Chained (2 page)

She braced for teeth-rattling impact.

CHAPTER TWO

Just before Isabella slammed into the adobe wall, whatever
held her in its grasp halted her backward rush. She was suspended in the air
for long seconds until the force lowered her gently to solid ground again.

She sagged against the wall, dragging in blessed air, sure
to the marrow of her bones that she had escaped death.

For an eternity she heard nothing except the sawing of her
own breath in and out. Then a new sound came to her. Like a voice carried on a
summer breeze. Or whispered by a phantom.

“Isabella?”

She went very still, wondering if the roaring in her ears
was from the rushing of her own blood.

“Isabella?” This time she was sure she heard her name, but
she saw no one.

“Yes,” she breathed.

 She was alone out here in the desert, but who had spoken?

Was it really a ghost, like before?

She’d been six when Nana Maria had died back in San Marcos.
Her grandmother had been bedridden for six months, and there was nothing the
doctors could do for her. Isabella sensed her parents’ relief when the long
ordeal finally ended.

She loved Nana very much, and they’d been close, but nobody
took her to the hospital for visits, and she never got a chance to say
good-bye.

She was so sad about that.

After the funeral, when people came to the house, Papa
carried her up to her room and put her to bed, leaving a lamp lighted on the
dresser.

She was lying under the covers when she felt a presence in
the room.

“Is someone there?” she called in a quavery voice.

Peering into the dim light, she saw her granny standing at
the end of the bed looking down at her with a smile on her face. The last time
she’d seen Nana Maria, the woman had been lying in bed, sick and in pain.

“Nana, what are you doing here?”

“You called me.”

“I did?”

“Yes. And I heard you.”

“I thought you were dead.” She tipped her head to the side,
staring at the beloved figure. “You were so sick. You look better now.”

“I
am
dead, nina,” she said in a low voice. “And I am
better.”

Isabella tried to puzzle her way through that. “How can you
be better if you’re in your grave?”

“The pain is gone. And I am at peace.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you one more time. And to warn you.”

“Warn me?” She took her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Some hard things are coming.”

“What things?”

“I can’t tell you. But they won’t last forever.”

Before she could ask another question, Nana Maria
disappeared.

She never told anyone about that incident, but she never
forgot it either.

“Nana?” she whispered now, wondering if this was another
visit from her grandmother.

Yet this hadn’t been the same thing. Not at all.

Nana hadn’t touched her. Tonight, the wind had come rushing
at her like an attack force and had subsided faster than it had started.

On shaky legs, she tottered back to the car, leaning against
the door as she looked around.

She must be so off balance that she was making things up.
Yet she knew that something strange had happened out here. And when she turned,
she could see the marks where her feet had scraped across the ground as the
unseen force had dragged her toward the stable.

She looked up toward the sycamore trees. They were
absolutely still now. But she thought she heard the strains of music coming
from that direction. A tune she couldn’t quite make out. So faintly that she
wasn’t sure she really heard anything.

“Who’s there?” she called in a shaky voice.

No answer.

“What are you?” she tried.

The branches gave a little shake and then went still again
as though nothing had ever happened.

She should leave this place.

No. She wasn’t going to let the wind or anything else scare
her away. She had come to
El Cayado
because it was safe. She had to
believe it was. Whatever had grabbed her had meant her no harm. Yes, it had
attacked, until it realized who she was. It was as though the presence in the
wind wanted to protect this place—and her.

That was the only thing that made sense.

Sense! She laughed, fighting hysteria. She couldn’t make
sense of what had happened. Better to rely on her feelings.

Snatching up her overnight bag she carried it to the porch.
Then she went back for the groceries.

She’d also brought a flashlight, which she clicked on and
shined at the deadbolt lock.

The key was in her purse. Once she’d unlocked the door, she
stepped quickly inside and shined the beam around the front room. It
illuminated woven native rugs and the sturdy wooden frames of the Mission-style
furniture.

She had expected the air to be stale or musty, but it was as
fresh as if she and her father had left yesterday, not eight years ago.

With her bag in her hand, she walked down the hall to the
bedroom she’d slept in as a teenager.

Her bed was covered with a large sheet of plastic. She
folded it up and laid it in the bottom of the closet, then pulled linens from
the dresser drawers and made the bed.

Still using the flashlight, she carried the groceries to the
kitchen. When she and her father had lived here, they’d used a generator for
several hours a day. With it off, there was no electricity at the ranch, but
she carried the milk and eggs out to the springhouse, then went back to the car
for the ice.

It was cool inside the little building sunk into the ground
over a natural spring, and the large ice blocks should keep for several days.

Back inside the house, she opened some of the high windows
that were too narrow for a man to climb through.

With the door bolted, she felt more secure. She was glad she
didn’t have to go outside to use the bathroom. The house had running water,
piped in from the spring. Cold water, at least. If she wanted hot, she’d have
to heat it on the propane-fueled stove.

 Although she had hardly any appetite, she fixed herself a
quick dinner of bread and cheese and brought it to the familiar rough wood
kitchen table, along with the gun, which she set at her place. She also opened
a bottle of white wine from her father’s stock and poured herself a small
glass, then bowed her head and said a prayer for her safety and his.

As she ate, she thought about her family. Her father was her
only relative. The only one who counted. Her older brother had been killed by
General Lopez’s men, although nobody could ever prove it.

Mama had left them because she’d been too afraid to stay.
Isabella hadn’t seen her in years and wouldn’t even know where to find her,
since she’d gone into hiding.

Isabella sipped the wine, trying to relax. When the meal was
finished, she washed up quickly and changed into a T-shirt and shorts, keeping
her thoughts away from the windstorm that had greeted her. But finally it was
impossible not to come back to it.

