Chapter One

 

 

She stood among the graves as the loneliness washed over her. Intense longing filled her heart as her eyes scanned the stones, searching.

It was here somewhere. All she had to do was find it. The chill of the afternoon seeped into her bones as she stood in the middle of the cemetery. Sometimes she found peace here among the dead. Other times she found joy. Today, only the loneliness touched her.

As soon as she said the name, she'd know. She always did. The moment she read it on the tombstone, the name would whisper in her head and her heart would fill. She'd be complete again as entire scenes formed from the mist in her mind. All she had to do then, was write them down.

Except today, none of the names spoke, not even when she tried reading each name aloud in her deep alto. "Hannah Ames, born 1834, died 1883. Abigail Ames, born 1823, died 1867." No. These names weren't right. The one she wanted was not here.

Kara Godwin leaned against a stone pillar carved with the oft repeated "Beloved husband." Oh, well. Maybe she could put off the landlord one more month. Surely by the end of another thirty days she'd have found a name, written the story, sent it off to the magazine that often published her short stories, and have another month with a roof over her head.

She gazed around at the rows of monuments and markers. Maybe I've just been to this cemetery too many times, she thought to herself. Maybe I've told all the stories these names have to give me.

For a moment she considered visiting one of the other local cemeteries-there were three in the small town where she lived and they usually were pretty good at providing her with inspiration. All throughout school she'd struggled with her writing until one day she happened to be walking through this very cemetery with her friends. Not on a dare, as high school seniors they were far too old for that.

No, the route through the graveyard was just a local shortcut they'd taken hundreds of times.

Kara turned her collar up against a gust of wind that blew through the cemetery now, remembering how she'd stopped dead, as her friend Jake had joked, staring at one of the stone markers. She'd felt transported that day as scenes flashed in her mind, a full story ready for the writing down. Her friends had called after her, but she had just waved them off in her run to get home and to her computer.

That story, "Waterloo or Bust" had won her first place in the school's writing contest that year and had been published in the local newspaper. She'd even gone on record as saying the story had come to her in a flash as if Susan Martin, the name on the grave she'd used for her protagonist, had dictated it to her.

Now, years later, she had a college degree gathering dust on her wall and a small gathering of readers who faithfully bought her stories off the web as well as her "meat and potatoes" magazine publisher who insured she stayed solvent.

Problem was, she had to be right in the cemetery to hear the name speak and to see the images form. And at home she had stacks of index cards with names written on them-names she'd collected when on vacation. She'd spent hours roaming foreign graveyards, gathering names as if she gathered eggs from chickens. Intriguing names that had never hatched to the point where she'd given up writing them down anymore. She'd lost count of the number of hours she'd spent sifting through the cards, reading them over, hoping one of the names would sound in her ear and spark a story. But it never did. Not even once.

With a stretch, she pushed herself away from the pillar. Clouds obscured the sun and Kara looked up, the gray darkness of the autumn sky warning her of the coming storm. It was time she got herself home anyway. Pulling her light jacket closer as another gust of wind whipped through the gravestones, she sighed and headed for the street.

Still wrapped in her hopes for inspiration, Kara's eyes roved across the granite carvings-Job White, William Stuart, Susan Dunham. No, no and no.

Nothing. Apparently today was not her day. And when she stumbled into a gopher hole, twisting her ankle, she knew it wasn't. Her knee slammed into the ground as her foot came out of the hole, the damage already done. She fell onto her side, reaching for her throbbing ankle and gasping for breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose.... She closed her eyes, fighting back tears until the pain lessened and she could breathe again.

She would live. She opened her eyes and glared at both her ankle and the hole beside it. Blasted gopher. Didn't he know better than to dig where she was going to walk?

"Can you wiggle your toes?"

The voice startled her and she looked up quickly, turning as far as she could to see who'd spoken. But she couldn't see him and the chill autumn wind scuttled dry leaves across the graves, giving her a second warning that the storm was brewing. With a sickening feeling in her stomach, she realized the day had slipped to evening and most sane people were already home. Twisting around as far as she could manage, Kara tried to see the man who must be directly behind her but the shooting pain in her ankle stopped her.

"Can you wiggle your toes?" he repeated.

She put her head down to hide a grin that came unbidden. Damn, but that voice was sexy. Deep, rich baritone with a definite upper crust English accent. Carefully she wiggled her big toe inside her sneaker, then the others when the movement didn't produce pain. "Yes. I don't think the ankle's broken. I didn't hear anything snap. It's just a sprain." She sighed and shifted her position to be more comfortable. "A really, really badly timed sprained."

