Digital ISBNs
EPUB 9780228615163
Kindle 9780228604150
WEB 9780228615170
BWL Print
BWL Print 9780228615187
B&N Print 9780228615200
LSI Print 9780228615194
Amazon Print 9780228615156
2nd Ed. Copyright Jude Pittman and Gail Roughton 2020
Cover Art Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book
To all Sister Witches, wherever they may be,
whether they be sisters by blood or sisters of the heart. . . .
Because the Sister Witches aren’t always connected by blood.
They’re connected by power, shared and used wisely.
~Mother Shipton~
Lillian Shipton surveyed the wind beaten garden with solemn brown eyes and muttered to herself as she shook her head. She picked up a bent vine heavy with pods and frowned at the broken stem. Another week and the pods would have been fat and round, but last night’s windstorm had torn the vines from the network of rope supports that held them off the ground and piled them into broken heaps in the dirt. I guess there’s nothing for it, these peas must be picked.
She shouted towards the barnyard. “Billy! Grab a couple of pails and bring Nell. We’re going to have to pick all these peas so I can get them canned this afternoon.”
A tall skinny boy sporting a crop of brown hair and an Alfalfa topknot, poked his head around the corner of the barn. “Nell’s over gathering eggs. I’ll help her get them inside and we’ll be right over.”
Lillian nodded and smiled at her younger brother. Bill was a good kid and a big help. He’d be along as quick as he tended to Nell and the eggs.
While she waited, Lillian’s thoughts drifted back to last night at the Lindale dance and young Ben O’Sullivan. A smile softened her face and her eyes sparkled. She’d tell Mom this afternoon, before Ben showed up at supper time, but just for a little while longer she hugged the knowledge to herself. That very special understanding that Ben was going to ask Dad for her hand. Oh, the excitement of it all! She loved Ben with a passion few, except her mom, realized the serious young girl possessed. A middle child, between three older sisters and a younger brother and sister, Lillian had assumed the role of family cook almost from the day she was able to reach the kitchen table. Neither her mom nor her elder sisters had cared much for kitchen duty – as they referred to it – and they’d happily surrendered that domain to Lillian.
* * *
Ben O’Sullivan sat on the front porch of the old log house where he’d lived with his mom and dad and two younger brothers for the entire 20 years of his life.
In his hand he held a letter he’d just picked up from the shiny aluminum mailbox that stood like a sentry at the front of the driveway leading into the O’Sullivan farm.
Well, if that ain’t a helluva thing. Ben read the message one more time just to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood. He knew full well he hadn’t but just in case.
Mr. Benjamin O’Sullivan, we have reviewed your medical records and our previous disqualification has been overturned. You are hereby ordered to report to the Canadian Forces Leadership and Recruit School in Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Quebec on 29 May 2001.
Back in December Ben had made up his mind that with two younger brothers fully capable of taking on his share of the farm work, it was time to set aside personal ambitions. Several of his school friends were already in Afghanistan on Canada’s latest peacekeeping mission and Ben figured it was time he stepped up to serve his country. He’d caught a ride into Edmonton with Frank Miller the following Monday and while Frank took care of business Ben took care of all the paperwork required at the recruitment office. The rejection letter, citing his less than perfect eyesight, had arrived two weeks later and had been a major blow to Ben’s ego and his morale. Eventually though, he’d made peace with the decision. That had been over a year ago, and just last night, on the 30th of April, at the dance where he’d taken Lillian Shipton to celebrate her 18th birthday, Ben had asked her to be his wife and she’d accepted.
Now what was he supposed to do?
* * *
Lillian fairly danced through the front door of the Shipton farmhouse when Ben dropped her off after the dance. Finally, after all the years of waiting, the fairy godmother’s wand had waved in her direction.
She’d met Ben O’Sullivan in first grade and from the day he grabbed onto the braids her mother had woven out of her thick brown hair, there’d never been anyone else for Lillian. Oh, it had taken several years of scrapping and competing at everything from fishing to baseball, but Ben had finally realized that his first grade nemesis was in fact the love of his life and Lillian had been waiting ever since her 16th birthday for him to finally declare himself.
