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  Chapter Two

  Brock Werner was mad as hell! And the three shots of whiskey he gulped down before he went to his car, didn’t calm him down one smidgen. He had caught the woman he loved and was going to marry in bed with one of his friends in his damn bed, no less! Good God, if he had a gun he would have killed the bastard! And the bitch! Instead he went to his cabinet and downed the booze while his fiancée cried for forgiveness, saying it was all a mistake and that she truly loved him. To add insult to injury, she must have thought that he was a fool to believe her blatant lie. The irony of the situation was that his fiancée, Susan had to find out the hard way that her lover was a coward who sneaked out into the night leaving her to weep all alone.

  Oh, how he wanted to laugh in her face, tell her that they deserved one another, but the pain in his heart was too hurtful. When she began to wail and prostrated herself before him, he had almost felt sorry for her; almost. She hadn’t even put a robe on and her nudity was affecting him, though it shouldn’t have. But it did and as angry as he felt, he wanted to take her there on the floor, but it would be rage not love he would be giving her.

  “You disgust me!” Brock snarled and threw the glass at the wall. His life and dreams had just shattered along with the glass. He grabbed his car keys and stormed out of the house. With the peddle to the metal, Brock raced along the narrow country road in Hampton Beach, a wealthy resort area. Sober or not, he knew those roads like the back of his hand. But why was he driving half-cocked when that was his home up on the hill? He knew why. He couldn’t stay there for now and sleep in that big bed smelling the scent of her and another man on the sheets. He’d stay in a nearby motel for the night and in the morning, she should be gone. She better be!

  It started to rain. “Murphy’s Law,” he grumbled to himself nearly swerving off the road. His headlights on, his windshield-wipers on high, he took the next curve a bit sharply. Damn, he thought, three drinks never affected him this way before; he was seeing double. Trying to rub away his burry vision, he nearly side-swiped an on coming car causing him to bite his tongue and curse.

  Lightning lit up the sky and the thunder that followed nearly shattered his ear drums. Good God, never had he witnessed a storm so fierce and he weaved around the next bend, skidding onto the shoulder. It felt to him as if the car had a mind of its own for he couldn’t control the steering wheel. Sweat pouring from his forehead, he tried to turn the wheel but it wouldn’t go the way he wanted it to go. The car and he went sailing down a steep embankment, and he prayed like he had never prayed before; it seemed like forever before a big tree stopped his descant.

  The airbag expanded with much force hitting him in the chest and it knocked the wind out of him. Too much in shock to move, Brock sat there for a while trying to make sense of it all. He sucked in a deep breath finding that it hurt to breathe, so he suspected he had a few broken ribs; but it didn’t matter, he was alive. With great effort and pain, he eased himself out from behind the inflated air bag. Strange? It had stopped storming as fast as it had started, he thought, but that notion wasn’t important just then; he had to find help.

  Of course, in his haste to leave his house, he left his cell phone behind, along with his pride. That damn thing was practically part his ear, the one time he needed it, it wasn’t with him. Well, why not, everything else had gone wrong that night? He wanted to laugh but it would only hurt, and crying was certainly out of the question. It didn’t surprise him that not a damn vehicle passed him on the road.

  Huffing and puffing, Brock spotted a dirt road off the main pavement and he figured hopefully that there was a house somewhere close. He walked quite a way before he saw the old structure in the distance. By the time he reached the porch, his hopes of finding another human being faded like the moon behind a dark cloud. The house was in dire need of repairs; it looked like something one would see in a horror movie. Well, be that as it may, it would be his sanctuary for as long as it took him to feel better.

  Brock climbed the rickety steps hoping that they didn’t cave in on him. Surely, he couldn’t survive more bruises on his aching body. Luckily, the front door was unlocked but it was pitch black inside, darker than the night outside. He fumbled for his cigarette lighter, groaning with pain and struggling to catch his breath. The light from the small flame was enough to guide him to a room where he found an overstuffed couch which reminded him of his grandmother’s sofa. It smelled musty and like stinky feet. But now it was the answer to his prayers and he lay down shivering, wishing he could start a fire in the cold hearth which was near the couch. Never in his life had he felt so cold.