"Good. Can you stand?"

Puzzled, Kara wondered why he wasn't lending her a hand instead of just asking her questions in those incredibly cultured tones. Rolling her eyes, she shifted her weight, grabbed the monument on her right and slowly pulled herself up. Once standing, she made an attempt to use both legs to hold her up, but her ankle had other ideas. As soon as she put even the slightest bit of pressure on her foot, pain shot up her leg.

"Okay, that's not going to work." Kara leaned against the tombstone and turned to her companion.

The cemetery was empty.

Kara snorted. "Great. You kept me company until I really need an arm to get out of here, then you disappear. Thanks anyway," she called out to the deepening gloom.

She didn't expect an answer and didn't get one. She was on her own. Well, it wasn't the first time some guy had left her in the lurch. The only person you can ever count on, is yourself. Her mother's lesson ran like a mantra in her head. A lesson Kara had learned the hard way.

Now, however, Kara put her iron will to work. Biting her lip, she leaned toward the next monument, her intent being to catch it with her hand, and then hop over to it. Getting to the street was going to take a while, but if she kept the weight off her right foot, she'd make it.

Except her hand slipped off the monument. With her full weight, she fell forward, her shoulder missing the granite marker by a hairsbreadth. Afraid to put her foot out, she fell on her knee, catching herself with her hands as she slammed to the ground once again.

This time tears fell despite her attempt to stop them. The new pain in her knee and arms only heightened the throbbing in her ankle. She shifted until she was sitting on the ground, hugging her arms close to her and rubbing them as she sniffed back tears and talked to herself. "Come on, Godwin. You're not a baby. Just because you fell down twice in ten minutes doesn't give you the right to sit here and bawl."

There was a flutter of white before her face. "Here, use my handkerchief."

The deep male voice taunted her and Kara snapped her head around determined to find her mysterious "helper".

But he was too quick. She glimpsed the edge of his coat as it slid behind a tall monument.

"What is wrong with you?" she snapped out at him in frustration. "You'll give me a handkerchief, but you won't help me walk?"

Her mysterious benefactor made no answer.

Gritting her teeth, Kara forced herself to her feet, once more standing among the graves. A few large drops of rain splattered on the stone like large, round pock marks. Kara shivered. Why hadn't she brought an umbrella?

Balancing on her good leg, she leaned on the headstone and took a hop toward the next gravestone, determined to ignore the idiot she couldn't seem to see and get home on her own.

"Write my story."

The male voice, now commanding and stern, came from behind her. Kara ignored him. Okay, so she was hard up for story ideas. But falling twice had put her in an ill humor. Leaning toward the next tombstone, she hopped forward, grabbing the granite stone for balance. "Write your own story. You don't want to help me, I don't want to help you."

"Selfish harridan."

"Harridan?" She snorted. "You haven't even seen me in a bad mood yet." Mentally she judged the distance to the next marker even as her mind turned over his odd choice of words. A wide space loomed between her and her target. Taking a deep breath, she readied herself and balanced on one foot.

"You tell everyone else's stories. I was told you were the one to speak to about mine."

Injured pride colored his voice and Kara frowned. "What do you mean, 'I tell everyone else's stories?' Who are you?"

Keeping a steadying hand on the tombstone, she chanced a look around, trying to find a body to go with the voice. The streetlights outside the cemetery had come on, but didn't penetrate this far in. White markers glimmered in the darkening twilight, but no one stepped forward.

"Forget you," she muttered and hopped to the next stone.

"Write my story and I'll get you home."

"I can get home on my own, thank you very much." He wanted to see a harridan, she'd show him one. Just who did he think he was? The wrought iron fence that ringed the graveyard wasn't far now. She just needed to get to the street, use the fence to help her along, and then? She still had four blocks to home and taxis didn't prowl this neighborhood looking for fares.

"You must agree to write my story. Only then will I help."

Kara didn't bother turning around only to have him play another game of hide and seek. Instead she called over her shoulder as she hopped to the last row of stones before the gate. "Maybe if you help, I'll write your story."

"Don't leave!"

Kara paused, balancing beside a large stone. That had been the voice of desperation. Now they were getting somewhere.

"Why not?"

"I've told you."

The pride rang out loud and clear again. She shook her head. "I want to see you."

"Agree first."

"No. I don't make agreements with bodiless voices."