Last night, on her 18th birthday, when their parents’ arguments of “you’re much too young” would at least be partially appeased by the fact that everyone expected Ben and Lillian to marry one day, Lillian’s dreams had come true when Ben popped the question.
* * *
Three weeks. She and her Ben had had three weeks together after their marriage before he shipped out to Afghanistan. Two months later an IED took his life. and Lillian never remarried. She’d never had the desire or the need, and as for children of her own, well, if she’d never physically given birth to any, she’d helped raise a large family of them and besides, all her nieces and nephews were the children of her heart, because she’d known tragedy even before fate had taken Ben away from her. Maybe the steel forged in her soul by the earlier tragedy was the reason she even survived the second and the echoing sounds of the IED blasts that were all she could hear for days—no, weeks—after his death.
The third oldest of five sisters and three brothers, fate had decreed that she’d taken an even more active role in their sibling’s lives than did most big sisters in large families. When Lillian’s older brother Edward had died with his wife Alice in an auto accident leaving their three-month-old daughter Katherine, Lillian’s parents had come closer to breaking than Lillian would ever have thought it possible for humans to come and still recover. No parents should ever have to bury a child and even at seventeen, Lillian understood that as much as her own heart ached, her parents’ grief was distinctly different from hers. She’d stood outside her parents’ door and heard her mother’s sobs in the darkness of the night after the funerals.
She’d known instinctively that her parents would never truly heal; they’d simply find a way to make peace with this new reality that had so brutally torn her family in two—eventually. She could think of no way to help, other than to take as much off her mother’s shoulders as she possibly could. Katherine was barely past newborn. Irene, the family youngest, was only three. A holding baby and a toddler were more than enough for any woman to handle, especially one who’d just buried her oldest child. So it was that Lillian came to be her younger siblings’ self-appointed substitute mother. The bonds between herself and her younger brothers and sisters were tied with double knots. Family was her raison d’etre.
Still, she had no wish at all to remain at home, the old maid daughter, sister, aunt, dependent on family for the roof over her head and the clothes on her back. Ben would be ashamed of her. So when the grief of his passing dulled enough such that she could actually hear voices and follow conversations again, she took the widows’ military benefits she was entitled to as Ben’s wife and invested them in the best business education she could obtain. The concentration necessary to graduate from Wharton School of Business summa cum laude further helped reduce the echoing blasts of the IED she couldn’t stop hearing. As a professional woman, and because hearing Ben’s name stabbed her heart anew every time someone called her O’Sullivan, reminding her she was a Mrs. without her Mr., she’d kept the Shipton name, and after a successful career in the stock market—so successful she’d retired at forty—she’d spent the next seven years as a roaming family trouble-shooter. How she always knew which family member needed her and when remained a mystery to all, especially since the Shiptons were a large and far-flung clan, spread over a large geographical area. Sometimes she wasn’t sure herself, but she’d learned long ago not to argue when that inner voice told her, you’re needed. Go.
Semi-tropical breezes and swaying palms danced with the moonbeams bouncing off white caps. Katherine Shipton tilted her head and the scent of salt water tickled her nostrils.
“I could stay out here forever.” She shook her head and a mass of dark brown hair tumbled over her shoulders.
A pair of tanned arms tightened around her waist.
“I hope I’m invited.”
“This place is like an ad copy for Paradise.”
“Paradise is anywhere as long as you’re there.”
“Hey, that’s my line!”
He pulled her closer.
Funny how life could change in the space of a heartbeat. Six months ago, she’d been in Tallahassee, engaged to another man. Now here she was on the balcony of a Tampa Bay beach house in the arms of her dream lover—jet black hair, smoky blue eyes and a smile that would melt ice.
“Care to share the thoughts that are giving you that glow?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Let me show you.”
* * *
“If this is a dream, please let me sleep forever.” Parker wrapped his arms around Katherine’s back and rolled her on top of him. Her dark hair fell forward, framing her face and flowing across his white pillowcase. Her breasts heaved from their exertions and her brown eyes glinted golden.
“Mmmm!” She licked her lips.
Parker laughed. “I’ve got to leave early in the morning and we both need some sleep.”
She shivered.
“You can’t be cold.”
“No. Just—I hate you being gone
for two weeks.”
“You could come with me, you know.”
