Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1) (17 page)

Okay, maybe that was a bit too much truth telling.

But Abby just nodded. She had no illusions. She knew this wasn't a radio hit.
 

"But it's catchy. It's got a good rhythm," he continued.

Caine relaxed and Cassie's look turned slightly less murderous. But Mike was only being truthful. The song, especially the part about the country fair, was practically a dance tune.

"I could definitely see this opening for someone like Alison Krauss," he concluded.

Abby smiled in relief. Cassie sat back on her log, having apparently decided to spare Mike's life, and Caine relaxed.

"Well, I think the label is hoping for The Band Perry," Abby said, grinning. "But Alison Krauss sounds good to us."

"So the rest of the band is on board?" Mike asked somewhat surprised. This was definitely not a traditional country song.

But Abby nodded. "They used to do honky-tonk ballads," she said. "But that market is beyond saturated. They're hoping the ghost songs will set them apart."

Caine's eyes lit up.

"Songs plural?" he asked. "You have more?"

"Yep." She picked up her mandolin. "This one is a real campfire song, believe it or not. The original version is called 'Lord Randall,' but I'm calling this version 'Speckled and Spotted.'"

Mike settled back to listen. He liked the tune so far, but really hoped the song wouldn't be about another haunted object. The song about the possessed mandolin had struck a bit too close. It reminded him that he had a battered leather box in his duffel bag that belonged to Cole.

And he hadn't delivered it yet.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

"S
O
," A
BBY
purred adopting her huskiest, sexiest voice. "Pink unicorns with hearts or purple space unicorns? Make your choice."

They were inside the tent, preparing to go to sleep. Well, okay, in her case, preparing
not
to go to sleep. She was still wound up from the impromptu concert.
 

It was dark and cozy, and the only illumination came from her vintage camping lamp. The rest of the group had also turned in for the night and the campsite was quiet. Well, mostly quiet, Caine and Cassie were still arguing about turkey vultures, but that particular fight should be over soon.

Or, at least she hoped it would be over soon. She had other plans for the night.

She smiled at Mike's panicked expression. The pink unicorn sleeping bag was very, very pink, but the purple one was even worse and Mike shook his head, looking completely lost.

"How about we share?" she said. "Purple on the bottom and pink on the top."

He grimaced.

"Can we keep the poop star cloud on the bottom?" he asked.

She laughed. "Sure."

She lay out the purple sleeping bag on the floor, pushing Mike's duffle bag to the side to make space. Man, that thing was heavy. It was like he had his whole life in there, all packed up and ready to go at a moment's notice. The thought was unpleasant.

Mike grabbed the bag and dragged it out of the way. Then he paused and looked at it, his face serious. He opened one of the front pockets, reconsidered it, and closed it.

"Um, Abby..." he started.

"That thing weighs a million pounds," she interrupted in a quiet voice. "Is that everything you own?"

Probably. She remembered quite clearly when all of her possessions had fit into a duffle bag, although in her case it had been a black synthetic bag with a picture of a turkey playing the trombone on the side. Her high school band had gotten it as a prize for marching in Macy's Thanksgiving Parade.
 

But now she had a house and a band and a precious mandolin.

Mike let out a breath and pushed the bag to the side. "Well, I just bought a car. So it's not quite everything that I own." He grabbed the sleeping bag. "C'mon, let's get going."

She nodded, pleased. She knew the car was a good start. She bent down to spread out the pink sleeping bag, but her tent was quite small and she bumped against Mike, pressing him against the duffle bag.

"Sorry," Mike said, trying to make space. "Abby, I have something..."

"Sorry for what?" She arched against him, feeling completely unrepentant. Mike felt strong and warm and their morning sexcapades seemed eons away.
 

"Er..." Mike seemed hesitant and she pressed against him again. An odd expression crossed his face almost like...guilt?

She pushed the thought away and gave him her most beguiling smile.

"I'm not sorry," she purred. "Not at all."

Mike stared at her, finally catching on. She bumped him again, her breasts brushing against his arm, and, this time, he bumped her back. She twisted, capturing him in a tight embrace and leaned in for a kiss. Things were about to get interesting when a loud shout rang out outside. A bobbing flashlight swept over their tent and she winced as the bright light hit her eyes.

