Last of the Ravens. Linda Winstead Jones
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will be enough, though.”
“Two weeks would be better,” he countered. “Fresh air, complete quiet, outlet malls…”
“A psycho,” Miranda added.
“Korbinian’s not a psycho,” Roger argued with a sharp and slightly censuring glance to his wife. “He’s just odd as hell, and he’s pissed because I won’t sell him the cabin. You leave him alone, and he won’t bother you. I’ll run you up on Saturday.”
“Can I go?” Jackson asked, his voice bright and his eyes lighting on Miranda briefly. Fifteen-year-olds were not particularly good at hiding their emotions, especially where women were concerned. Roger’s son had had a crush on Miranda for the past several months.
A living being liked her for herself, and he was really cute. Too bad he was a starry-eyed kid.
“We’re not going to stay long,” Roger warned his eldest son.
“That’s okay,” Jackson responded.
Roger nodded. “Sure, you can ride with us.”
“What about you, Cheryl?” Miranda asked.
“No thanks,” she answered quickly. “I’ll leave it to the Talbot men to see you there. The girls have dance class on Saturday, and besides, I suspect we won’t be in Tennessee long enough to make a visit to Pigeon Forge and the outlet malls.” She sighed in feigned distress. “Another time. Now, let’s eat!”
With the window to his four-wheel drive truck rolled down to let in the cool mountain air, Bren heard the chatter of change on his mountain. Birds flew; critters scrambled. Either some tourist had taken a wrong turn and was horribly lost, or Talbot was at his cabin. Damned, stubborn man. Sure enough, there was a familiar car parked in the drive of the small, red-roofed cabin that marred the side of Bren’s mountain. He drove by slowly, and as he did the front door opened to frame the big man who owned the place—and refused to sell. Bren’s last offer had been ridiculously high, and still Talbot had turned him down without even taking time to consider selling.
Bren braked a bit when he caught sight of a smallish woman standing behind Talbot. That was not Mrs. Talbot, who was a tall, thin brunette. This woman was a short, shapely blonde. Was she a mistress? A new wife? Hell, a cabin this isolated would be the perfect place to carry on an affair. No wonder Talbot wouldn’t sell!
Spotting the truck, Talbot stepped onto the porch and waved, almost as if he wanted Bren to stop. Bren kept his eyes on the curving road ahead as he drove up the mountain road. No way would Talbot be able to drive all the way to the house at the top of the mountain, not without four-wheel drive—not that he’d ever been all that social.
It was no mistake that getting to the Korbinian house was such an effort. Bren didn’t want visitors; he didn’t like surprises.
He glanced in the rearview mirror just in time to see the blonde woman step onto the porch. She had long, straight hair that was as pale as Bren’s was dark, and she was smallish without being frail-looking. She had a womanly shape he could appreciate even from this distance. Nice. He couldn’t see her face well, and still he felt something unexpected. A pulling, almost. A draw that made him consider turning around and driving back down the hill just to see her better. He fought the urge and kept going, slowly.
Behind her was a teenager Bren recognized as having been here before. If Talbot had brought his son along, the blonde wasn’t a girlfriend. For some reason that hit him with a rush of relief. Maybe she was entirely unattached. Maybe she was free. He shook off the thought. When the sight of a passably pretty stranger made his thoughts wander this way, it was time to get laid.
With that realization, his thoughts returned to the woman down the hill. If the pretty blonde wasn’t with Talbot, then why was she here? Not that he cared.
Unless Talbot planned to sell the cabin to her, in spite of his refusals of Bren’s generous offers. These days many people made permanent homes in the mountains, rather than just vacation homes they visited a few times a year. What if the woman planned to stay? Attractive and shapely or not, that would be a disaster.
Miranda settled in after Roger and Jackson left. There was more than enough food for the week in the cupboard and the fridge, and while she didn’t have a vehicle of her own—she didn’t care much for driving since the accident, especially on winding mountain roads—Roger had made arrangements with Duncan Archard, who owned the gas station at the foot of the mountain.
The cabin was small, and it was furnished with a collection of mismatched pieces that had been discarded from the Talbot household over the years—and perhaps, she suspected, picked up off the side of the road. Many of the pieces were in rough shape, though they were still usable. There was no style to speak of, and Miranda’s design sensibilities itched. She couldn’t help but look at the small rooms with an eye to possibilities. There were four rooms and one horrendously small bath. The two bedrooms were utilitarian at best. The main room was comfortable but sparsely decorated. A bookcase stuffed with old books had a figurine of a black bear sitting atop it, and there was a chipped bowl sitting in the center of the coffee table. The kitchen was small and was stocked with the barest of necessities, as well as the groceries she had bought on the way into town. The curtains in the kitchen window were made of a fabric that sported a repeated image of ducks. Shudder.
Perhaps the cabin was too small to ever be grand and impressive, but with a little imagination and some work it could be attractive and cozy, an adorable cottage in the Tennessee woods.
But bad taste aside, the place was completely quiet. The bed and the couch were both quite comfortable. As Cheryl had warned, there was no cell signal here. With more than a touch of relief, Miranda turned off her cell and stored it in a bedroom drawer. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed to get away until she’d walked into the isolated cabin and felt a rush of something like peace. Her friends had recognized her need for rest before she had, but she could no longer deny it. She probably wouldn’t need to call on a driver at all this week. She was going to sleep late and nap and read and go to bed early. There was no television, so she wouldn’t be inundated with the bad news of the world. No politics, no disasters, no sad stories—as long as she could ignore the bits of news that would be sure to pop up when she checked her e-mail on the laptop. For one week, everything beyond this mountain could wait.
She wasn’t even worried about the psycho up the road. Roger had explained that Brennus Korbinian owned a real estate brokerage and his own construction company. Her brief glimpse of him as he’d driven by in his expensive truck had soothed her somewhat. Korbinian was younger than she’d expected a crotchety loner to be, and though she had not gotten a really good look at his face she’d seen longish black hair and one sharply defined jaw. He was just a rich guy with a weird name who was annoyed that he couldn’t own this entire mountain. He wasn’t a psycho, though he was a spoiled brat, and he wouldn’t ruin her week of rest. She probably wouldn’t see him again, unless she happened to be sitting on the small front porch as he drove by. As there was absolutely no reason for her to sit on the tiny front porch when out back there was a large deck with a fabulous view, she was quite sure she’d had her first and last glimpse of him.
Since ghosts usually remained near the site where they’d died, perhaps she’d even have a quiet week where her ability was concerned. This place was isolated, not all that easy to get to and sparsely inhabited. She needed a rest from the ghosts she spoke to much more than she needed a rest from people. The spirits she spoke to had no sense of time and were likely to pop in at any time, usually at two or three in the morning while she was trying to sleep, if she happened to be within a few miles of the site of their deaths. Their emotions and demands drained her. Maybe here, so far from any highly populated area—
“I thought you would never get here!”
Miranda spun around and found an older woman sitting in the rocking chair near the cold fireplace. Ghosts were not usually so substantial that they looked real; not since Jessica’s appearance after death had Miranda seen a spirit so solid. “Who are you?” Best to find out what the ghost wanted and send her on her way. Otherwise, the plan for