“You’re going on a business trip. You and your dad are cramming meetings on top of meetings. You don’t need me along to worry about. Besides, I’ve got work to do myself.”
Katherine’s reputation as an up-and-coming artist had skyrocketed since her move to Tampa Bay, another sign she’d made the right decision. As if running straight into Parker Drayton’s arms wasn’t enough. Because that’s what she’d done, literally. They’d collided in the sliding glass doorway of Macy’s a month after her move, shopping bags flying everywhere. And the rest, as they say, was history and just went to prove the ironies of life. One of Katherine’s niggling concerns during her engagement to Tallahassee attorney Quentin Ashland was the horror of being thought a gold-digger—a starving artist marrying a successful lawyer from an old southern family for money. Maybe because in the back of her mind, she’d been afraid it was true.
So what did she do? Without caring a damn what anyone thought, she’d tumbled head-over-heels in love with Parker Drayton, heir to Drayton International, a three generation Texas oil family.
“It’s not like you’d be in a hotel room or anything. It’s the family home in Houston. You could come out with me and set up a studio just the way you wanted it, God knows that house has plenty of unused rooms. So you’d have one here and one there.”
Parker ran the Tampa Bay operations for Drayton International, specializing in the company’s Gulf oil projects. Justin Drayton, Parker’s father, and patriarch of the family stayed in Houston and ran central operations from there. A lot of their deals were the complicated kind, ones that required both of them to put it through. Parker traveled a great deal, Katherine knew that. It was a small price to pay for the gift of her perfect man. She’d go with him when she could, stay in place without complaint when she couldn’t.
“I’ll do that. But later. Right now I’ve got a couple of canvases already in progress, one with a really tight deadline I’ll never meet if I let you whisk me off to Houston.”
“Maybe you could surprise me when I got back. Like maybe finish that painting you’ve kept under wraps ever since you set up your studio here and show it to me.”
“Or not.”
“Or not. Artistic temperament and all that, yeah, I get it. Let’s go to sleep.”
“Let’s.”
* * *
Katherine flew through darkness. Dream darkness. Toward something. Sound barely audible coalesced and rose in volume, forming words. Beneath these gray stone walls I stand, an ancient gypsy king… The darkness lightened into shades of gray and a tower loomed.
A boat approached the tower. Inside, a woman, in Katherine’s likeness. Not her, but near enough to be of her lineage. Floating over the woman, Katherine watched. A man, dressed as an ancient workman, fixed the boat against the steps leading up to the looming tower. Reaching down, he helped the woman from the boat, and pulled her toward a dark stairwell.
Another, in uniform, nodded to the oarsman, and took the woman’s hand. His flickering torch gave barely enough light for the woman to make her way up the stone steps as she groped along behind him. The steps crumbled, and twice the woman almost fell when her feet slipped on the damp stone.
A fierce roar sounded in the night and Katherine knew it as a lion. The guard stopped in front of a scarred wooden door and pushed it inward. The flicker from his torch revealed a small barren chamber, with scant furnishing and a stone floor. Against the wall stood a crude bed with a single bed covering. The guard motioned the woman inside. She stumbled across the room and sank onto the bed. The guard used his torch to light a single candle. Then without a word, turned and left the cell.
The woman curled into herself. Great sobs shook her body.
Katherine floated back out into the courtyard. Standing in the corner an old man, dressed in the garb of a medieval gypsy, chanted.
“With heavy heart I bear the words of cruelest Mary Queen…”
Mary Queen? Tower? The scene changed in an instant, dream-fashion. Now she floated back to the cell. The same rough cot and threadbare blanket covered a still figure.
“These words I take in sorrow drear unto a lady fair…”
On cue, the woman rose from the cot and entered her dreams. Nobility for certain, possibly even royalty. Her time in the cell had dulled her eyes and matted her hair but yes, the chant was right. She’d been a lady fair. She would be so again, given fresh air and sunshine.
A lady who from birth was blest with visions strange but rare…
The door of the cell opened, and the old gypsy entered the cell.
“Tarot! My dear, dear friend! How good it is to see you!” The lady ran into his arms, and he held her to his breast.
“Milady.”
“My grandmother. My husband and son. Is there news?”
“Your grandmother is well and fights ceaselessly for your release. Your husband—there’s been no news from Russia. Except that he pleads for intercession from the Russian Court.”