  He closed his eyes thinking, Pride and hell go hand ‘n’ hand, you fool. You should’ve stayed and tossed the cheating bitch out on her ass!

  Trista heard the creak of the front door and went down stairs to investigate. When the intruder lit a small flame she saw that it was a male, somewhere in his mid-thirties. She remained in the shadows watching to see what he was up too, but he simply found the couch and reclined on it with a few oaths about his damn painful ribs. She wanted to get a better look at him, so she waited until she heard his snoring. She had no doubts that this was the man Dream Weaver had sent to her. Lighting a candle, she walked to stranger’s side.

  “Damn!” she did some swearing herself. “If this is your idea of a joke, Dream Weaver, I’m not laughing. You’ve purposely sent me this man, haven’t you?” She put the flame closer to his face seeing the swollen eyes, bloody nose and the long cut on his cheek. “What the hell did you do to him?” she snarled, thinking that Dream Weaver had to beat up this poor man to get him here. Well, she was determined to love the stranger no matter what he looked like when he healed.

  You should know by now Dream Weaver that I don’t give up easily. So much for playing fair.

  Trista felt the stranger’s brow and it was like ice. She would start a fire for him but first she stood there studying him from head to foot. He was taller than six feet because the big couch was about six feet and his feet hung over the arm. He wore a light green polo shirt with the words; Life’s a beach, written in red across his muscular chest. He looked as if he were poured into his jeans, which fit snugly around his narrow hips. His white sneakers were covered with mud, so she removed them. He wore no socks and he had well pedicured toe nails. That was her first clue to the fact that the man had money.

  “He better not be an athlete, lawyer, or a Wall Street Broker,” she mumbled under her breath. “Don’t push me, Dream Weaver; I’m in no mood for games!”

  Trista watched the stranger for two days. He was delirious, muttering and cursing someone by the name of Susan. She wondered if this Susan was his wife but there was no wedding band on his finger or evidence that there might have been. Anyway, Dream Weaver had never sent her a married man, or even someone engaged, but this man was definitely involved with a woman.

  “Trying to make it harder on me, huh?” The familiar glow appeared in the dark corner, signifying his entrance, and she gave him a disgruntled snort.

  “Do you think so little of me, ma Cherieí?” His mouth twitched with amusement.

  “Bah! Save your endearment, it’s wasted on me. What did you do to him?” Dream Weaver placed his hand over his heart, appearing seriously offended. She knew better.

  “Sorry, my pet but you’re wrong. I didn’t have anything to do with this man.”

  Once again she made a rude noise. “I find that hard to believe.”

  His brow rose indignantly. “Have I ever sent you a male looking like he was run over by a wagon? I want you my beauty, but I have my pride?” His chuckle grated on her nerves. And with that declaration, he vanished leaving her fuming; once again he had the last laugh. She sulked for a few minutes before she admitted to herself that Dream Weaver was right. Damn him!

  Tapping her finger nails on the arm of the chair she wondered what she was going to do with this stranger. If Dream Weaver didn’t send him, then why was he here? She then figured that the man on t
he couch wasn’t part of her deal with Dream Weaver, so she still had another chance. She’d nurse the stranger back to health and send him on his way. She brushed her hands together saying aloud, “And that will be that!”

  The longer she sat watching the man, the more she pondered over the fact that it might be possible that Dream Weaver was testing her. Or tricking her.

  “Oh, hell!” she didn’t trust him one iota. A moan brought her out of her troubling thoughts and she quickly disappeared.

