Trapped

Chapter 47:

Chapter Forty Seven:

—

DAKOTA DAVIS TURNED OFF the county road, driving way faster than the speed limit. In five minutes the dirt road would be a river of mud. If she wanted to get home without all her supplies soaked, she’d better make the farm pickup fly.

A few minutes later, as she passed the old Hamilton place, she thought she was hallucinating. A man dressed in black was standing knee-deep in the muddy lake, looking like he was swearing at heaven.

For just a moment he reminded her of something her shichu, her grandmother, had said about a legend of the lake. Shichu said the last man to die in a battle over this land was a strong warrior, but he’d simply walked out to the middle of Indigo Lake until the water was over his head because he’d lost his will to live. Apache legends, tales of her people who fought and died over this land, were common, but this story was about the Hamiltons.

Shichu knew them all. Ancient tales and stories of battles fought near this quiet lake between neighbors who’d settled here over a hundred years ago. The Davis family and the Hamilton clan. Curses once screamed across the water now simply whispered in the trees lining its banks.

Grandmother said the land was damned and all who fought to keep it would die in water. Maybe that was why the last one, Henry Hamilton, stayed away, Dakota thought as she stared at the vision before her.

When the man in black turned to stare at her pickup, she had to remind herself she didn’t believe in ghosts. But the stranger looked exactly like the Hamilton men she’d seen in pictures at the museum near Crossroads. Tall, broad-shouldered, slim.

Only, all the Hamilton men were dead, even Henry, who she’d never seen. Folks in town said he was killed six months ago in a car crash somewhere in Louisiana. As far as anyone knew he hadn’t been back to the place for forty years, but the Franklin sisters whispered that the crash had pushed both his car and him off the highway into water.

The man standing in the lake looked very much alive and was waving for help. Curiosity got the better of her, and Dakota turned away from her farm and toward Hamilton Acres.

A heartbeat later she slammed on her brakes.

The bridge that usually stretched across a stream that fed the lake was now halfway in the water. There must have been an accident: what looked like the back wheel of a motorcycle spun in the lake as if trying to tread water.

Jumping from the truck, she yelled to the man, “You need help?”

“No,” he yelled back. “I’m fine. My bike just wanted to go for a swim.”

Dakota frowned, then turned around. “Oh, all right. Sorry to bother you.” She climbed back into the truck.

“Wait.” The man stormed out of the water. “I’m sorry. The bridge gave way as I was leaving. I just watched a classic 1948 Harley drown.”

“I can see that.” She thought of asking what he was doing on Hamilton Acres in the first place, but she had a feeling he belonged here. Black hair. Angry. Too noisy to be a ghost. “Why don’t you pull it out and dry it off?”

“It doesn’t work that way. I’d have to take it apart and rebuild. It will no longer be original, and parts cost more than the bike, if I can find them.”

Too much information. She didn’t have time to visit or cry over the loss of a motorcycle.

Her grandmother had told her once that the men of this ranch only had two possible traits: stubborn or crazy.

This one had both, plus he had the look of a Hamilton. She’d bet his eyes were that funny color gray of a wolf. “Anything else you want to educate me about motorcycles? I need to get these supplies home.”

“You wouldn’t want to help me pull my bike out?” he asked in a calmer tone.

“Nope. I don’t go on Hamilton land. There’s a curse. Anyone named Davis who steps foot on that land dies a violent death.” She didn’t add by a Hamilton bullet. Never give ideas to the insane.

“We all die sometime, lady.”

She stepped into her truck. “I’ll have to test the curse later. Good luck with your bike.” Thunder rolled over the land as if pushing her away. “I’m in a hurry.”

“Wait. I’m sorry. Let me try again. I’m Blade Hamilton and I’ve just lost a sixty-thousand-dollar bike in the mud. Forgive me for not caring about an old curse or your groceries.”

“You’re forgiven, Hamilton, but I’m not stepping on your land. The good news is that bike isn’t going anywhere. It will still be right there in the mud tomorrow, but if I get these supplies wet, we’ll lose a week’s income.”

