Thunderstruck Page 8

  It sounded very much like the stunts he and his friends did on Halloween, along with visiting old farmhouses and scaring the girls on the cheerleading team. Nash eyed him. “And?”

  Patrick got a strange smile on his face as he pulled out his wallet. “Oh, I saw a face. That night, I went home and sketched it in as much detail as I could remember. And I kept it right in my wallet, showing it to no one until the day I met Savannah.” He smiled and handed the delicate, worn notepaper to Nash.

  It was the spitting image of his wife, Savannah. He handed it back. “Whoa, that’s quite a—”

  “You’re probably going to say coincidence?” Patrick chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t happen to agree.” He glanced at Nash. “All I’m saying is, I’ve grown up here. Have a lot of family living around here still. And, like you, we have a healthy respect for the rich history that’s all but rooted in the ground.”

  Nash listened to the man, his need to clinically justify what he couldn’t understand beginning to dissolve in light of the truth—even if he couldn’t explain it. He remembered Somer’s gentle reprimand to his skepticism. These things do not need your permission or your belief in them in order to exist.

  “Whatever is happening, is happening for a reason. Maybe it’s the past needing to right itself. Maybe it’s the present trying to find a connection to the past.” Patrick shook his head. “I don’t know. But if you live around here for very long, you best get used to welcoming those who consider you as their guest.”

  Long after the couple left, Nash chewed on Patrick’s words. Needing a change of scenery, he suggested they try a quaint Cajun restaurant he knew of down the road. After a short wait, they were seated in a quiet corner of the outdoor patio. He ordered a Cajun sampler plate and a couple of frosty beers.

  Nash picked apart the steaming crawfish. He licked his fingers, missing home at moments like this. His mom’s gumbo was heaven-sent. “How’s the gator?” He was impressed that Somer found the new cuisine an adventure. He liked her willingness to try new things. He liked her inquisitive nature, her kind heart. He liked a lot about her, in fact.

  “What is it they say?” She held up a bite and fed it to him. “Tastes like chicken.”

  He took a pull on his bottle of beer. The icy brew tasted good sliding down his parched throat. “Patrick and Savannah seem like nice people.” He eyed her, deciding to tell her about what their guest had told him. “Patrick seems to agree that something–or someone—in the house is trying to contact us.”

  She smiled. “Gosh, that sounds vaguely familiar.” The not-so-subtle reminder was clear that she’d expressed the same idea. Somer held his gaze. “While you were showing Patrick around, Savannah made a suggestion. But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

  Nash wiped his mouth and sat back in his chair, his gaze resting on the beautiful woman who by fate—or magic, or whatever you wanted to label it—had shown up on his doorstep less than forty-eight hours ago and had already managed to capture his heart. “Listen, Doc, forty-eight hours ago I didn’t even know you. And look at us now, sitting here talking about ghosts, sharing a bed and meals, and talking like we’ve known each other for years.” He dropped his napkin on the table and took another long swig of his beer. “I don’t think there’s much you could say to me that at this juncture that I’d not at least consider.” Yeah, so, maybe he was being overly dramatic. It sure as hell wasn’t like him to jump in feet first, especially when it came to women. Yet, the truth was, he hadn’t been looking and then she was there—this strong, beautiful, smart, woman with the sexiest damn eyes he’d ever seen—on a crowded street in the middle of the French Quarter. He chuckled at the memory of that moment. “It just occurred to me, I still owe you a coffee.”

  She laughed, and the sound of it made him smile. “Oh, I think you’ve more than made up for that, cowboy.”

  “Yeah?” He grinned, searching her eyes, and debated finding a nice little secluded dirt road on the way back to the house. “Sorry,” he said. “Got side-tracked.”

  She held up another piece of gator for him and he held her gaze as he closed his mouth around her fingertips. “Yeah, I just bet you did. But do you want to hear what Savannah had to say?”

  He sat back and nodded. “Yes, I do. Go ahead. I’m listening.” Mostly. Part of him wanted to help her, part wanted to find that dirt road, while another part of him secretly feared that once the mystery of this house was solved, she might head back to Salem. She hadn’t yet made any declarations to him about her feelings.