"No vultures, Caine," Cassie screamed. "We have a deal. I signed up under certain conditions. No vultures, no mangy foxes, and no Elvira costumes."

"Be reasonable, Cassie," Caine whined. "Just a little one? The Raleigh guys have a fuzzy baby one. You'll love it, it's adorable."

"Absolutely not." Cassie's voice was firm.

"Okay, fine," Caine sighed. "How about a condor? I can get one from The San Diego group."

An eruption of loud clanging noises made her jump. She wasn't the only one startled as a loud owl screech followed the cacophony. The eerie sound faded away and they heard tent zippers open and close, then blessed darkness fell as the flashlight was turned off.

Mike sighed with relief, and Abby giggled.

"Don't laugh," he whispered. "I was afraid I'd have to come back to babysit a giant buzzard."

He smiled as he said it, but Abby frowned. The thought of Mike leaving made her heart hurt. Surely he was starting to like the town.

"C'mon," she said, leaning close so their lips were almost touching. "It hasn't been that bad, has it?"
 

"Well." He looked thoughtful. "I guess the singing was okay."

She punched him on the arm. He grabbed her arms and pulled her down onto the purple unicorn sleeping bag, making sure his body cushioned her fall. She turned and deployed her deadliest weapon.

Tickles. To her surprise and delight, Mike turned out to be extremely sensitive to tickles. He twisted and turned trying to avoid her nimble fingers, but it was in vain.

"Fine," Mike wheezed. "I admit it, it was more than okay."

Satisfied, she stopped tickling him. "That's better."

"It was absolutely brilliant," he said, looking into her eyes. "The songs were lovely and catchy and sad and haunting at the same time. I have no idea how you did it, but it was brilliant."

He was vehemently sincere, and, even though it was the result she was looking for, his praise embarrassed her.

"Of course they're haunting," she said, trying, as usual, to deflect the compliment. "They're ghost songs. That's kind of their job."

"No, I mean that they get stuck in your head. You can't stop thinking about them."

"Well, they're old ballads. They survived for a reason. And, usually, it's because of a common theme: fear."

"Fear?"

"Yep. That's how I managed to adapt the 'The Two Sisters.' At first I thought the story was about the murder, about revenge, but that didn't work. The song had no pull, no hook. Then I realized, it's not about the dead sister, it's about the murderess and her fear of getting caught."

"Oh."

"That's why I put in all the peppy country fair music. You get to picture her, dancing with her sweetheart, and you're just waiting, holding your breath, dying to see if she is found out."

Mike shifted under her. He seemed uncomfortable.

"You okay?" she asked, pulling away. "Am I too heavy?"

"No." He pulled her closer. "You're fine."

"I'm glad you liked the song," she said shyly.

"I didn't exactly like it," he said.

"Hey," she squealed. "What does that mean?"

"It's more like I couldn't get it out of my head." He stared at the tent's ceiling. "You know, the whole thing about the golden strings and the ghost in the guitar."

She smiled, feeling absurdly pleased with herself. "That's good. That's better than liking. That means it works, it has a hook."

A joyful feeling bubbled through her like fizzy pink champagne, and she reached up for a kiss. "But that's enough about my songs," she said, pulling up his shirt. "I have another hook I'd like to show you."
 

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-O
NE

M
IKE
WOKE
up, disoriented. Was it reveille already?
 

No, it was still dark and the sun wouldn't be up for a while. And he wasn't in the base anymore, not by a long shot. He was in a tent with Abby, snuggled under a sparkly pink sleeping bag.
 

He drew her closer, nuzzling her neck. This was as far from the U.S. Army as he could get.

Another owl screech sounded in the distance. Rusty's socializing must have woken him up. Mike was wide-awake in the middle of the barn owl happy hour.

Abby, on the other hand, was fast asleep. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and peaceful, and her dark hair was spread out over the sleeping bag. The owl calls did not bother her at all. Living in Banshee Creek must acclimate you to weird night noises.

He carefully extricated himself from her embrace. She frowned, muttering something, but settled down. Then, still asleep, she started humming.

