Haunting Ellie (17 page)

Keep him out of my house.

The voice was deep and loud and menacing. Her chest rose and fell heavily with each frightened breath she took. Her shoulders tensed. Something was circling her, she could sense the movement, could feel the rush of air, cold one moment, hot the next, against her cheeks. She took an even deeper breath and willed herself to be calm. “If you’re trying to frighten me, you’re doing a pretty lousy job.” It wasn’t the truth, but she refused to let the intruder see or hear her fear.

Get rid of him, or I will

“Is that a warning?” she threw right back, making her voice sound just as low and just as menacing.

No response.

“Did you hear me?” she repeated. “Is that a warning?”

The front door creaked and Elizabeth spun around, half relieved, half disappointed to see Matt walk into the house with his arms laden with Styrofoam containers. “I was right. Gourmet pot roast, straight from the finest chef in Sapphire, Montana.”

Elizabeth wished she had the bottle of wine in hand so she could down a healthy swig. Had her companion departed? she wondered. Had the phantom given up so easily? She doubted it, but she didn’t sense
the spirit anywhere nearby, not at the moment.

“I got a little sidetracked while you were gone,
Matt. It won’t take me a moment to get the table set.”

With shaking fingers, she took red linen and white lace tablecloths from an armoire and draped them over the table.

“These ought to look nice, too,” Matt said, picking up a set of silver candlesticks with long white tapers.

They look romantic, Elizabeth thought, and she didn’t find anything the least romantic about what was going on in her home. She just wanted to eat and get Matt out.

“Nice table you’re setting.” Matt placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her neck. A shiver ran down her spine.

The table looked too intimate. How could she expect Matt to keep his hands off her when she was setting a cozy table for two? In front of a fire. With wine.

And pot roast. Nobody ate pot roast intimately.

She felt a tiny prick on her earlobe, felt Matt’s warm breath on her ear, his fingers lightly caressing her throat. She wrenched away from his touch, halfway wishing the spirit, or phantom, or ghost, would smack the guy upside the head for being such a pain.

She set out the food, the paper plates, and the plastic utensils Libby had packed, all the while keeping one eye trained on Matt. He was leaning against the door again with his arms crossed, letting her do all the work herself. She started to light the candles, only because they looked so lifeless without flickering flames, but changed her mind and set the matches on the table.

She took her seat when Matt pulled out her chair, ever the gentleman, if only in the most superficial sense of the word. He leaned over, swept up the matchbook, and lit the tapers. She nearly groaned in frustration. “I like a more intimate touch when I dine,” he said, and took his chair.

Casually, Elizabeth lifted a wedge of potato with her fork, holding it before her mouth. She smiled weakly at Matt, wondering how to hold a conversation with a man who wanted only to talk about himself, or make sexual innuendos. Business-related talk seemed safe. “So,’ she began, “tell me about the advertising copy.”

“That can wait.”

‘Then tell me about the hotel. Why hasn’t it sold before?” He ignored the pot roast, opting for more wine instead. “No one wanted it, plain and simple. Phoebe Carruthers, the original owner, left it to family members back east. She must have died in nineteen-ten or so, and it sat empty until about ten years ago, when the last of her nephews decided to dump the place. I bought it, but until your brother came along, I couldn’t find anyone I felt deserved a place like this.”

“Well, I’m glad we bought it. As I said before, it’s proved to be a good investment.”

Matt leaned his elbows on the table. “You look very beautiful in the candlelight,” he whispered.

A cold blast of air rushed past Elizabeth’s ear and the candle flames sputtered out, leaving only a thin stream of smoke.

Matt sat up straight, his eyes wide with fear. “Did you blow out the candles?”

Elizabeth shook her head and put another piece
of potato in her mouth. She chewed lightly and swallowed slowly. “This place not only moans and groans, but it’s got a terrible problem with drafts. I really do have to get the weatherstripping installed.”

Matt picked up his freshly filled glass of wine and drank the contents. “I don’t have any drafts at all in my place. No air-filled plumbing, either. Maybe you’ll consider coming to my house for dinner next time.”

Elizabeth took another bite, enjoying his discomfort. She didn’t intend for there to be a next time, and she hoped by the time dinner was over, Matt would feel the same way, too. But she couldn’t help giving him a more hopeful answer. “Perhaps.”

Like hell!

She’d expected that response and paid it no attention at all. Her nerves were getting accustomed to the strange goings-on, but not Matt’s. His hand shook so badly his wine sloshed over the edge of his glass and down his shirt. “Did you hear that?” His voice quavered.

“Oh, Matt, you’ve ruined your shirt.”

“The hell with my shirt. Did you hear that voice?”

Shaking her head, she got up from her chair and dabbed her napkin at the stain. “I don’t think this is going to come out, Matt. I’m really sorry.”

In one quick gulp, Matt downed the rest of his wine and filled the glass to the brim. “I suppose what I heard was the pipes again?”

“Honestly, Matt, I didn’t hear a thing.” Again she took her seat and took a healthy bite of the Tin
Cup Cafe’s daily special. “Pot roast’s delicious tonight.”

“Yeah. I figured you’d like it.” With his hand still shaking, Matt took a bite and Elizabeth watched him struggle to swallow. “So, do you know anything at all about this place you own?” He was trying to carry on a somewhat normal conversation, but she could sense that discomfort raged in his nerves.

