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Authors: Tess Oliver

Tags: #romance, #love, #paranormal romance, #fantasy, #young adult, #horse, #historical, #witch, #time travel, #western, #cowboy, #trilogy, #salem

Distraction

BOOK: Distraction
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Distraction

(Years from Home trilogy, #1)

 

Tess Oliver

 

 

 

Distraction

Copyright © 2013 by Tess Oliver

Smashwords Edition

 

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment
only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
If you would like to share this book with another person, please
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own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this
author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, places,
characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales
or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without written
permission from the author.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1
Poppy

Mari and I sat up on the bed together and looked at
each other. “Gingerbread!” we squealed in perfect unison. We threw
the quilt off, and I swung my feet to the cold wood floor and
fished with bare toes for my slippers. Mari was up and across the
room before my feet had crawled into the warmth of the sheepskin
lining. I grabbed my shawl from the chair and flung it around my
shoulders. A warm cloud of spice surrounded me as I stepped into
the front room.

Nonni straightened from the cooking hearth and smiled
back at me over her shoulder. Her cheeks were flush from the heat
of the hearth. Ribbons of clove-laden steam rose from the charred
black skillet nestled in the embers. Mari had already plunked down
at the table.

“The center is not cooked yet.” Nonni touched the red
embers with her fingertip and they glowed brighter. She inclined
her head toward the dented pail hanging near the door. “Some fresh
cream would go nicely with this. The gingerbread should be ready by
the time one of you returns with it. And I’m sure Charlotte is
anxious to be milked.”

I glanced at my sister. She sat at the table with an
expectant look. There was nothing in her pretty face that indicated
her willingness to milk the cow. Mari had just reached her
fifteenth year, and since I was three years older, she’d convinced
herself that I should do most of the chores.

“I shall go then,” I sighed. I dressed and tromped
toward the shelter where our cow shared her quarters with four
chickens, a smug rooster, and a bossy goat named Maxwell. Goodwife
Allen and her daughter Sarah were walking past our cottage on their
way to the village. I waved enthusiastically. Goodwife Allen glared
at me from around the edge of her bonnet then seized Sarah’s hand
and pulled her along. It was the reaction I’d expected.

The pail swung from my fingers as I hurried across
our small yard. The spicy fragrance of gingerbread streamed from
the cottage window coaxing me to finish my task.

For the first time since I’d stepped outside, I
glanced up at the sky. While it was well past the dawn hours, it
had a decidedly pink glow to it. “Rosy skies,” I whispered.
Charlotte’s massive head lifted at the sound of my voice. She
blinked her long lashes at me once before returning to her
breakfast. The chickens scurried past me into the yard as I pulled
up my milking stool. Maxwell walked over and immediately began
nibbling on the fringe of my shawl. I elbowed the goat away.

Nonni’s baking should have been my first clue that
something was amiss. Baking soothed my grandmother’s nerves
whenever she was worried. She’d obviously seen the rosy skies this
morning when she’d stepped out to collect eggs.

Charlotte flicked her tail at me indicating that I
was squeezing her too hard. “Sorry, Lottie.” I filled the pail
halfway and rushed back to the house.

Nonni’s serene gray gaze met me as I stepped inside.
She could read thoughts like a pastor could read bible
passages.

“I’m sure it is nothing,” she said quietly. “Perhaps
there is a storm rolling in.”

“We both know there is no storm brewing, Nonni. There
is not even a hint of a cloud . . . just the pink glow of
trouble.”

Her thin shoulders lifted in a weak shrug. “There’s
nothing to be done about it. We’ll just have to wait and see what
transpires. After breakfast, I need to walk to the village. Widow
Brooks has asked for another dose of my headache remedy.”

“As much as I loathe putting one foot in that
village, Mari and I will accompany you. None of us should go out
alone today.”

A slow, pleasant meal of gingerbread and cream helped
to alleviate our apprehension brought on by the oddly colored sky.
Once the dishes were cleared, we got dressed for the walk to Salem
Village.

It was a remarkably warm day for early spring, and it
seemed the inviting temperature had lured every manner of woodland
creature from its burrow. Mari and I walked ahead and plucked up
lavender asters from the side of the road, and Nonni hummed a tune
as we strolled along ignoring the pink tint of the sky above.

“Good morrow, fine neighbors,” a voice called from
behind. I did not need to look back to know that the greeting had
come from Alexander Mason, our neighbor to the west.

Mari pulled my sleeve. “That boy’s senses are
extraordinary. He seems to know exactly where you will be on any
given day, Poppy. Maybe he’s not pure mortal after all.”

I grabbed her elbow and leaned toward her. “Hold your
tongue, Mari. He’ll hear you.”

Moments later, a slightly out of breath Alexander
Mason walked alongside of us. “God hath blessed us with a glorious
day, has he not?” He turned his face to the sky. The unusual pink
glow was invisible to the eye of a mortal like Alexander. He smiled
down at me with a grin that definitely had the potential to capture
a girl’s heart. Just not this girl.

Alexander looked down at me with warm brown eyes. “I
might add, Miss Poppy Seabrooke, that you look as golden as the
flower you were named after this fine morning.”

Mari cleared her throat loudly. “Pardon me,
Alexander, but I’m the one named after a golden flower.”

Alexander stopped and bowed elegantly. “You are
correct, Miss Marigold. And you look golden as well.”

Obviously satisfied with the coaxed compliment, Mari
smiled and hurried ahead.

“I’m surprised to see the three of you heading to the
village. Spectacles of this nature are not normally of interest to
you,” Alexander said.