She smiled sadly. “I can just imagine how much he pleads. He is afeard he’ll be tainted with the same brush that’s painted me.”
“No, Milady! He is doing all he can.”
“Tarot, dear friend, ’tis a very bad liar you are, but I love you for it. Prince Frederick makes no effort on my behalf. He has abandoned me. As have all, in the face of the Queen’s disfavor. All but you and Grandmother. And I bear them no ill for such. ’Tis asking too much to expect them to stand with me and risk a charge of witchcraft.” She shrugged. “And for the prince, a chance to rid himself of a disappointing wife who only bore him one son.”
“Oh, Milady! It hurts me so to hear you speak as though resigned to fate.”
“Dear friend. Do not despair. My heart has always belonged to another, that fate sealed from childhood. If only I’d been stronger, surer! If only I’d followed my heart and run away with my Toby when—”
She broke off, her face losing all expression.
“Milady? What—a vision! ’Tis a vision you’re seeing. Cease fighting them! Use them! Use the power!”
“I—Tarot, someone’s watching us.”
“Watching? I bribed the guards well. They have no cause to—”
“No, not the guards! Someone from—someone not here. Someone who sees us, who knows me. Knows me in her soul. Someone who can—dare I say it? Someone who can help me! Help me change the start of this disastrous path!”
In her dream, Katherine tried to leave, to get away. Enough of this misery that wasn’t hers. Except it was. Somehow it was hers.
“Oh, please! Please don’t leave! Help me! Help us!”
“How?” The dream Katherine spoke. “How do I help you?”
“I cannot tell you!”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“The portrait! Yes, I see it. There’s a painting, a painting yet unfinished! ’Twill show you the way! It must show you the way, or you will never be.”
“Milady? Your vision speaks to you?”
“The portrait! The portrait will know!”
The portrait will know…the portrait will know…the portrait will know…
The words followed Katherine back through the depths of the dream and echoed in her ears when she woke, gasping into wakefulness.
* * *
“Kati?”
“I’m okay. Just give me a minute.”
“You’re shaking.” Parker wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “Bad dream?”
“Horrible.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know. A lady in a tower. That painting I’ve never shown you. An old gypsy and a chant.” She shuddered.
“It’s just a dream. Try to relax, let yourself fall back to sleep. I’m sorry I ever mentioned that damn painting. Must have been what triggered this.”
Parker adjusted the cover over them and slept again within minutes. She didn’t. This dream…. She’d never had one like it. Except once. Not the same dream, but the same sense of urgency, of hidden messages of great import. The dream that sent her flying from Tallahassee and Quentin Ashland. Well, not the dream itself; that wasn’t quite right. The dream coupled with the painting under the canvas Parker had never seen. The painting that seemed to—move. The painting that spoke.
* * *
Katherine stared at the wrapped canvas on the easel. She’d been staring at it for two hours, ever since Parker had left for the airport and Houston. It hadn’t moved, it hadn’t spoken. It was an abandoned work in progress and nothing to be scared of, just the painting she’d started as a special gift to Mimi, the grandmother who’d raised her. An artist’s recreation of the family legend passed down in her large and uniquely intertwined family. Mimi loved the story and repeated it at every opportunity.
Katherine had cut her teeth on that legend. Probably literally. She didn’t even remember the first time she’d heard it; that’s how long ago it had been.
Kitty-Kat, there’s a very special lady back in your family tree. A lady with the gift of prophecy. Her name was Ursula, but people called her Mother Shipton. She helped sick people and sad people. Legend says she foretold great wonders, lots of things that’ve come true.
Was she your grandmamma, Mimi?
Lord, no, child, she lived generations ago. Four hundred years ago, in a time when kings and queens ruled. And she’s actually on Poppy’s side of the family, not mine, but I’ve always loved the stories and I’ve always felt very close to her. And that gift of prophecy… it’s passed down through the years in the Shipton family, usually to the women, though not always. A gift from her, a legacy. A connection.