“Only the few things Jon’s told me. I know about Phoebe Carruthers, and why she turned the place into a boardinghouse.”

“And you want to know more?”

Balancing her elbows on the table, and holding her wineglass in front of her face, she studied Matt’s eyes. Did he know more than Jon? It seemed there was something he knew about this place, something he wanted to keep to himself.

“The story of Alexander Stewart sounds rather fascinating. Did he really rob the bank and leave Amanda Dalton standing at the altar?”

“He did all those things and more.”

She heard a deep sigh, almost a moan, but saw no sign that Matt had heard it, too. She felt someone or something gripping the back of her chair, felt a presence close—very, very close. “Tell me about him.”

“There’s nothing documented, I’m afraid, and there weren’t any witnesses. None who lived, that is. Seems everyone in town was at the church for Amanda’s wedding. Must have been two hundred people crowded inside the place. Everyone but Alexander Stewart. No one knows for sure what happened, but as far as anyone can tell, he went into
the bank, forced the clerk to open the safe, then shot him.” Matt pointed his index finger at Elizabeth’s head and pretended to pull a trigger. “Bang!” His face lit up. “Right between the eyes.”

Elizabeth’s chair shook, and her elbows slid. The tablecloth bunched up as if someone had grabbed hold, as if someone needed something to strangle in anger. The bottle of wine fell, its contents spilling over the red cloth and white lace, heading straight for
Matt’s lap, along with the piece of huckleberry pie Elizabeth had been eager to taste.

Matt jumped, but not quickly enough. “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled, looking straight at Elizabeth as if she were the culprit who’d caused the catastrophe.

“You scared me, that’s all. My elbows slipped on the tablecloth.”

“Scared you? With what?” Matt grabbed a hunk of pie from his lap with his napkin and flung it on the table.

“With that story!”

Slowly, Elizabeth watched Matt regain his composure, his regal and snobbish bearing returning. He took a deep breath and laughed as if nothing at all had happened. “I apologize. It was an accident. But like I said, next time we’ll dine out, or we’ll dine at my house.”

“If we dine out again.”

Matt moved closer, smoothing his fingers over her cheek. “There
will
be a next time, Liz. Rest assured.” She tried to draw back, but his fingers wrapped around her neck and pulled her closer, his lips coming down on hers again. She attempted to struggle, but to no avail.

And then he stopped. “What was that for?”

“What?”

“Slapping me on the back of the head?”

“I didn’t, but I should have.”

Matt
’s lips pursed and he stalked toward the door. Elizabeth followed close behind, anxious to be rid of the man and knowing she wasn’t the only one with that desire. She felt a strange upheaval in the room. Matt was close to the door when his body jerked. He stopped abruptly and twisted around, his eyes hot with anger. “Kicking doesn’t become you, Liz. I’ll try to forget you did that.”

Kicking?
She had no desire to touch the man. “Go home, Matt.”

He opened the door, then appeared to change his mind about leaving. Again she watched his composure return. Never in her life had she seen anyone switch so quickly from hot to cold. “Maybe we’re being too hasty, Liz. Let’s try this again.”

Stretching his hand toward her, she was afraid he was going to touch her again, afraid she would feel his cold, clammy hand on her cheek. She backed away, but it didn’t matter. Matt’s coat flew off the rack and out the door. His composure disappeared completely as unseen fingers twisted around his collar and propelled him toward the door. His body jerked again at the threshold, his collar instantly loosening, and he stumbled onto the doorstep.

And don’t come back!

The door slammed shut.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened in fear, then narrowed in anger. She didn’t know in which direction to voice her fury, but voice it she did, calmly, coolly,
and only mildly loud. “I don’t know who you are, I don’t know where you are, and personally, I don’t care! That man may have deserved everything you dished out, but he was my guest, and... and I wanted to throw him out. I’d appreciate it if you’d remember that the next time.”

She didn’t wait for any further words or actions. Instead, she stormed up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door behind her.

Well, hell and tarnation. Don’t that beat all.

Wind whipped through the trees and beat against the windows, like an outcast begging to come inside. Elizabeth lay on her side, curled up tightly in the massive old bed, and clutched her pillow for comfort. She looked through the window, watching dark clouds break apart and scatter across the sky as the storm ebbed once again. Moonlight raced across the floor, over the foot of her bed and slid under the door leading to the hall. It lit the room just enough that she could tell no one occupied the space but her. But still she sensed she wasn’t alone.

She’d tossed and turned for hours, listening and watching for the spirit that haunted her home. It didn’t speak or make its appearance known, except for the rhythmic sighs of the floor-boards, as if someone was pacing back and forth, back and forth. There was no luminous apparition, no foggy mist in the shape of a human to let her know it kept her company, only the occasional flutter of the dust ruffle on the bed, the tinkling of a hanging crystal on a lamp, the rapid, not-quite-frightened beat of her heart.

Time ticked by on the clock downstairs. She could hear its incessant
tick-tock, tick-tock
echoing through the walls, keeping time with her heart.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

She woke with a start. Cool air circled her pillow, and something gentle, like a lover’s fingers, brushed over her hair. A tinge of fear shivered through her body. Was the ghost beside her? Was it touching her? She hadn’t been afraid earlier, not when the rooms were filled with light. Not when her ghostly companion was harassing Matt.