Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

T he milky fog rolled in from Beauly Firth like a living thing, swallowing fence posts one by one, until Wickham and Ivy Muir's recently abandoned ranch disappeared. Alexandra gripped the steering wheel of her rental car and watched as the cheerful house on the hill was erased completely.

She knew she shouldn't be here--just as she shouldn't have come the past three nights.

Logic told her that, for the sake of her sanity, she should fly back to Arizona and forget she'd ever come to Scotland, and mourn her dead husband with as much dignity as she could muster.

But her body commanded her to stay right where she was. Her body needed Spreag back. Her body wouldn't survive without him.

Her heart insisted that his ghost had to be out there, wandering the ground where his blood had spilled. And if she could just drum up the courage to get out of the car and go look for him, they could find each other again.

The idea was completely insane, obviously. But Spreag had been a ghost once before, had been brought back to life before. And though the young witch that had saved him claimed she no longer had the power to do it again, it didn't matter. Alexandra wasn't picky. She'd even settle for her husband's ghost--just as long as he didn't leave her.

And if she had to be a squatter in the old ranch house in order to stay near him, she would do it.

A puff of wind cut through the clouds surrounding the car and a tendril of the white stuff curled just a few feet away from the headlight...like a hand, beckoning.

It was all the encouragement she needed, and she finally, finally found the courage to open her door and climb out.

"I'm coming," she said quietly, ignoring the tiny fissure of fear that she might be losing her mind. And not giving a shit.

As if seeking entry, the fog pressed against the kitchen window of Shug Buchanan's house and all but blocked the tiny lights coming from the far end of the plateau. He was sick at heart as he dialed the emergency number and put his phone to his ear.

"Shug?"

"Which sister is this?"

"Loretta, dear. What's wrong?"

"Wickham is still not answering--"

"Is she back, then?"

"It cannae be any other than Alexandra. Four nights in a row, now. Can ye see anything for her? Should I go drag her back to m' house and try to make her see reason?"

"Just a minute."

He waited anxiously while the Wickham's witchly sisters conferred. Their Sight never erred, though their advice was sometimes dodgy.

Loretta came back. "No, no. No need to strong-arm her. She'll soon have something to distract her, to help her recover."

"Auch, aye?"

"A child." He could hear the relief in the old woman's voice. "We both see a child coming."

Spreag Tulloch's child.

Tears splashed down Shug's cheeks and he chuckled. He wouldn't put it past his late friend to have put a child in his wife's belly intentionally. Alexandra had insisted Spreag had foreseen his death. And though her Highland husband hadn't confided in her, she'd known when she'd looked back at how overly affectionate and thoughtful he'd been before that fateful day.

While Shug kept watch on the headlights, he prayed, "God give the woman some peace tonight." Then he offered up another prayer for the babe to come. "And we all ask that ye not burden her wee bairn with his father's gifts."

The wet grass-soaked Alex's shoes as she approached the fence. Beyond it, the fog waited, and from its thickening depths, she could have sworn she heard the soft nicker of a horse, though no living thing had been left behind when the ranch was abandoned.

Spreag once said he'd seen the ghost of a horse on Culloden Moor, where he'd died the first time and then haunted the place for nearly 270 years. So, it was possible for an animal to be haunting the ranch now, especially on a night like this, when it could roam around as proud as it pleased and no one could separate phantom from mist.

The fences were no longer armed. No need to use the call box for permission to enter the property. She lifted a latch and gave the gates a gentle shove to send them swinging inward with not so much as a squeak. Had she known it would be that easy, she might have gotten out of the car the first night.

The fog thinned slightly as she plodded up the drive, knowing that dark shadow of a barn rising on the left no longer held laughing highlanders. The echoes of little boys had long died out in the corrals and the halls of the house. No one waited on the porch. The yard beyond would no longer be draped and dressed for a wedding.

But it wasn't just the living that was missing from the property. Without the powerful Wickham, Laird of the Muir witches, the place had literally lost its magic. It was like seeing Pinocchio sitting on a shelf, back to being an inanimate doll, the memory of his antics and adventures alive only in the hearts of the believers.

"I believe," she whispered. "I believe, Spreag, my love. I still believe in magic."

A wayward breeze brushed her from behind, shoulder to neck, and sent her head of curls wagging. She shivered but didn't stop. She wasn't there yet. Somewhere behind the bathhouse.

He'd often talked about his deathbed on Culloden, how the mention of his name or the call of his ghost number had wakened him. Why should it be any different here?

"Wake up, Spreag Tulloch. You've got company."

A man chuckled behind her and she whipped around to face him, fully expecting Shug Buchanan to be on her heels. For the past three nights, as she'd driven away from the ranch, the big Highlander had been standing on his stoop at the neighboring farm, offering a wave and letting her know he'd been watching. She'd thought maybe the fog would give her some privacy this time.

But it wasn't Shug. At least, not nearby.

Just how far can a voice carry on the mist?

She turned back and started walking again though every nerve in her body screamed at her to flee back to her car and never come back. She'd been so careful to put the thought of those monsters out of her mind, to keep from waking any of those spirits that might be hanging around. Besides Spreag, they were the only others to die that day. And she'd remembered their laugh. It was the thought of them that kept her from venturing out of her car until now.

She marched faster.

"Alexandra, lass. Just where are ye goin'?"

She froze at the sound of her husband's precious voice. It had to be him, not her imagination. Imaginations didn't echo, did they?

If she stayed perfectly still, she could keep on believing he was there.

"Lass, ye can hear me. I ken it. Will ye not face me?"

Alex closed her eyes, willed herself to breathe in and out, and turned.

Tulloch's beloved form slowly separated itself from the white cloud between them and stepped closer. He was dressed just as he had been, for Simon and Soni's wedding. Spotless, bloodless.

How many days and nights had she howled herself hoarse because she would never see his face again?

"There's my brave lass," he said, then stepped close. And though he panicked and reached for her, he couldn't catch her when the world went black.