Katherine smiled at the memory. She’d never believed the stories, but she’d loved them. Katherine had researched her infamous ancestor just as soon as she’d been old enough to work her way around the internet, and it had been easy to confirm that though it might be debatable whether Mother Shipton and her prophecies had ever existed, the legend sure did. She’d waited for years to have the proper skill to do Mother Shipton justice and planned this portrait for her grandmother’s sixty-fifth birthday. As frequently happened though, plans changed. Sometimes for the damnedest reasons. Hers certainly had, and that portrait never made it to Mimi’s sixty-fifth birthday bash. She’d gotten the rough outline charcoaled in, Mother Shipton by her famous well, in front of her famous cave. Then she’d picked up the paintbrush. And Quentin had chosen that exact moment to come up behind and put his arms around her.
“Damn, honey, what the hell made you think of that for a painting? Who’s going to want an ugly, wrinkled, old crone?”
First faint tingle of dislike.
“Excuse me? Some of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known are old and wrinkled. There’s great beauty in age. Wisdom. Life well lived.”
“Well, you’re an artist, after all. Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder and all that.”
“You won’t want me when I’m old and wrinkled?”
“Hell, no. Goin’ to trade you in for a newer model.” He laughed. “Just jokin’. Of course I’ll want you when you’re old and wrinkled.”
In that instant, she’d known. Known the truth. Liar. No, you’re not joking and yes, you’d trade me in. In a heartbeat. His touch suddenly felt slimy. Unclean. She’d shrugged off his arms.
“Don’t you have a trial to get ready for?”
“I don’t get ready for trials, sugar, I just make deals. It’s not how much law you know, it’s who you know. And what you know about the jury pool.”
“Well, I have a painting to work on. Mimi’s present, remember?”
“Who?”
He really doesn’t remember. Because he really doesn’t give a damn. About me or anything about me.
“My grandmother’s present. For her sixty-fifth birthday celebration back in Calgary. The one you can’t go to with me because of your trial schedule.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah, sorry about that sugar, but trials do pay the bills.”
“And painting pays my bills, so I need to finish this while I’m waiting for last session’s water color to dry on the Taylor commission.”
“And that’s called ‘go away and leave me alone for a while’, huh?”
“Yeah. It is.”
“Okay, okay, no need to get bitchy about it.”
“And close the door, please.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
She’d stood for a moment after the click of the closing door, trying to re-center herself, to get rid of the sudden, intense dislike she felt for the man she was planning to marry, the man she’d lived with for the past year. And how? How had she been living with him for a year if his chance comment could trigger such a feeling of revulsion?
She squared her shoulders. Nobody liked everybody all the time. Of course he hadn’t meant those cruel comments and certainly he hadn’t forgotten about Mimi and her birthday party; he’d just been so focused on the trial he hadn’t been thinking. And of course he was a good lawyer who knew the law, he didn’t just rely on who he knew. Or what he knew about the prospective jurors. Did he?
She turned her attention back to the portrait. Mother Shipton’s hand moved and she wagged her finger at Katherine.
Well, my lassie, it’s a fine churl ye’ve taken into your bed this time, it is! Don’t you have even a wee bit of the sight in those eyes of yours? Ye’ve got not a drop from me at all?
Katherine dropped the brush and backed away from the canvas. Slowly. Very slowly. She walked over to her canvas coverings and grabbed one, never taking her eyes off the portrait. She approached the painting once again. Then she ducked around behind the easel and threw the draping over the portrait, pulled it tight, grabbed the butcher’s string she kept handy, and tied it up.
That night images from a Tarot deck flashed through her dreams. A rider on horseback who was Death. A woman on a throne, The High Priestess. An upside-down man suspended from a tree branch, The Hanged Man. And with every other card the same symbol appeared and re appeared. The horned goat man. The Devil.
Memories of Quentin’s touch filled her with revulsion. She’d awakened the next morning knowing she had to get out of there. She’d boxed up all her paintings and supplies, packed her suitcases and borrowed a friend’s van. She rented a storage unit and made trip after trip to the unit until all her belongings and all her work was out of Quentin’s house. Then she’d made a visit to Quentin’s office. She couldn’t tell him by phone or note that she was leaving him. It had to be face to face. It hadn’t been pleasant, but she’d never regretted what she’d done those last two days in Tallahassee.
That had been six months ago. She’d accepted an offer she’d been mulling over from a well respected Tampa Bay Gallery and fled Tallahassee and everything Quentin represented the minute she’d tied up details with her former Gallery.
