Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures Read online

  Heather Graham’s

  Haunted Treasures

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities between real life events and people, and the events within this product are purely coincidental.

  13Thirty Books

  Print and Digital Editions

  Copyright 2015

  Discover new and exciting works by Heather Graham and

  13Thirty Books at www.13thirtybooks.com

  Print and Digital Edition, License Notes

  This print/eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This print/eBook may not be re-sold, bartered, borrowed or loaned to others. Thank you for respecting the work of 13Thirty Books and its authors.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0692320350

  ISBN-13: 978-0692320358

  Copyright © 2015 Heather Graham

  DEDICATION

  To Mya Richard

  A sweet little girl who thought my book was pretty.

  Happy Halloween

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  VANQUISH THE NIGHT . . . . . Page 1

  Chapter 1 . . . . . 11

  Chapter 2 . . . . .21

  Chapter 3 . . . . .27

  Chapter 4 . . . . .38

  Chapter 5 . . . . .55

  Chapter 6 . . . . .69

  LOVERS AND DEMONS . . . . .Page 81

  Chapter 1 . . . . . 88

  Chapter 2 . . . . . 96

  Chapter 3 . . . . .107

  Chapter 4 . . . . .118

  Chapter 5 . . . . .128

  Chapter 6 . . . . .137

  Chapter 7 . . . . .148

  Epilogue . . . . .154

  AND I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER . . . . Page 158

  Chapter 1 . . . . .165

  Chapter 2 . . . . .177

  Chapter 3 . . . . .192

  Chapter 4 . . . . .201

  Chapter 5 . . . . .214

  Chapter 6 . . . . .226

  About the Author

  True love is like a ghost, which everyone talks about but few have seen.

  Anonymous.

  VANQUISH THE NIGHT

  Prologue

  1870, West Texas

  There was a curious breeze that night.

  Michael Johnston felt it first when the night shadows were just beginning to give way to the pink streaks of dawn. It was the breeze, in fact, that woke him.

  Anne's window was open to the night. The breeze entered, seemed to touched him, swirl around him. His eyes opened, and for several long moments, he tensed, listening. He had become accustomed to waking quickly, alert to the first whisper of danger.

  But there was no sound, just the breeze.

  He slipped the covers from himself and crawled naked from Anne's bed, striding silently to the window. He looked out. The sun hadn't risen yet; the moon was still visible in the sky. Even as he stared at it, it seemed that a dark shadow passed over it. Quickly. So quickly that if he had blinked then, he'd never have seen it... sensed it.

  He paused, still and silent by the window, for a long time. Listening. Searching the landscape beyond the ranch house. There was nothing unusual to be seen. A tumbleweed flew a few feet, bounced, flew again. Just outside from where he stood, a shutter broke loose, banged against the house, and went still. Cursing softly beneath his breath, he thrust the window further open, leaned out, and re-latched the shutter.

  Then... silence.

  The breeze vanished. The tumbleweed hung suspended in midair, then fell. All around him, there was nothing. Just the silence in the stillness of the night.

  He wondered how a man who had survived sword-fights, cannon fire, and Indian arrows could feel such a strange unease over something so natural as a breeze.

  But it had carried a chill with it...

  "Michael?"

  Her voice was soft, feminine. He knew it so very well, loved it so very deeply.

  He walked back to the bed on his bare feet.

  Her eyes were only halfway open. In the shadows, he could not see their color, but he knew it. They were amber. Not really brown, not hazel either. Framed by jet lashes, they were large, wide-set, intelligent, beautiful eyes. Just as Anne was beautiful, with her ivory skin, delicate features, flashing smile, and look of never-ending wisdom.

  The heavy skeins of her ebony hair were tousled and wild, an indication of the way things had gone earlier in the evening. She held the pastel-yellow bedsheets to her breasts, and the way her gaze fell upon him, the way her hair curled so enticingly, aroused all the hunger within his body and soul. He smiled as he stroked her cheek.

  "It's all right," he said softly.

  "What are you doing up?" she whispered. Her eyes widened and focused upon him. "Did you hear anything? There hasn't been an attack anywhere?"

  He couldn't guarantee that there hadn't been an attack somewhere, but not near them, he was certain. The citizens of Green Valley had banded tight and close against the possibility of an Indian attack. The alarm would have sounded, they would have heard shouts and screams.

  Sometimes, Apaches were silent, stealthy when they came upon their victims. But once they had them...

  Well, then they were anything but silent.

  The Apaches in this area had been fairly bloodthirsty the first few years following the war. The town always had to keep an eye open to the threat of attack. But recently, a number of the tribes and the citizens of Green Valley had reached an agreement. Walks Tall, an important chief among the Apache, kept his word, and at the moment the white citizens were at peace with him.

  Michael wasn't expecting an attack. Still, the members of the militia he headed were always on alert, each man devoting one night a month to guard duty. Most of them, like him, were old war-horses—quick to respond to the slightest hint of conflict. They were a close-knit community, all of them licking battle wounds in one way or another.