Lightning flashed as if on cue. The blink of light showed off the skeleton trees dancing in the wind near the water. Dakota fought the urge to gun the engine. For as long as she could remember she’d always feared this land. It felt like Halloween night without a light.

The man didn’t seem to notice the weather or the creepiness of the place. Who knew—maybe Hamiltons were used to scary nights.

“Fine,” he said. “Any chance you’d rent me your truck? I just need it for ten minutes and I’ll pay you fifty.”

“Nope,” she said. “But I’ll loan it to you if you’ll help me get these supplies under cover before it rains.”

“Deal,” he said, and walked toward the passenger side of her old Ford.

“In the back, Hamilton,” she ordered. “I don’t want mud all over my seats.” She fought the urge to add or you near enough to strangle me. Her grandmother told her once that there was an old cemetery, way back on Davis land, where all the deaths were recorded on headstones. Died in childbirth. Death from cholera. Died in accident. Death by Hamilton.

Besides, she didn’t have time to clean all the property listings off her passenger seat. Her mobile office was always a mess. Four mornings a week, the farm truck was her business vehicle.

He swung up into the bed of the truck with the ease of a man who’d done it many times and she started backing up before he was seated. The sooner she was home safe, the better. She’d loan him the pickup and tell him to just leave the keys in it. He could cross the pasture and walk back to his place easily enough.

The road was bumpy between her land and his, but she flew toward home, not much caring if the man bounced out or not. Her people had always hated Hamiltons. They told stories about how mean they were and even though she’d been told they were all dead, she felt it her ancestral duty to hate this new one.

So, why was she loaning him her truck?

Dakota shook her head. It was the neighborly thing to do. Having a grandmother with Apache blood and an Irish grandfather had messed her up for life.

A guy she’d dated a few years back broke up with her because he said she had Apache skills with a knife and an Irish temper. She almost hit him for insulting both sides of her family, but then she would have proved his point. She’d told him this was the twenty-first century and she was a skilled chef like her sister, which wasn’t true, but it sounded good. He left before she cooked him anything and proved herself a liar, as well. She heard him mumbling something about being afraid to sleep beside her for fear he’d be carved and thin sliced if he snored. He’d called her hotheaded just before he gunned the engine and shot out of her life.

Dakota gripped the steering wheel, realizing the old boyfriend had been right. She did have a temper, but with a Hamilton riding in the back of her truck, now didn’t seem the time for self-analysis.

She could be nice. She’d loan Hamilton the truck, and when he brought it back she’d tell him to never step foot on Davis land again. Simple enough.

When she slid to a stop a few feet from the kitchen door of her place, she glanced back. He was still there and raindrops were spatting against her windshield.

She jumped out and ran to haul the boxes of supplies to the cover of the porch.

To his credit, he did his share to help. More than his share, actually, because he carried a double load with each trip.

The guy was strong and obviously well built. And a biker. Black leather jacket. Leather pants hugging his legs. Boots to his knees. His cowboy ancestors were probably rolling over in their graves.

In a few minutes they had the boxes on the covered porch and the rain started pouring down in sheets.

“We made it.” She laughed. “Thanks. No supplies got wet.”

“I’m glad I could help. I’m already soaked so the rain won’t bother me.”

She decided he didn’t sound like he meant it about how glad he was to help. Maybe it was the tone in his voice—it didn’t sound right without a Texas twang. She frowned at him, wondering what northern state he’d come from.

He looked down at her with his gray wolf eyes and added, “If you got wet, you might shrink and then you’d be about elf size.”

Dakota studied him a moment. No obvious signs of insanity. “You don’t have many friends, do you, Hamilton?” She tossed him her key. “Park the truck at the turnoff on my land. You won’t have as far to walk. Leave the keys in the glove box.”

“Aren’t you afraid someone will steal it?”

“Nope. Nobody but you.”

He nodded and disappeared into the downpour.

Dakota straightened to her five-foot-two height and frowned. “Sounds just like what a Hamilton would say,” she mumbled, thinking it was obvious the Hamiltons had been the ones to start the feud.

Elf size. No one had ever called her that.