  Chapter Three

  Brock had never felt so wretched in all his life. His mouth was as dry as sand-paper, and when he licked his lips he felt them crack and he tasted blood. He seemed to ache from his toes to his head and he wondered if it was possible for even the ends of his hair to hurt. Momentarily, he had forgotten what had happened to him and he stared at the cracked ceiling trying to understand why he was in such agony. And to top off his misery, he had to pee like the dickens. How long had he slept? And where was the bathroom? With as much energy as he could muster, Brock pulled himself up wondering who lit the fire in the hearth. Well, he was grateful for that, but for some reason, he was still chilled to the bone. Holding his side, he painfully got to his feet and didn’t realize that he was barefoot until he stepped off the carpet and onto the hard cold wooden floor. Another mystery, who would take off his shoes, he mused but, that was the least of his concerns. He couldn’t hold his water another minute, so when he spied the potted plant, he relieved himself.

  “How gross and uncouth!” snarled a female voice behind him making him jerk, and he pinched himself with his pants zipper. “What the..? Ow! Son-of-a-bitch!” he cried and turned, too angry to be mortified for his actions. Ready to give a piece of his mind to whoever had sneaked up on him, Brock stood dumfounded at the beautiful vision before him. Wow, if she wasn’t something to heal a man’s sore eyes, and every other part of him. And then there was the aroma of roses, sweet smelling roses. A fragrance that reminded him of his mother

  The woman was tall and slim, but had curves all in the right paces. She was wearing something long and silky, but not a nightgown. Something a female might have worn in the eighteen hundreds, he reflected. Light blue in color and cut very low, showing off her creamy breasts. When his eyes decided to leave her body and gaze at her face, it was too late because the only part of his body that didn’t hurt was now aching.

  Her long flowing hair was as dark as a crow’s belly and her eyes were as light as the blue sky after a storm on a summer’s day. But it was her alabaster skin that intrigued him; almost colorless compared to her luscious, red lips that were frowning at him at that moment. He blinked, wondering if he was imagining her because she didn’t seem real.

  “Who are you?” he asked after he swallowed hard to try and lubricate his parched throat. Damn, he needed to sit. The woman folded her arms under her breasts, lifting them more, making him groan.

  “Better yet, who are you?” the apparition asked.

  “Sorry, miss, but I need to sit before I collapse.” He staggered over to the landing and sat on the second step. Taking in a needed breath, he groaned recalling what had led up to his being there. “I’m Brock Werner, and I was in an auto accident. I had no choice but to come in here, by the looks of the place I didn’t think it was occupied and I apologize for my, um…” he looked at the potted plant. “It did appear as if it needed watering,” he smiled hoping that the woman had a sense of humor.

  She didn’t seem to.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “As you can see, I live here. You’re welcome to stay until you’re better, but I insist that you use the water closet from now on.”

  Water closet? Well, she did have a funny bone after all. “Thank you miss, err..?”

  “Trista Walton,” she replied.

  “Thank you, Trista Walton.” He looked down at his feet for a second, and then asked, “How long have I been unconscious?”

  “Two days,” she answered. “I lit the fire in the hearth, you were cold.”

  “Oh, my gosh! I have to call my friends, they’ll be wondering what happened to me.” He backed up a few words, realizing what she had said and rasped, “Err, thanks. May I use your phone?”

  “No.”

  He blinked. “No?”

  “I mean no, I don’t have one.”

  He scratched his course chin. “Oh,” Well that’s a bright answer. He decided that it didn’t matter for the time being; he just needed to get better. The woman grabbed his arm and helped him up.

  “You can stay in the room behind the staircase. It was once used by a servant, so I’m afraid that it is small, but it’s clean. I’ll get you some water, for now. Get some rest, you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “Thank you and I appreciate your help. Where are my sneakers?”

  “Get undressed,” she suggested. “I’ll bring them in later.”

  He staggered to the room and collapsed onto the single bed and sighed, “I don’t suppose that you can help me?”

  “You suppose right,” Trista answered him cheekily. But when the injured man began to lift up his tee shirt and cried out in pain she turned and rolled her eyes. The agony was carved in merciless lines on his face. So she grumbled, “All right, I’ll help you but only to your underwear. You can cry out all you want but then you’re on your own.” He grinned at her making her murmur, “Men!”