  "No attack," he said.

  Anne caught his hand, holding his palm to her cheek. He thought he felt a shudder rip through her body.

  "It's all right. I swear it," he told her softly.

  She nodded. A lock of her hair tumbled down over his fingers, soft as silk. It stroked his flesh. Fragrant, it seemed to send the scent of roses sweeping around the room.

  It was amazing to him how such a thing, such a little thing, could be so sensual, creating such a swift and urgent desire within him.

  Maybe it was just Anne.

  Maybe it was love...

  They'd both arrived in Green Valley at about the same time. She'd lost her home to Sherman's fires and her husband to a bullet at Sharpsburg. He'd lost his home to a cannonball and his fiancée to a triumphant Yank. Just as he'd lost a little bit of the ability to run, to dance gracefully, and even to mount a horse with his accustomed ease. A saber wound in his knee had never quite healed properly and now he walked with a limp.

  But he wasn't bitter. He knew a number of the Yanks at the fort over the hills, and they were all-right fellows. He'd traded with a few downriver during the long years of the war. No, he wasn't bitter.

  He just wanted his life to take a new direction.

  From the time Anne Pemberton had first stepped off the stage at Green Valley station, he had known that he wanted her. That had been early in 1868. Then there had been a full year when they hadn't had a decent thing to say to each other. Maybe it had been good that they'd spent that year keeping a distance between them. Back then, they'd both still needed time to get over the war.

  Then there had been the months when he had hated her for being so damned superior, and she'd hated him for being so right all the time. Then those flying sparks had finally
ignited, and there had been one fantastic night when she'd forgotten the past, forgotten all other loves, and fallen prey to the wildness and fury of his seduction. Right in her front parlor. She'd been telling him that he'd no right to chew out her friend Billy over the way he had handled an Apache situation, and he'd been yelling right back that she should be thanking her lucky stars she wasn't staked out on an Apache plain that very moment. The next thing he knew, every longing, every flicker of desire that had been growing over the years had suddenly exploded.

  And she'd been in his arms, and he'd been kissing her, and to his amazement, she'd suddenly kissed him back, and he had become tangled in her clothing as he struggled to free her from it. He never did strip her completely. But that hadn't altered either the passion or the tenderness with which he had made love to her.

  Funny what war and circumstance could do to people. It hadn't bothered Anne that she had turned her back on propriety and made love with him. But she hadn't been ready to give everything to him either. She didn't like the idea that he was the leader of the militia and dedicated to solving conflicts with the Indians and that was something that he really couldn't change. She'd lost one husband to warfare, and she wasn't willing to risk another.

  Sometimes, the townspeople managed all right with the Indians—sometimes, they didn't. But he knew the Mescalero Apache as well as it was possible for any white man to know them. He respected them, appreciated their way of life, and greatly admired their courage and their commitment to their tribes. They were a proud people.

  And a warlike one.

  Well, things did take time. And though he and Anne rather danced around each other, both expecting the other to give in, there was something strong between them. One day, she was going to be his wife. And in the meantime, he loved her. More and more deeply every day.

  He knew that Anne loved him, too. If she just weren't quite so stubborn...

  The amber of her eyes was like gold in the room's pale light. She reached out and touched his cheek.

  "How odd!" she whispered. "Something... woke me."

  "It was the breeze," he told her. He grinned, drew back the covers, and slid in beside her. Jesu, it was easy to forget that curious breeze now. Her skin was like silk, sensual and sleek against his. And warm, so deliciously warm.

  She was shivering, though.

  He swept his arms around her, covering the length of her naked body with his own. She was incredibly sensual, her body all curves, her breasts full and firm, the hardened pink nipples taunting against his chest. He kissed her lips softly, feeling the pulse of his arousal become a thunder. "It's all right," he assured her, his lips raised just a breath above hers.

  Her eyes shone into his. "I was just dreaming, I think. The strangest dreams, Michael! Something dark had flown across the moon, like a huge black bird of prey. Then there was the most curious yellow light. It beckoned, and I started following it and then..." She shivered again.

  "And then?" he persisted.

  She shook her head. "I don't know. Then..." Her eyes widened. "I felt the breeze!"

  "It's all right, I swear it!" he told her.

  "I was so afraid, and I reached for you, and you were gone."

  "I'm here now."

  She smiled slowly. "I know." Her voice was husky, sweet. "I can feel you."

  "The breeze is gone," he assured her.

  "It is," she agreed. "Right now it feels like a very hot night."

  "Burning."

  He smiled, encompassing her in his arms. The power of his body gently forced hers to open, and he allowed his throbbing erection to tease against the soft, sensual flesh of her inner thigh. Then higher... a bit higher. She shifted beneath him, her eyes still on his. A wicked gleam shone within them, teasing and seducing.

  "It's getting hotter and hotter," she whispered.

  "You just don't know how hot!" he warned. His lips found hers again. Seared them. Then abruptly he rose above her, cupped a breast, lowered his head, laved and tweaked a hardened tip with his tongue. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. He moved lower against her. Lower and lower still. Suddenly, a desperate passion seemed to burst within him. He wanted to make love to her more fiercely than he ever had before. He wanted to make love in a way that somehow...

