PROLOGUE
The train was rolling across the Arizona desert when it started, a pain so intense it made her double over in the dusty red velvet seat. Dorthea gasped aloud as the spasm tore through her and several passengers leaned close.
“Just a touch of indigestion.” She smiled apologetically. “Really, I’m fine now.”
Drawing a deep steadying breath, she folded her hands protectively over her rounded stomach and turned to stare out at the unbroken miles of sand and cactus. The pain would disappear if she just sat quietly and thought pleasant thoughts. She had been on the train for days now and the constant swaying motion was making her ill.
Thank goodness she was almost to California. Dorthea sighed gratefully. The moment she arrived she would get her old job back, and then she would send for Christopher. They could find a home together, she and Christopher and the new baby.
She never should have gone back. Dorthea pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window and blinked back bitter tears. The people in Cold Brook were hateful. They had called Christopher a bastard. They had ridiculed her when Mother’s will was made public. They knew that her mother had never forgiven her and they were glad. The righteous, upstanding citizens of her old hometown were the same cruel gossips they’d been ten years ago.
If only she had gotten there before Mother died! Dorthea was certain that those horrid people in Cold Brook had poisoned her mother’s mind against her and she hated them for it. Her dream of being welcomed home to her beautiful house was shattered. Now she was completely alone in the world. Poor Christopher was abandoned back there until she could afford to send him the money for a train ticket.
Dorthea moaned as the pain tore through her again. She braced her body against the lurching of the train and clumsily made her way up the aisle, carefully avoiding the stares of the other passengers. There it started and she slumped to the floor. A pool of blood was gathering beneath her and she pressed her hand tightly against the pain.
Numbness crept up her legs and she was cold, as cold as she’d been in the winter in Cold Brook. Her eyelids fluttered and her lips moved in silent protest. Christopher! He was alone in Cold Brook, in a town full of spiteful, meddling strangers. Dear God, what would they do to Christopher?
“No! She’s not dead!” He stood facing them, one small boy against the circle of adults. “It’s a lie! You’re telling lies about her, just like you did before!”
His voice broke in a sob and he whirled to run out the door of the parsonage. His mother wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be dead! She had promised to come back for him just as soon as she made some money.
“Lies. Dirty lies.” The wind whipped away his words as he raced through the vacant lot and around the corner. The neighbors had told lies before about his mother, lies his grandmother had believed. They were all liars in Cold Brook, just as his mother had said.
There it was in front of him now, huge and solid against the gray sky. Christopher stopped at the gate, panting heavily. Appleton Mansion, the home that should have been his. Their lies had cost him his family, his inheritance, and he’d get even with all of them somehow.
They were shouting his name now, calling for him to come back. Christopher slipped between the posts of the wrought-iron fence and ran into the overgrown yard. They wanted to tell him more lies, to confuse him the way they had confused Grandmother Appleton, but he wouldn’t listen. He’d hide until it was dark and then he’d run away to California where his mother was waiting for him.
The small boy gave a sob of relief when he saw an open doorway. It was perfect. He’d hide in his grandmother’s root cellar and they’d never find him. Then, when it was dark, he’d run away.
Without a backward glance Christopher hurtled through the opening, seeking the safety of the darkness below. He gave a shrill cry as his foot missed the steeply slanted step and then he was falling, arms flailing helplessly at the air as he pitched forward into the deep, damp blackness.
Wade Comstock stood still, letting the leaves skitter and pile in colored mounds around his feet, smiling as he looked up at the shuttered house. His wife, Verna, had been right; the Appleton Mansion had gone dirt cheap. He still couldn’t understand how modern people at the turn of the century could take stock in silly ghost stories. He certainly didn’t believe for one minute that Amelia Appleton was back from the dead, haunting the Appleton house. But then again, he had been the only one ever to venture a bid on the old place. Amelia’s daughter Dorthea had left town right after her mother’s will was read, cut off without a dime—and it served her right. Now the estate was his, the first acquisition of the Comstock Realty Company.
His thin lips tightened into a straight line as he thought of Dorthea. The good people of Cold Brook hadn’t been fooled one bit by her tears at her mother’s funeral. She was after the property, pure and simple. Bringing her bastard son here was bad enough, but you’d think a woman in her condition would have sense enough to stay away. And then she had run off, leaving the boy behind. He could make a bet that Dorthea was never planning to send for Christopher. Women like her didn’t want kids in the way.
Wade kicked out at the piles of leaves and walked around his new property. As he turned the corner of the house, the open root cellar caught his eye and he reached in his pocket for the padlock and key he’d found hanging in the tool shed. That old cellar should be locked up before somebody got hurt down there. He’d tell the gardener to leave the bushes in that area and it would be overgrown in no time at all.
For a moment Wade stood and stared at the opening. He supposed he should go down there, but it was already too dark to be able to see his way around. Something about the place made him uneasy. There was no real reason to be afraid, but his heart beat faster and an icy sweat broke out on his forehead as he thought about climbing down into that small dark hole.
The day was turning to night as he hurriedly hefted the weather-beaten door and slammed it shut. The door was warped but it still fit. The hasp was in workable order and with a little effort he lined up the two pieces and secured them with the padlock. Then he jammed the key into his pocket and took a shortcut through the rose garden to the front yard.
Wade didn’t notice the key was missing from his pocket until he was out on the sidewalk. He looked back at the overcast sky. There was no point in going back to try to find it in the dark. Actually he could do without the key. No one needed a root cellar anymore. It could stay locked up until kingdom come.
As he stood watching, shadows played over the windows of the stately house and crept up the crushed granite driveway. The air was still now, so humid it almost choked him. He could hear thunder rumbling in the distance. Then there was another noise—a thin hollow cry that set the hair on the back of his arms prickling. He listened intently, bent forward slightly, and balanced on the balls of his feet, but there was only the thunder. It was going to rain again and Wade felt a strange uneasiness. Once more he looked back, drawn to the house . . . as though something had been left unfinished. He had a vague sense of foreboding. The house looked almost menacing.
“Poppycock!” he muttered, and turned away, pulling out his watch. He’d have to hurry to get home in time for supper. Verna liked her meals punctual.
He started to walk, turning back every now and then to glance at the shadow of the house looming between the tall trees. Even though he knew those stories were a whole lot of foolishness, he felt a little spooked himself. The brick mansion did look eerie against the blackening sky.
“Mama!” He awoke with a scream on his lips, a half-choked cry of pure terror. It was dark and cold and inky black. Where was he? The air was damp, like a grave. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and screamed again.