  After removing his shirt, she gasped at the awful looking bruise covering us upper torso. It was no wonder he was in pain. “Dear Lord, what could have caused such a discoloring of skin?” she asked.

  “It was the air bag.”

  “The what?”

  Brock gave her a strange glance and he asked if she was a recluse. “No phone, no upkeep on your home and you have no idea about what I was referring to. Do I dare to inquire? Do you drive or own a car?”

  Trisha shook her head negatively. What could she say?

  Oh. I can explain, you see, I’ve been dead for over two hundred years. So…of course, none of those things you asked for would do me any good. On second thought, by the looks of you, you might not need them either.

  “Grand! No phone, no car. What the hell did I stumble into? No matter, as soon as I’m better, I’m out of here.” His voice was rough with anxiety and she could comprehend his predicament.

  Trista felt bad that such a beautiful body had to be marred like that. Then she wondered why she even wasted a moment thinking about his physique. She was having second thoughts about helping him remove his jeans, but she wasn’t about to go back on her word, especially seeing how badly he was hurt. Now she was curious to see what his swollen face would look like when it healed.

  What’s wrong with her? If indeed this stranger was not sent to her by the Dream Weaver, she cannot lust after him. She left the room feeling something she had not felt in over a hundred years. Heat! Her face was as warm as her body, and she knew that she should not have helped him remove his jeans. Damn him for not wearing any underwear!

  That night Trista sat in the room with only a candle flickering beside the man’s bed wondering why the Dream Weaver sent her a living soul. What kind of game was he playing with her? He certainly wasn’t playing fair, but one way or another, she wasn’t about to throw the towel in, not just yet.

  Chapter Four

  Last night Brock fell asleep with a smile on his face even after he warned himself never to fall in love with a beautiful woman again. They simply cannot be trusted. Now he was dreaming but it felt as if he wasn’t. He got the sense that his body was floating and he wondered if he should try and wake up. He had read of people claiming to have had outer body experiences in which they visited places afar. Of course, he had not thought one away or another about that article. There were some who believed in spirits and the afterlife and that they could communicate with ghosts. On that he had his doubts but one couldn’t be too sure about anything. Although there’s the saying that seeing is believing, and on the other end of the spectrum, there
was doubting Thomas.

  Without his permission his eyes snapped open. It was pitch black because the candle had gone out, but he had an eerie feeling that he wasn’t alone in the room. This house gave him the creeps. In fact, it reminded him of a haunted house one would see in the movies when at any moment blood would leak out of the walls, or a man with an axe would chop off a body part, or…he groaned. His imagination was running amuck and he had to stop thinking about the terrible things that could happen to him. He could only pray that he would be feeling better in the morning and leave this place even if he had to walk miles.

  The next time Brock opened his eyes, he realized that someone must have heard his prayers last night because he was feeling much better though he was still chilled to the bone. He climbed out of bed and went to find the bathroom. Ascending the stairs he found it down the hall. He yawned and scratched his chest realizing that it definitely didn’t pain him that much. He could use a hot shower to take the chill out of his body and found a room that had an old looking, crude tub with the water only tepid, but it had to do. When he stepped out of the antique tub, he noticed that there was something strange about the bathroom, it had no mirror.

  Oh, dear Lord, vampires lived here! His thoughts last night might not be too far off the mark. Wrapped in a large terry cloth towel he returned to the bedroom, but seeing his clothes torn, dirty and bloodied, he didn’t want to put them back on so he opened the closet. To his surprise and relief there was men’s clothing inside, but they were a variety of suits and a few athletic uniforms that could have come from the past.

  He moved his shoulders in a shrug thinking they were better than walking around bare ass, so he put on a gray stripped suit, with a white shirt, that was way too starched. He left the top three buttons undone for comfort and less scratching. It wasn’t until he left the room that he recalled the woman and wondered again if she might have been a figment of his imagination. His mind had been on over-drive recently, especially last night. And since he was in so much pain, it could have made him hallucinate.