  Somehow left a little part of him imprinted on her. As if he could own her...

  No, as if he could protect her.

  The thought burst in his mind, then faded with the strength of his desire. He touched her, kissed her, caressed her. When she rose against him, determined to love him in return, he pressed her back. Inch by silky, luxurious inch, he caressed her flesh, then flipped her to lie face-down and pressed hot fire at her nape, with the touch of his lips and tongue. He moved down her spine, again bit by bit until he came to the small of her back. His hands circled the curves of her hip, flipped her once again. His caress found the most tender and intimate erotic places. His fingers stroked and parted. His tongue explored.

  He was like a tempest with her that night, hot and wild, giving and demanding. In all the times that he had made love to a woman, he had never felt like this. When the end came, it was a sweet explosion, a climax so violent that he held her, shaking with her, lost in blackness, then seeing the startling twinkle of stars against that blackness and finally feeling sweet shudders seize him again and again as they drifted back to an awareness of lying in her bed in her room.

  Now dawn was beginning to break in earnest. Beautiful rays of color were filtering into the room. Reds and magentas, pinks and yellows and oranges. The colors of day were coming, sweeping away the shadows of the night.

  His arms tightened around her. The strange uneasiness that had swept through him was melting with the shadows. Still, other feelings seemed to take over. The feel of Anne next to him stole into his heart, and for a moment, he felt that desperate urge to protect her again.

  Soft, beautiful, entirely sensual, she lay against him, her damp flesh touching his. In any darkness, he could see her, the shape of her, the beautiful curves that were hers, the color of her eyes, of her hair. He didn't want to leave her. He wanted to wake every morning with her naked and replete beside him.

  Yes, he wanted to be with her in the darkness, when the night breeze turned cold.

  "Marry me," he urged her.

  He felt, more than heard, her little sigh.

  "Quit the militia," she responded softly. She'd said it before. Dozens of times.

  "Anne, I can't! I'm our most experienced man. I'm also our best hope for peace. You know that."

  "All I know is that you ride out all the time. And I never know if you'll ride back," she told him very softly. "And I won't wear widow's weeds again."

  "Anne!" he whispered, pulling her close. "How can you say that when life is tenuous at best? Lightning strikes, accidents happen—"

  "And I have to deal with them the very best I can," she responded. "I can't add to it the fact that you lead men into a hail of arrows."

  "I don't try to get killed!" he said angrily.

  She touched his cheek tenderly. "No, I won't marry you," she insisted. "Not now."

  "When?"

  She shook her head. "I don't know."

  He pushed back the covers, rising above her. "So if I were killed now, Anne, it wouldn't hurt? It wouldn't cut into your heart just the same?"

  "Michael—"

  "Anne?"

  Her eyes glittered in the darkness. And then it seemed that there was just a hint of tears within them. "Yes! Yes, it would rip me to pieces! Slash my heart, cast me into ungodly desolation! There, is that what you wanted to hear?"

  "No, go on."

  She stared at him, naked, so very beautiful. So defiant. "All right, I do love you, Michael. Very much."

  A trembling seized him. He twisted his jaw to fight it. "Then marry me."

  "I can't!"

  He let out a long cry of torment. She reached up, long delicate fingers stroking his face. She pulled him down to her. Her tongue teased his lips,
entered his mouth, hot, wet, promising.

  "I can't marry you. But I can love you!" she whispered.

  He groaned again, his frustration palpable on the air. "Anne, this is insane. We're both adults, but you force me to arrive through the back door and exit through the window to avoid any disrespect to your uncle. There's no reason—"

  He broke off. Her hands were moving down his body. She knew how to distract a man.

  "Anne—"

  "I love you!" she whispered.

  He sighed. The conversation was over.

  Later, he wound his arms around her. She was an incredibly stubborn woman. Maybe she didn't feel the fear that had suddenly stolen upon him tonight.

  It lingered.

  He sighed. So she wouldn't marry him. Not yet. Maybe he could still hold her, make love to her...

  Protect her.

  He looked out the window. Light had almost chased away the last of the shadows. Almost.

  Then he realized that he wasn't going to get any sleep, not until it was full light. It seemed as if the darkness out there had eyes, and only daylight could close them. Anne was sleeping at last. He felt the smooth rise and fall of her breathing. He held her more tightly.

  * * *

  Down the hallway, old Jem Turner, Anne's mother's eldest brother, was standing at his bedroom window. He rubbed his grizzled chin, his hazel eyes hard and alert.

  There wasn't anything unusual to be seen. But then, Jem knew that the things you couldn't see were often the ones you should most fear.

  Well, Anne was all right for now, no matter what the night wind brought in. She and Michael thought they were meeting behind his back, of course, but he knew darned well every time Michael silently entered the house. He didn't judge them. They'd all lived through too much. Actually, he just wished that stubborn niece of his would marry the fellow.