She’d packed the portrait of Mother Shipton away in a closet of the Tampa Bay beach house. It was her home now. Any house was home with Parker.
She hadn’t thought about the portrait since she’d moved in, not until last night—that dream. So real, the lady in the tower. The portrait knows…the portrait knows….. Right after Parker mentioned it, she’d changed the subject, but it must have stuck in her subconscious.
What was it about these dreams? The same theme. Danger. She knew that, somewhere deep in her soul. Mother Shipton’s blood? Oh, please. Of course not. Just primal instinct. But the first time the warning had been specific. Danger. From Quentin? She hadn’t understood it, but she’d known. What else would have made her bolt and run? This time, though—help us! You must, or you will never be… What was that all about? Would Mother Shipton tell her? She sure hadn’t been shy about telling her last time. Even though it hadn’t really been Mother Shipton at all, of course, just her subconscious beginning to knit together bits and pieces of this and that, weaving a pattern of reality into the pretty fantasies of Quentin and the man she pretended he was, when in fact, he wasn’t.
Well, only one way to find out.
She approached the portrait and reached for the scissors to cut the string. Her phone rang. And her heart clenched. Quentin’s ringtone. The one for his office number. She’d changed her number when she left Tallahassee, but she hadn’t taken him off her contact list, not his cell, not his office. Not because she hoped he’d call—no, that good-bye scene hadn’t been pretty at all—but because she wanted to know if he did call. If, in fact, he’d actually go to the trouble to find her new number. Which wouldn’t take a lot, of course. She was an artist, she had business cards and she had to distribute her contact number. Still, Tampa Bay was a good distance from Tallahassee.
Answer it? Don’t answer it? Hell, this was Quentin. Might as well get it over with. Because if he wanted to talk to her, he wouldn’t stop calling until he did.
“Hello?”
“Well, well, she lives and breathes. Even if she hates the thought of talkin’ to me so bad she changed her number.”
“Didn’t take much for you to find it, though.”
“No, it didn’t, did it? The new little darlin’ of the avant art-fart circle.”
“You phoned to call me names?”
“No, I called to congratulate you. Nice move. A Drayton. You must’ve had him waiting in the wings. Why settle for a lawyer’s lifestyle when you can jet-set? Great pictures of you, by the way. The elegant artist and the rugged good-looking cowboy. The paparazzi have been busy. You two’ve been keeping them real happy.”
Damn. Of course he knew. The Draytons were movers and shakers, no way news of her engagement hadn’t hit the social circles all over Florida and Texas and probably quite a few other places, too.
“I didn’t even know him when I left Tallahassee, Quentin, I’d never met him.”
“You are such a good liar. Always were.”
“Actually, I’m a very bad liar. Which is why I broke it off as soon as I realized we were making a mistake. So if there’s nothing else, let’s say good-bye, okay?”
“Oh, darlin’. We’ll say good-bye for now. But I’m sure we’ll be running into each other. Frequently. I might not be in Drayton’s league but I ain’t bush league. I’m sure we’ll end up at some of the same parties. And don’t worry. I won’t tell anybody you’ve got a radar for money. Won’t tell Parker what a hot little whore you can be in bed either.’ Cause I’m sure you don’t cut loose with him the way you did with me. Be too afraid of ruinin’ that image I’m sure you’re trying to maintain.”
“How very considerate of you. And don’t worry. I won’t tell any of your clients your secrets of practicing law. As in it doesn’t matter if a lawyer knows the law, just as long as he knows the right people. And some dirt on the jurors, of course. Good-bye, Quentin. Don’t call me again.”
Her finger was moving to the end button when his laughter chilled her bones. “That wouldn’t bother my clients much, darlin’. Not at all. Because a good lawyer also knows where the bodies are buried. You take care now, you hear?”
Katherine pocketed her phone and cut the string on the portrait. She yanked off the coverings.
“Okay, Mother Shipton. If you really talked to me before—now’s the time to talk again.”
Quentin Ashland slammed the receiver back down onto its cradle. Damn good thing he hadn’t used his cell phone, or he’d have broken it. Again. He had a lot of anger management issues and they took one hell of a toll on his cell phones. They used to be sturdier in the days before the supermodels of the pocketsize mini computers came into vogue. And you just couldn’t do without one anymore, either.