I looked up at him. “Spectacle? I have no idea what
you’re talking about. My grandmother is delivering a tonic to Widow
Brooks.”

“Then you have not heard?”

I stopped and turned to face him. Mari’s curiosity
brought her back to where we stood. Nonni caught up as well.

“Goodwife Sellers has been accused of being a
witch.”

A derisive chuckle rolled from Nonni’s lips.
Alexander was rightly puzzled by her reaction. Her expression
immediately smoothed to a practiced look of concern.

“How did this come to be?” Nonni asked.

“Her own husband hath accused her. Claims her mood
and temper have grown so foul, he even caught her kicking his best
hunting dog. The change was so abrupt and violent, he has concluded
that it must be the work of the Devil.”

Mari laughed. “Or more likely Goodwife Sellers
finally caught her husband tupping the milkmaid as you’d predicted
Nonni.”

Alexander’s eyes widened.

I elbowed Mari hard and she protested with a cry of
pain. “Mari, the nonsense that flows from your lips.”

Mari’s mouth dropped open in confusion. She scowled
at me and then looked at Nonni for defense.

“Yes, Marigold, what have I told you about spreading
rumors,” Nonni said sternly.

She grunted and stomped on ahead.

Alexander tipped his hat at us. “I best hurry along.
I need to speak to a farmer on the other side of town about selling
me his plow horse. Safe journey, good neighbors.”

The asters had grown limp in the warm air, and I
tossed them aside and took hold of Nonni’s arm. “Do you think
they’ll hang the Goodwife Sellers? As unpleasant and disagreeable
as the woman is, she is hardly worthy of death.”

“The effrontery of it all, to think an imbecile like
Martha Sellers could be a witch. Still, they might hang her just as
a point of example for others.”

The witch hunts had grown in intensity in the Salem
Village. It seemed every wrong doing, every unfortunate event, and
every unexplained malady was now blamed on sorcery. The same
dutiful, pious men who had banned all forms of celebration and
music, with the exception of hymns, from the village had taken it
upon themselves to rid Salem of Satan and all the ‘dark magic he
hath wrought upon us’. The amusing thing about it was these same
purportedly judicious men were completely oblivious when true
witchcraft stared them directly in their solemn faces.

The villagers knew there was something completely out
of the ordinary about Nonni, Mari, and me but they ignored it out
of convenience. And Nonni’s powers were exceptional. The air around
my grandmother nearly crackled with the supernatural. Her white
magic had cured many ailments suffered by the townspeople. They
never questioned the tonics she brought. And why would they? She’d
saved more than one life with her mysterious elixirs, and in doing
so she’d gained their trust and instilled a healthy dose of fear as
well.

Normally the villagers plodded through town with the
sallow, emotionless expressions brought on by an oppressive, rigid
lifestyle, but as we reached the church courtyard, the excitement
and agitation in the air was palpable. Their newest victim stood
hunched over in the stocks, her face white with anguish and her
eyes bloodshot with tears. A crowd gathered around as her wails
grew louder and more intense. Sadistic grins and laughter snaked
around the crowd of onlookers.

“Disgusting,” I said under my breath.

Nonni watched in amusement. “They certainly have a
crude sense of propriety.”

“Crude is a kind way of putting it, Nonni. Farmer
Martin has a smirk as wide as his wife’s bottom, and she seems
barely able to contain her mirth at poor Martha’s expense. And
their
joy pales in comparison to the prisoner’s husband.
These people are nothing short of diabolical.”

Farmer Martin had taken a short reprieve from his
glee to shout orders. “Someone fetch Pastor Wolfe at once. He’ll
know how to proceed. Hurry though, these stocks will not hold her
long, and we will all be in danger of falling victim to her
treachery.”

Mari leaned her face close to mine. “Speaking of
diabolical—”

My grip tightened on Nonni’s arm. “Mari is right.
Let’s hurry away before Pastor Wolfe is summoned. This day began
with uncertainty, and I do not have the courage to face Angus at
this moment.”

“Courage? And yet you were brave enough to venture
out under a rose-colored sky,” a familiar, deep voice drawled
behind me.

A gasp flew from my lips as I spun around.

Angus stared down at me from beneath the shade of his
hat brim. His cold blue gaze sent a shiver through me as if he’d
reached over and dragged his long, icy finger up my spine. “Still,
I’m pleased you came. I’ve not seen you in days.”

It took all my courage but I lifted my face and
glared up at him “That’s because I spend my idle time planning ways
to avoid you.”

He winced at my stinging words but insults and
declarations of hatred had never left so much as a crease in his
relentless pursuit of me.

“There! There is Parson Wolfe!” a voice shouted from
the crowd in the courtyard.

“My parish needs me,” he sneered sardonically.

Nonni reached up and plucked a blade of straw from
his black coat. “A roll in the hay with the innkeeper’s wife might
be hard to square with your god-fearing parishioners.” She winked
at him.

Angus turned his attention to me once more.
“Something to pass the time while I wait for Poppy to come to her
senses.”

“Then you had best line up more willing wenches,
Angus, because it will never be.” I said.

His lips curled up into a grin. Wickedness seeped
from every inch of the man. “We shall see.”

Nonni, Mari, and I watched as his long legs carried
him confidently across the road to the throng of spectators. He
stood a head above even the tallest, and they all peered up at him
with complete adoration, particularly the women of the parish.

“I must credit the man with genius. What better place
for a powerful warlock to go unnoticed than right beneath the noses
of those who hunt witches.”

BOOK: Distraction
12.18Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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