She shivered, contemplating what she’d been trying to avoid.
The ghost.

If it had been lurking around the ranch, why hadn’t she seen
it when she’d lived here before? And now, why had it called her by name?

She kept the gun with her and laid it on the bedside table
before climbing under the covers. She’d been exhausted earlier. She was even
more tired now, but she lay in the darkness, her mind churning over everything
that had happened in the past few hours.

Finally, she fell into a restless sleep filled with the
sound of the wind in the trees and the sensation of being lifted off her feet
and carried through the air.

Something woke her before dawn. Not sure what it was, she
lay very still under the covers, her eyes slitted, trying to look like she was
still asleep. Her gaze flicked to the window, the door, the closet, probing the
shadows.

She saw no one, yet she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling
that she was no longer alone in the room.

Music wafted toward her, barely audible, yet it sounded like
someone playing a guitar.

Straining to hear, she made out the song.

Down in the valley. The valley so low.

Hang your head over, and hear the wind blow.

It was one of the songs Matthew Houseman had played and sung
out on the patio at night. Did she really hear it now or was she only dreaming
of the past?

She clenched her fist, digging her fingernails into her
palm, feeling the pain. That proved she was awake, didn’t it?

Or was it still part of a dream?

As she stared into the darkness, light began to flicker in
one corner. Ghostly light.

She might have screamed if the breath hadn’t been frozen in
her lungs.

She might have run if she hadn’t felt compelled to stay.

She lay perfectly still, her heart pounding as she waited
with a kind of tingling anticipation for what would happen next.

The moon had long since set. The room was almost totally
dark, except for the hazy white light still flickering in the corner. She
wanted to run, but at the same time she knew that would be a mistake. She
couldn’t run from this. She must face it.

As she stared at the light, she thought she saw the shadow
of a man, standing very still.

Light and shadow. It was very strange.

 She couldn’t see his features. She could only tell he was
tall, with broad shoulders.

Her hand inched toward the gun as her confused mind
scrambled for explanations. There must be a trapdoor in the floor. The light
had come drifting through. Then the man had climbed up.

“Hands in the air,” she called out. “I’ve got a gun.”

The shadow didn’t move.

“I said, hands in the air.”

He stayed exactly as he was, his voice floating toward her
like a puff of smoke. “I won’t hurt you.” The sound was raspy, disused.

She kept the gun steady in her hand. “Who are you?” she
asked, waiting with her heart pounding.

Long seconds passed, and she wondered if he knew the answer
to the question. Finally, he said, “Matthew Houseman.”

She gasped when she heard his name, but she managed to ask
the question that had gnawed at her since the wind had called her name. “You’re
his ghost?”

“Am I?” he asked, sounding uncertain.

The doubt in his voice made her heart squeeze.

“If I’m dead, what happened to me?”

She swallowed hard, thinking he should know the answer.

 “Matthew Houseman was killed five years ago in a raid on a
militia compound in Montana.”

Again, there was a long pause. “I . . . don’t remember
that.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked in a halting voice.

“Guarding this place.” She heard regret lace his tone.
“That’s why I . . . attacked you when you got out of the car. I didn’t know you
were Isabella. Not at first. Then I remembered.”

“Remembered me?”

“Yes. I remembered what was between us. It made me happy and
sad all at the same time. Is that possible?”

“Yes,” she whispered, feeling her heart squeeze.

She flashed back on the moments when she’d first arrived,
when the wind had come rushing at her. It had picked her up and started to hurl
her at the stable wall. At the last second, it had put her down. Then she’d
heard someone speak her name.

“Matt, is it really you?” she whispered, trying to come to
terms with what was happening and failing to make sense of this encounter.

“Yes,” he answered, and she heard relief in his voice.

Her hand reached out for the flashlight.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I think you won’t be able to see me any better in the
light,” he answered, his tone filled with sadness now.

He moved then, coming across the room, not exactly walking
but flowing the way the wind had flowed around her when it had taken her
captive.

She lay with her heart thumping inside her chest, listening
for his footsteps and hearing nothing.

Yet she caught his clean male scent—mixed with the smell of
soap and the desert. The scent she remembered from long ago.

He stopped beside the bed, and she knew he was looking down
at her. She remembered the old rules that had always been between them. He
shouldn’t be in her bedroom. She should order him to leave.

But she had the feeling that he would do what he wanted no
matter what she said. Or maybe do what he needed to do. She wasn’t sure which.

She closed her eyes. If she didn’t try to look for him,
maybe she could keep the illusion that he was really in her bedroom.

Because he couldn’t be here, and this couldn’t be happening.
It had to be a dream. Or was this like when Nana had come to her?

That notion was comforting.

As she lay with her eyes squeezed tightly shut, the air
around her stirred, and she felt his breath against her face, like mist, only
it was warm, not cold.

“You’ve grown into a woman. You were pretty years ago. Now
you’re gorgeous,” he murmured. “Like a beauty in a Velazquez painting.”

“That’s how you see me?”

“Oh yes. I always wanted to kiss you,
querida
. You
knew that, didn’t you?” He called her sweetheart. He had never said that aloud
to her before. But he must have thought it.

That knowledge made her heart leap.

“Yes,” she admitted. “And I wanted to kiss you,” she added,
thinking it was a bold admission. But it was only to a ghost. Or a phantom in a
dream.

“We both longed for what was forbidden,” he answered, just
before she felt the pressure of his lips against hers.

It was a light kiss, his mouth brushing back and forth
against hers.

But it stirred her senses. Finally, after all these years,
it was happening.

She knew it couldn’t be real, yet she wanted to pull him
closer. Still, she kept her arms at her sides, because she understood deep down
that if she reached for him, she would spoil the wonderful illusion.