She let her voice trail. Then she finished.
“Here, in these woods, Gyselle loved, not wisely, but deeply. And here she died. And so they say, when the moon has risen high and full in the night sky—as it is now—those who walk the trails by night can hear her singing softly ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ with a lovely Irish lilt to her voice.”
“What about the curse?” a boy cried out.
“Yeah, the curse! That she spoke before she died—swearing that her tormenters would choke on their own blood! You just said that she cursed everyone, and there are more stories, right?” Mark—never one to be silent long—asked eagerly.
Maura felt—rather than saw—Brock McGovern at her side. He was amused. Barely eighteen, he’d nevertheless been given the position of stage manager for events such as the campfire history tour. He’d been standing to one side just behind her as she told her tale with just the right dramatic emphasis—or so she believed.
He stepped forward, just a shade closer, nearly touching her.
“Choking on their own blood? Kind of a standard curse, huh?” he teased softly and for her ears alone.
Maura ignored him, trying not to smile, and still, even here, now, felt the rush she always did when Brock was around.
Brock was always ready to tease—but also to encourage and support whatever she was doing. He had that ability and the amazing tendency to exude an easy confidence that stretched far beyond his years. But he was that sure of himself. He was about to leave for the service, and when he returned, he planned to go to college to study criminology. Barely an adult, he knew what he wanted in life. She was sure he was going to work hard during basic training; he’d work hard through the college or university of his choice. And then he’d make up his mind just where he wanted to serve—FBI, US Marshals, perhaps even Homeland Security or the Secret Service.
He shook his head, smiling at her with his unusual eyes—a shade so dark that they didn’t appear brown at times, but rather black. His shaggy hair—soon to become a buzz cut—was as dark as his eyes, and it framed a face that was, in Maura’s mind, pure enchantment. He had already had a fine, steady chin—the kind most often seen on more mature men. His cheekbones were broad, and his skin was continually bronzed. He was, in her mind, beautiful.
He’d often told the tales himself, and he did so very well. He had a deep, rich voice that could rise and fall at just the right moments—a voice that, on its own, could awaken every sense in Maura’s body. They had known each other for three years now, laughed and joked together, ridden old trails, worked together...always flirting, nearly touching at first, but always aware that, when summer ended, he would head back down to Key West and she would return to West Palm Beach—about 233 miles apart, just a little too far for a high school romance.
But this summer...
Things had changed.
She had liked him from the time she had met him; she had compared any other young man she met to him, and in her mind, all others fell short. He’d been given a management job that summer, probably because he was always willing to pitch in himself, whether it came to working in the restaurant when tables needed bussing or hauling in boxes when deliveries arrived. He’d gained a lean and muscular physique from hard work as much as from time in the gym, and he had a quick mind and a quicker wit, cared for people, was generous with his time, and was just...
Perfect. She’d never find anyone so perfect in life again, Maura was certain, even though she knew that her mother and father smiled indulgently when she talked about him in glowing terms—she was, after all, just eighteen, with college days and so much more ahead of her.
This summer they’d become a true couple. In every way.
A very passionate couple.
They’d had sex, in her mind, the most amazing sex ever, more meaningful than any sex had ever been before.
Just the thought brought a rush of blood to her face.
But...she believed that they would go on even through their separation, no matter the distance, no matter what. People would think, of course, that she was just a teenager, that she couldn’t be as madly in love as she believed she was. So she was determined that no one would really realize just how insanely fully she did love him.
She turned to Brock. He was smiling at her. Something of a secret smile, charming, sexy...a smile that seemed to hint that they always shared something unique, something special.
She grinned in return.
Yep. He had become her world.
“Take it away,” she told him.
“The curse!” he said, stepping in with a tremor in his voice. “It’s true that while being dragged to the tree—which you’ll see soon on our walk—the poor woman cried out that she was innocent of any cruel deed, innocent of murder. And she said that those who so viciously killed her would die in agony and despair. The very woods here would be haunted for eternity, and the evil they perpetrated on her would live forever. They had brought the devil into the woods, and there he would abide.”
He smiled, innately charming when he spoke to a group, and continued, “I think that storytellers have added in the choking-on-blood part. Very dramatic and compelling, but...there are records of the occasion of the poor woman’s demise available at the resort library.” He set his flashlight beneath his chin, creating an eerie look.
“And,” Maura said, “what is also documented is that bad things continued to happen on the ranch—under the same tree, the condemned killer, Marston Riggs, tortured and killed his victims in the early 1900s, and as late as 1970, the man known as the Red Tie Killer made use of the tree as well, killing five men and women at the History Tree and leaving their bones to fall to the ground. But, of course, we don’t believe in curses. The History Tree and the ranch are perfectly safe nowadays...” She looked at Brock. “Shall we?” she asked.
“Indeed, we shall,” he said, and the sound of his voice and the look that he gave her made her long for it to be later, when they had completed the nighttime forest tour—and were alone together.
They walked by the grove, where there was a charming little pond rumored to invigorate life—a handsomely written plaque commemorating the Spaniard Reynaldo Montenegro and his exploration of Florida.
Brock said to the tour group, “Here we are at the famous grove where Reynaldo Montenegro claimed to have found the Pond of Eternal Youth.”
It was as great tour; even the adolescents continued to ask questions as they walked.
“I’m happy to have been the tour guide tonight,” Maura murmured to Brock. “But I can’t believe that Francine just didn’t show up.”
“If I know Francine, she’ll make a grand entrance somewhere along the line, with a perfect reason for not being on time. She’ll have some mammoth surprise for everyone—something way more important than speaking to the guests. Hey, what do you want to bet that we see her somewhere before this tour is over? Here, folks,” Brock