Chapter 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Connor stood in the open doorway and watched Holly sprint to her house, his brows pinched in confusion. She’d been acting strange ever since they’d left the Apple Blossom Festival, and he’d wondered if she was having doubts about agreeing to spend the night with him. He’d planned to tell her he was happy just hanging out and watching a movie on the iPad if that was what she wanted, but before he could get the words out, she’d bolted as if something had spooked her.

He glanced around the small space, retracing their steps when they’d entered. What had happened to freak her out? She’d been fine one minute, and then the next her cheeks had drained of color. She’d had the same look of terror on her face as someone who’d just encountered a ghost.

The table had been covered with his books, notes, and files, so he’d shifted some to the counter, and when he’d spun back around with another armful, she’d acted as if she’d just spotted a body in his sink. He scanned the sideboard, his gaze falling on the opened pages of the old German book he’d been looking through that morning. Intuition whispered along his spine as he focused on the text. The pages in question were about the devil’s creature known as the Wicked Witch. Holly had made it clear she wasn’t a witch. If this was what had upset her, why?

Connor paced the trailer and chewed on his thumbnail, occasionally glancing back at the book. He rummaged through his stacks of papers for the book’s translation. He hadn’t paid much attention when he’d read it because he’d believed her when she said she wasn’t a witch, but now he looked more closely at the translation that corresponded with the two opened pages. His eyes bounced from the computer printout to the ancient text and back.

In the book, the word Wicked was written on the left page and the word Witch was written on the right page, the term spread across the layout. In the left margin the author had illustrated a woman with a vile hooked nose and a cauldron—basically the template for every drawing of a wicked witch. On the right, the author had sketched an herb garden and the sun.

In the center of the pages the author had described the Wicked Witch. Connor grabbed his glasses from where they’d slipped to the floor among a sheaf of papers and slid them onto his nose. He began to reread what had been translated into English.

The Wicked has powers born of evil, and she uses them to cast disease and despair among the peoples. The Wicked has been known to poison children and curse fields to lie fallow, women to lie barren, and illness to sweep the land. Evil speaks to her in whispers, and she is compelled to destroy all that is good.

The Witch casts spells and makes potions, and one must tread warily lest she deceives one into loving a person with a poor disposition and manner. She charms and heals, but she must not be trusted, for she is a woman and cannot help but meddle where only God should. Beware the good Witch.

Connor read them again and again. He was missing something; he had to be. He drummed his fingers on the notebook and distractedly glanced at the white bakery bag of cider donuts, the cinnamon scent no longer appetizing.

Wicked Good Apples was the name of Holly’s farm—a nod to the local tendency to say wicked in lieu of very . He’d been warned by both Ryan Miller and Amy Gordon that Holly and her sisters were wicked.

Holly and her sisters celebrated the seasons with a quarterly ritual.

Holly controlled the weather, at least to some extent.

There was a secret ingredient in their apple cider that was possibly magical. Everything led him back to witch.

“That can’t be right,” he snarled, raking his hand through his hair. He slumped in the bench seat and stared at the ugly yellow chintz curtains over the sink.

His phone rang and he lunged for it, hoping it was Holly. “Hello?”

“Hey, bro.”

“Oh. Hi.”

“Don’t sound so happy to talk to me.” Erikson laughed.

Connor stretched out his legs and settled in to talk to his brother. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Connor checked the time. It was almost seven PM , which was five PM Montana time. “Aren’t you supposed to be in a dark mine filming ghosts right now?”

Erikson hedged the question. “Is everything going all right? You sound stressed.”

“Not stressed. Stupid. I’m missing something right under my nose.”

“Does it have to do with the Celeste women?”

Connor rubbed his chin. He needed to shave before he went on camera again. “Yeah, it does.”

“You still haven’t figured out what they are?” Erikson asked. Connor could have sworn he heard the sound of a speaker in the background.

“Not yet, but I’m so close I can taste it.”

“Ah shit. I was hoping she was wrong, but you definitely sound obsessed.”

“She?”

“Charlotte. She called yesterday. She said things are getting weird out there, and she’s worried about you. She thinks you’re too close to one of the Celeste women—Holly.”

Connor fisted his free hand. “That’s no one’s business but mine and Holly’s.”

“Geez, you don’t have to bite my head off. And don’t get mad at Charlotte either—you can’t blame her for being worried. You’ve never made a case personal before. For frig’s sake, Connor, she said she caught you coming out of the barn with painted handprints all over your body.”

“Again, that’s no one else’s business.”

A momentary pause fell between them.

“It’s not about the sex,” Erikson finally said. “Charlotte thinks you’re pulling your punches. She thinks … and I can’t even believe I’m saying this to you of all people … she thinks you’re falling for the woman.”

Connor gave a bark of laughter. “Nope. Charlotte’s completely misreading the situation. Holly and I are—” What? What were they? They hadn’t slept together. They hadn’t had any exclusivity talks or thrown around the word relationship . They were two people who’d flirted together—that was all.

He smiled as he thought of the painted handprints. Okay, flirted with some very sexy paint activities thrown in.

As for falling in love with Holly? That was absurd. Connor had never loved a woman, and as long as he was married to his show, he never would.

“You’re what?” Erikson asked.

“We’re friends,” he finished lamely.

Erikson clucked his tongue. “Delusional, dude.”

“What’s the point of this conversation besides annoying the shit out of me?” Connor snapped. “I’m trying to produce the best damned episode we’ve ever had, and I have stuff to do that doesn’t involve hanging around my trailer sharing feelings with my brother.”

Now that was definitely a loudspeaker in the background. Since when did they have loudspeakers in abandoned gold mines?

“The point is I’m coming out there,” Erikson said. “They’re calling my flight now.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Too late. I don’t know what’s happening at Wicked Good Apples, but Charlotte thinks you need me, and I think you do too. See you tomorrow.”

Before Connor could reply, the phone went dead in his ear. He dropped it to the table and stood, ready to give Charlotte a piece of his mind, when his eyes fell on the opened pages of the book.

His heart stopped.

Suddenly he saw with stunning clarity what he’d been missing. It had been there all along, but like most people, he simply hadn’t seen it.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. He grabbed his phone again and shot off a text.

Connor: I know what you are.

A few minutes later three dots appeared. Connor held his breath until Holly’s message came through.

Holly: Meet me in the old orchard at eleven.