coursed like gasoline through his veins, cold but ready to ignite. Every sense snapped to attention, focused on her. Something very odd was going on. Their conversation seemed to be on two levels; the words they spoke corresponded to a deeper meaning, and he had no clue what it meant. Only Joss understood, and Annie, who looked on in surprise. Charlie, however, kept painting.
Unsure how to respond, Eric flashed a tight grin. “Well. Glad it’s working again. Thanks.” He pulled up his collar and opened the door.
Joss called, “You’re welcome.”
Something in her voice halted him. A husky tone caught in his throat as he croaked a goodbye. He blinked hard and turned away without another word.
The wind drove the freezing rain into his face. Glad for its cleansing chill, he tilted his head up and strode to his truck, hoping it would clear the fog from his brain. Being around her gave him a dizzy sensation, as if she were a whirlwind enveloping him. Paralyzing him. Turned him into a mute, and deaf to anyone except her. He’d never experienced anything quite like it. Fumbling the keys into the ignition, his hands shook, though the cold temperature didn’t register.
Edging the truck down the driveway, he couldn’t stop searching for her. One last look. Stalling rewarded him with a glimpse. Joss glided past the window, then edged back, half-hidden. She was looking for him too. Impulsively, he jammed his foot against the accelerator and the tires kicked up gravel behind him.
Maybe the crazy aunt’s a witch. She’s cast a spell over me.
Now he sounded like the gossipers at the diner. The fact that he entertained such a notion proved something was amiss. Or why he reacted to her so strangely. No, overreacted. Her presence threw off his internal compass, sent the needle spinning. He had no idea which direction was up. Knew only that whatever force was at work, it drew him back, uncontrollably, to her.
He found himself outside his practice without any memory of driving there.
Glancing back, the Victorian atop the hill gleamed like a beacon in fog. Light poured out the windows with a vibrancy reflecting the life of those within. Again, the distinct impression of being an outsider struck him. Normally, he didn’t mind spending his spare time alone, or at least, he never had until he met Joss.
For the first time, memories of Karen appeared to him in an abstract way, as if from a distance, instead of hitting him like a freight train. Strange. Before, he’d been vaguely aware of his wife’s presence. Of course, he didn’t believe in ghosts, but sometimes his ache for her would ease, and Karen’s warmth would wrap around him like an invisible embrace. In the past year or so, even those brief encounters with her had abandoned him, leaving a gaping void. He finally shook off the sensation of being suspended in nothingness, of seeing life happening around him yet not immersed in it.
Being with Joss brought his solitary lifestyle into sharper relief, revealing a deep loneliness that he hadn’t acknowledged. He had his work. The practice. Memories of Karen. No need for anything else.
Though lately, the waitress at Kara’s Kafe had popped into his head uninvited. And unwanted. He’d awaken and imagine her beside him. He’d jump out of bed to put distance between them, though he knew she wasn’t actually there. Or when he drove, he sometimes imagined her cuddling into his side. It wrenched his stomach. Worse, it interrupted musings of Joss, almost as if on purpose. Sheree didn’t interest him. Why did she appear in his head?
Only when he was near Joss did the unease about the waitress subside.
* * * *
After the door closed, Joss let out a ragged breath. She waited, listening to his footsteps recede. Waiting for them to return. What am I doing? Apparently getting caught up in the poor man’s need for comfort. Then why did she wish he’d stayed longer?
He didn’t talk to her, so much as at her. Maybe he didn’t know how to relate to humans. What a shame, for such a ruggedly handsome, virile man to close himself off to others. To happiness. Maybe his vet practice provided enough for him, and filled any void of loneliness.
Concern in his eyes, Taz tilted his head, as if reading her thoughts.
Seemingly oblivious, Charlie faced the wall, painting intently. Annie, on the other hand, moved the roller slowly up and down. With frequent, furtive glances, she watched Joss.
Joss forced a smile. “We’re making good progress. The inn will be ready for Thanksgiving after all.”
In an unintentional imitation of Taz, Annie’s shoulders slumped when she tilted her head, her face filled with yearning. A silent beg for inside information. The effect was comical, but Joss couldn’t talk about what had happened.
Joss shot her a silent warning. Strange the old clock struck the correct hour. To mention it would open an avenue of discussion for Annie, so Joss bent to retrieve her paint roller. “Let’s see how far we can get before lunch.”