Little bitch! No, not just a bitch. A witch-bitch. Something about her—that quality of otherworldliness she wore so naturally she didn’t even know she had it. That cloud of dark hair that floated around the slender shoulders, those dark eyes that lured a man into their depths, whispering of hidden passions, hidden secrets. He’d waited six months. Figured he’d let her get the independence out of her system. She’d be back. No way she’d want to give up everything they’d had together. Lifestyle, travel, parties, not to mention damn good sex. Then he’d turned on the news and there she was, his woman. And all he could see was Parker Drayton’s smarmy looking face as the announcer babbled on about the impending nuptials.
No damn way that bitch was going to shake him off like so much dirt and move on up to royalty. He’d gone completely nuts. Then he’d calmed down. If she thought he believed that bullshit about not meeting Drayton till she left Tallahassee—what kind of fool did she take him for? Of course she left him because she smelled more money. Well, he wasn’t from the Drayton definition of money, but he was an Ashland of Savannah, by God. Southern gentility. The type of background money couldn’t buy, especially not lucky oil strikes back in the booming days of the Texas oil fields. Hell, they’d probably been sharecroppers. Probably why they’d struck out for Texas in the first place.
She wasn’t going to get away with this. No way, no how. He wasn’t just an Ashland. And he wasn’t just any attorney. He laughed and reached for the phone. No, he wasn’t just any attorney. He was an attorney who knew where bodies were buried. Lots of them. Time to remind some folks of that.
He punched in a number and waited for voice mail to wind down.
“We need to talk. Sandler’s Oyster Bar. Tonight. Nine o’clock.”
* * *
Katherine bit her lip. Moment of truth. Time to stop stalling. Of course it had just been coincidence that the picture talked to her—scratch that. She’d thought the picture talked to her at the precise time she’d seen Quentin for who and what he really was. And it was just coincidence she’d had that damn dream again the night before Quentin’s surprise call out of the blue. Because that hadn’t been a real surprise; she’d always known deep down he’d call. He couldn’t just let go. It wasn’t in him. Still and all, her Quentin epiphany came right after the portrait’s ventriloquist act. The lady in the tower said the portrait had more to tell her. She had to give it a try.
She jerked the tarp off the portrait. And waited. Nothing. Of course nothing. She picked up a brush and loaded the bristles with cobalt blue.
With the first stroke, roaring filled the studio. Katherine dropped her paintbrush, slapped both hands to her ears. Well, she’d asked for it. And she’d gotten it.
“And about time it is, my girl. ‘Tis stubborn you are.” The same old crone she remembered stood in front of Katherine’s easel.
“Why are you here? Why did I see you before? And why am I seeing you now?”
“You know why, child. In your heart, you know.”
“What did you do to me last time? To make me cringe when Quentin touched me?”
“‘Twas nothing I did. You did it yourself. You opened yourself to what you already knew was true. ‘Tis in your blood, ye canna escape it. I just helped a wee bit with the seeing of it.”
“That had nothing to do with blood. I just finally started putting things together about Quentin.”
Mother Shipton shook her head. “Stubborn. But then all young folk be stubborn, can’t complain, I was meself. And that stubbornness almost cost this family its very existence. Still might, do ye not listen to me with your head and your heart.”
“Well, I’m not you. I’m me. And all I want to do is paint my pictures and marry the man I love.”
“That might be all you want, m’ dear, but ‘tis not likely to happen unless ye listen to your dreams.”
“My dreams haven’t been exactly instruction manuals. I have no idea what they’re telling me!”
“No, ‘tis not that ye don’t know what they’re telling ye, it’s that ye don’t want to listen. Ye know full well there’s something ye have to do, and now I’ll tell ye more. If ye fail to answer the call or fulfill the task then ye will neither marry the man ye love nor paint yer paintings. ‘Tis doubtful ye’ll live a’tall. There’s things need doin’ in the past, or ye’ll ne’er be born. Dreamed of a lady in a tower asking for help, did ye? And if ye pay no heed, the lives of all between me and thee will be forfeit.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The lady in the tower. What’s her name?”
“I don’t know. I only heard her called Milady.”