  “There’s a woman who lives in the bayou.” Somer watched him.

  That caught his attention. “The bayou? Like cypress trees, gators, creepy shacks—that bayou?” This wasn’t sounding like something he wanted to delve into. He knew little about the sort of cultural beliefs in voodoo down here, but he was more than willing to let them do their thing, and he’d steer clear and do his thing.

  Somer sensed his concern. She shook her head. “You can relax. She’s more of a healer, using hoodoo magic, not voodoo. Her abilities include visions, reading tea leaves, tarot, that type of thing. Savannah indicated the woman comes from a long line of seers on the matriarchal side of her family. She happens to be a good friend to an old hoodoo woman by the name of Nana Fontenot. She said that it was Nana who once predicted that she’d one day meet a warrior who would be her husband.”

  “That describes Patrick O’Rourke,” Nash replied.

  “She’d have suggested Nana, but the old woman has apparently been busy with folks still asking for her help in finding their loved ones after Katrina.”

  Nash scratched the back of neck. “Okay, well, I’m good with whomever you think can help us.”

  “She mentioned that folks around here call her Auntie Iris. Apparently a God-fearing woman with a belief that her powers are a gift to help others.”

  “Auntie Iris,” Nash said with a smile. “Kind of conjures up images of that little woman in Poltergeist.”

  Somer raised a brow. “Those eejits should’ve known better than to build over a burial ground.” She offered a disgusted look.

  He couldn’t argue with that. Especially not with this woman. Ah, how interesting his life had gotten in forty-eight hours. He couldn’t wait to spring news of Somer on his mom.

  “I’ve been thinking about this long and hard, and—”

  He gave her a wicked grin. “Great minds think alike.” He waggled his brows. Maybe the dirt road idea wasn’t out the window just yet.

  “This—meaning our situation with Lucille.” She shook her head. “I really believe there’s a correlation to all of this—possibly including Patrick and Savannah. Maybe the little boy was eluding to Savannah searching for Patrick—how similar their stories are. Savannah just couldn’t give up hope that Patrick was still alive, or at least able to reach her. Maybe Lucille isn’t willing to give up until she finds her true love?”

  Nash leaned forward, taking her hand. “This means a lot to you, helping Lucille. Why?”

  Somer looked down at her plate, then sighed. “Maybe because I understand the uncertainty she feels. It’s clear she gave everything to this man. She believed she’d one day make a life with him. And then suddenly the entries end, she dies, and no one seems to know what became of her lover.” She met Nash’s gaze.

  He nodded. “I understand.” He didn’t know how it involved him, but it was clear the good ghost doctor had been burnt somewhere along the way. “Okay, I’m excited. Let’s do this.” Oddly, he meant it as he reached for her hand and gave her more than his smile.

  Chapter Five

  Somer opened her eyes. The single room of the guest house, serenely quiet, was awash in the pre-dawn of day. She’d suggested to Nash that they stay in the guest house instead of the main house, hoping to have no unexpected visitors during the night. She’d lain awake, long after hearing his steady breathing, knowing he’d fallen asleep. Curled beneath his arm, her ear pressed against his chest, she listened to the beating of his hear
t and considered how like the man it was—strong, steady, determined, and patient. She’d never thought she’d find someone with all of the qualities she’d vowed in secret her perfect man would possess—and it didn’t hurt that he was drop-dead gorgeous and had a body made for sin.

  She smiled, snuggling against the warmth of his body spooned to hers. She’d tried not to think about the future—what would happen once her research was complete. The attraction between them was obvious, their chemistry in bed off the charts. Each time they’d made love it became more explosive, more satisfying than the last. But a lingering doubt hovered over their bliss. Was this simply a wonderful tryst that would end in a day or two? Or was it more?