The humming turned into quiet singing.

This was a common occurrence. He'd found that out in the past two nights. He was a light sleeper and he'd woken up a couple of times to find her humming a melody or mouthing lyrics in her sleep. Sometimes she smiled and nodded, and other times she shook her head impatiently and muttered "nope, not right."

All of this while fast asleep.

This was one of the smiling times. She was humming the chorus to the "Girls of Gold" song and she seemed pretty pleased with herself.

And she should be, it was a great song. Unfortunately, it was also a song that reminded him of...things he really didn't want to think about, things undone and vows unkept.

He glanced at his duffle bag, lying innocently next to the tent entrance. Yep, speaking of haunted objects, what about the torture box he'd been carrying around for the past two years? It wasn't as dramatic as a murder accusation, but it was still a loose end...something left undone.
 

Damn, he hated unmet responsibilities and he hated feeling like he had not done his duty.

He should have given her the box yesterday, or, better yet, the day he arrived. He should have just handed it over as soon as he saw her on the street in front of 12 Hooded Owl Road. Or, even better, avoided seeing her altogether and just left the box on her doorstep with the note he'd written.

That was his original mission plan. Take the bus to Banshee Creek, leave the package, and take the bus back to Arlington.

Quick, simple, neat.

But he didn't do that. Instead, he'd gone to The World's Biggest Costume Party, drunk too much cider, and peeled off Abby's leather costume in the attic.

But the peeling-off part had been fun. No, more than fun. Being with Abby made him feel...things that he really didn't want to think about. But now he was stuck, up Banshee Creek without a paddle so to speak. The nagging feeling of guilt he'd carried for the past twenty-four hours was suddenly overwhelming. The tent suddenly felt too small and confining, like a cheap plastic cage.

He crawled out of the tent, trying to clear his head. The crisp, cool air helped a bit. He put on his boots and stepped out on the dew-covered grass. Ah, humidity, you don't miss it until it's gone. The sky was dark and covered with stars, and it looked a lot like Abby's purple sleeping bag. All it needed was a shiny unicorn riding the Milky Way.

A lone figure crossed the campsite, heading for the owl cage. Mike checked his watch, dawn was still an hour away. Actually, more like an hour and a half. Not a good time to be up and around. He picked up his flashlight and followed the figure. He wasn't happy to be woken up from a sound sleep either, but strigiformicide was not the answer.

The figure waved at him as he neared the cage. It was Cassie and she was carrying the owl feeding kit. She took out a frozen mouse and fed it to Rusty.

"There you go," she said. "Now sit quietly and digest that for a while."

She turned to Mike.

"Did he wake you up?" she asked. "Sorry about that. He's nocturnal, so this is about dinner time for him."

"And you are on feeding duty?"

She nodded. "Yep," she said. "I'm usually the one who gets to keep stuff alive. It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it." She closed the cage and covered it, humming as she worked.

Mike grinned. "Catchy song isn't it?"

"It sure is." She checked the cage one last time. "I'm going to use it for my class next semester."

"You teach?"

"Yes, Folklore and Mythology at William and Mary." She grimaced. "But I'm only an adjunct so I'm stuck teaching the intro classes. Next semester is Perspectives on American History and I'm going to try to spice it up with some music. I'll use Abby's song and some Bob Dylan protest songs too. They're also based on Child Ballads."

"You mean they're kid songs?"

She laughed. "No." A slightly superior smile accompanied her denial. "Francis James Child was a nineteenth century Harvard professor and folklorist. He traveled to Britain and Scotland looking for old traditional ballads. He felt the old oral traditions were disappearing due to industrialism and he wanted to preserve them. He created a traditional song collection that is still considered the best of its kind. The folk music revival in the sixties made the songs popular again. You know? Dylan, Baez and all those singers?"

Her enthusiasm for the subject made him smile. "And Emmylou Harris," he replied.

"Yes." She gave him an encouraging pat on the arm. "You know your stuff. I can use the Joan Baez songs too, those are awesome. But no Paul Simon." She shook her head firmly. "I can't stand Scarborough Fair. I'll use Dylan's 'Girl from the North Country' instead."