“True enough. Well, I’ll give a bit of help with that. She was born Ursula Sontheil. And what’s your name, child?”
“Katherine Shipton.”
“Your whole name.”
“Ursula Katherine Shipton.”
“And why be that, do ye ken?’
“Because both those names have been in the family since the beginning of time and the back of beyond and—oh, shit!”
“Ah, so finally ye see a hint of sun over the horizon, do ye?”
“That’s the reason? The connection? She’s an ancestor?”
“Can’t be telling ye that. Ye must see it for yourself. Time for a journey, child. A journey t’will help you understand. “
“I can’t go anywhere. I have commitments, deadlines.”
Mother Shipton cackled. “This journey—t’won’t be like any ye’ve taken before. None will miss ye nor know you’re gone.”
“I’m having a mental breakdown. That’s it, isn’t it? I’m going crazy and you’re a figment of my imagination.”
“Kitty-Kat, please. Trust me, child. If I don’t exist, I can’t be after hurting ye, now can I?”
“Why’d you call me that? Nobody calls me that but Mimi!”
“Now what else would I be calling a girl named Katherine?” Mother Shipton moved to the sofa on the far wall. “Lie down, sweet girl. Let me soothe that wrinkled brow. And show ye—wonders. Wonders of the past.”
Katherine backed up to the couch and sat down slowly, eyes fixed on the solid apparition.
Mother Shipton cackled again. “Well, ‘tis a start. Ye don’t trust easily and I can’t be after expecting miracles. And a wee bit of caution and common sense bred into the bones over the years, that’s a good thing. Ye think for yourself, don’t take well to being told what to do. That lady in the tower, she could have done with a bit of it herself much sooner in her life, long afore she learned that lesson.”
Mother Shipton laid her wrinkled hand on Katherine’s forehead and rubbed lightly. “Close your eyes, girl. Lean back. And go visiting. To another time. Another place. Long ago. Very long ago. Float, Katherine. Float. None will see ye. None will know ye’re there.”
* * *
Katherine opened her eyes in an old barn, ripe with the good smell of animals. A girl, the mirror image of herself, lay sobbing into a pile of hay.
“How can I bear it?” the girl wailed. “How can I bear it?”
“Milady? What’s wrong?” A young man stepped into view.
“Oh Toby, Toby.” The girl flung herself off the hay and into the man’s arms.
“What is it, Lady Ursula, what is it?” An unruly lock of straw-colored hair flopped into his eyes.
“King Henry! He’s wedding me to Prince Frederick of Russia. I’m ordered to court. And I’m to wed the prince as soon as he returns!”
She gripped the man’s neck and wept harder. “I must leave Gresham Manor in a fortnight and live at court.”
Frozen into silence, Toby stroked her hair.
Long moments later, she moved from his arms and straightened her skirts. “I’m sorry. ‘Tis wrong of me to burden you with my troubles.”
“Milady, I’d give my life to see you happy. And I’ve no right to be saying what I’m about to say, but I know you! You’ll wither and die at court. My family has a farm just across the border into Scotland. ‘Tis not what you’re used to but—”
She laid a finger across his lips. “Oh, Toby. Never could I do that. ‘T’would disgrace Papa and break his heart. I’ve no right to speak this way, but I want you to now that I will always keep you in my heart and I’ll never forget you.”
* * *
Katherine jerked upright on the sofa and glared at the canvas lying face up on the floor.
No way that just happened! Schizophrenia? Multiple personality? Just crazy as bat-shit?
She picked up the portrait and placed it back on the easel. What time was it? She pulled out her phone and checked the time. Parker’d be calling from the airport when he landed in Texas. No missed call, though. And she’d only lost a few minutes in that psychotic break she’d just had.
At that moment Tibbins twined around her ankles, mewing. Katherine snatched the big white cat into her arms, hugging him so hard he growled. She laughed and loosened her grip. “Sorry, kitty. Getting hungry? Let’s head to the kitchen.” Tibbins didn’t need another invitation. He bounded down the stairs toward the kitchen.
Katherine picked up his bowl and opened a can of tuna. “How about it, Tibbs, do you ever feel like you’re going crazy?”
The cat kept his yellow gaze glued to the can in her hand. A cat on a mission.