  “I see you’re awake,” she said softly. He nuzzled the curve of her neck. His hand slid to cup her breast, his caress more rough, insistent than usual. But, as always, her bones liquefied beneath his touch. Her eyes drifted shut as he pushed lower between her thighs, his hot breath searing her cheek as he stroked with the finesse of a maestro, pulling pleasure from her body. She grabbed the pillow, and through the erotic fog in her brain, she heard the sound of a door. Opening her eyes, she saw Nash walk out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his hips. He was drying his hair with another.

  A scream climbed from her throat as she scrambled out of the bed, grabbing the sheet as she stumbled to the floor. Nash grabbed her arms to prevent her from falling flat on her face. Clinging to the sheet, she frantically searched his eyes to be certain it was him.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, concern etched on his handsome face.

  She looked back at the empty bed. Maybe she’d been dreaming. She wrapped her arms around him, needing him close, needing the strength of his embrace.

  “Hey.” His arms came around her. He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “It’s okay. I’m here. Tell me what’s going on.”

  She leaned back, meeting his worried gaze. “I must have been dreaming,” she said. Yet even as she said the words she felt the residual tingle of arousal mixed with fear. “I thought I felt you touching me. It seemed so real.”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered, soothing her fears. He kissed her forehead and drew her into his arms again. “You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to wake you. You were just dreaming, sweetheart.”

  Somer wasn’t at all certain whether it was a dream or not. The sensations seemed very real. She hugged Nash tightly and breathed in his soap and all-male scent. She turned her face, kissing the underside of his chiseled jaw, moving to where his pulse beat strong and sure on his neck. He hadn’t yet shaved, evidence of soft abrasions from its sandpapery roughness marking her flesh in his exploration of her body.

  He pulled her face to his, drugging her mind with a slow, burning kiss. “Good morning,” he said, holding her gaze a few inches from his.

  Pulling him to the bed, she pushed softly against his chest and he fell to his back, the towel doing little to hide his erection. Peeling it away, she grabbed a condom off the nightstand and tossed it to him.

  “You’re quite resourceful this morning, Doc,” he joked, rolling on the protection.

  Somer dropped the sheet and climbed over him, kissing her way up his torso. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll make it a great morning,” she said with a smile, then lowered herself, taking him in fully.

  Nash’s eyes rolled back into his sockets. He groaned with pleasure as he gripped the tops of her thighs.

  “Look at me, Nash. We need to look at each other in the light of day. No shadows, no darkness.”

  He rose to meet her mouth in a searing kiss that made her want to weep in its possessiveness. She’d never be able to get enough of the taste of his mouth, the way it hungered for hers. Fused together, she wrapped her arms around him, claiming this moment, wanting to remember it forever. This was real. He was hers. Was it possible to find someone in such a short time and feel as though, in every way, he was the one?

  He lay back, pushing his hips upward, moving his hands over her body as she braced her palms on the firm plane of his torso, fucking him with unbridled joy, watching his smoldering gaze ignite as she rode him to a fiery completion.

  Exhausted, she lay her head on his chest. She grinned, hearing the gallop of his heart.

  “I don’t want to lose you, Doc,” he said quietly.

  She swallowed, unsure if she’d heard him correctly. Folding her arms over his chest, she propped her face to meet his gaze.

  “When this is all over,” he continued, brushing an errant strand of hair from her forehead. “When you’ve finished your research.” His gaze held hers. “I don’t want us to be over.”

  There it was. Every question, every concern rolled into six little words. Granted, it wasn’t a declaration of love, but it was a beginning—a start.

  “I don’t want to lose you, either,” she said with a smile. She kissed his chest, sliding the tip of her tongue over his hardened nipple.

  “Hell, yeah,” he breathed out in an erotic sigh. Relief showed in his grin. “How much time do we have before Auntie Iris gets here?”

  “Two hours, roughly. She was going to come around lunch.”

  “Good,” he said, turning her beneath him and offering one of his bone-melting kisses. “Means we’ve got some time.”

  ***

  No-nonsense. That was the best way to describe Auntie Iris. She’d arrived promptly at noon, driven by a tall, quiet, young man in a pristine red 1960 Ford Thunderbird with a canvas top and gleaming whitewall tires.

  From the moment she walked into the foyer of the main level, dressed in her yellow calico church dress and white pillbox hat, her eyes caught everything. Her senses, apparently, caught more. “Lots of hanky-panky goin’ on around here,” she said. The rubber tip of her cane tapped across the wood floor. She glanced at Nash and narrowed her gaze, but just made a sound low in her throat before she hobbled past him. “Lots of hanky-panky, to be sure.”

  Nash shot Somer a look as they followed the old woman through the room to the back of the house. She stopped as she crossed over the threshold and stood on the sun porch. Her chin lifted as though her very presence was a beacon to the spirit world.

  “Can we offer you a glass of tea?” Somer asked.

  Aunt Iris looked at her, and raised a brow. “I would like to be introduced to those residing here.”

  Nash stepped forward and held out his arm. “You’ve met us. The only other resident”—he tossed a look at Somer— “that we’re aware of is a woman who’s name is—”

  “Lucille,” Auntie Iris said quietly, then nodded. “Yes, she is here.”

  Her driver took up residence on a coat bench in the foyer. Nash, exuding his cowboy charm, escorted Auntie Iris throughout the entire house. Somer stayed a few steps behind. Upon descending the staircase, she stopped and looked from Nash to Somer. Her dark brown eyes, steeped with wisdom, studied them. Then she nodded and hooked her arm through Somer’s. “Show me this journal that my baby Savannah spoke to me about.”

  Somer guided her to the table she’d arranged for this meeting on the lower-level sun porch. Even though it was just after noon, the skies were gunmetal gray, puffy dark clouds thickening on the horizon.

  Auntie Iris sat down primly and placed her hands either side of the book.

  “We found it in the floorboards in the bedroom upstairs,” Somer added. She waited, watching as the woman eyed the book several moments before lifting one frail looking hand and gently touching the cover. She stared at the book, then closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She then placed both gnarled hands, nearly ashen gray with age, atop the journal.

  Nash watched mesmerized.

  Somer sat in awe of the raw energy she felt surrounding the woman. Her eyes would drift shut and then open wide, as though seeing a new vision. Soft, melodic sounds emitted low in her throat. Her grandmotherly face would, now and again, cloud over. “Storms a’comin’,” she whispered.

  Gooseflesh rose on Somer’s arms as s
he remembered the old blind woman near Jackson Square.

  “She’s weary,” Auntie Iris muttered.

  “Weary?” Somer repeated.

  “Yes, yes,” she answered. “Been waitin’ a long time, long time.”

  “For what? How can we help her?” Somer prodded.

  The woman took a deep breath and, closing her eyes, turned her face up to the heavens. “She’s weary, waiting for her man.”

  A low rumble of thunder rolled across the afternoon sky.

  Auntie Iris cocked her head to one side. “She’s afraid of him. Afraid he’ll try to force himself on her. He wants her for his own.”

  Somer’s gaze shot to Nash’s. He nodded.

  “They had to keep it a secret between them. His daddy could never know.” She stopped as though listening, then rocked as she shook her head gently. “He was powerful jealous.”

  “Who?” Somer grew more confused by the minute.

  “His daddy. His daddy is at the root of this.” Auntie Iris’s tone softened. “Yes. She loved him with all her heart. Says he was a fine-looking, tall, strapping man with eyes the color of dark honey.”

  Somer met Nash’s gaze, remembering how the color of his eyes were what struck her first about his good looks. A slow understanding began to unravel in her brain.

  “Nash,” the old woman stated emphatically. “My Nash,” she said in a softer tone. Auntie’s voice cracked with emotion. “My one and only, Nash.”

  Auntie Iris lowered her stoic gaze to Somer and then looked at Nash.

  The poor man was stupefied.

  “This young woman needs our help,” Auntie said.

  Somer nodded her agreement. “Yes, what can we do?”

  Auntie sat back and placed her hands on either side of the book before she spoke. “Untruth tore them apart. The truth will set her free.”