Mountain Heiress. Cassie Miles

which meant the defroster was defunct and she had to crack a window, which let in the rain. She was wet and cold and, just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, the lightning started.

      Zigzag bolts of raw electricity slashed the darkness. In the flash, she saw a stark vision. The clawing branches of a thick forest seemed to grab at her car. Jagged rocks appeared at the edge of the road like evil, ancient sentinels. She glimpsed movement. Something was out there. Probably zombies.

      She’d been driving four days—four long, miserable days—across the country. Finally, she was close to her destination. She couldn’t give up.

      Thunder rumbled like a barrage of cannons. Her fingers tensed on the steering wheel. This morning when she’d started out, the June weather had been hot enough that she’d put on a pair of high-waisted chino shorts and platform sandals—an unfortunate choice of outfit because she was freezing cold. Her legs rippled with goose bumps. Her toes were numb.

      Another bolt of lightning cut through the sky. The thunder roared and rumbled.

      “Enough.” She couldn’t take much more. “Come on, Universe. Give me a break.”

      If it stopped raining, she’d never criticize the weather again. Was the Universe open to a deal like that? “If I find my way, I’ll give up anything. No more chocolate. No more overdrafts in the checking account.”

      She needed something bigger to deal with, something more important, something life-changing. She needed the barely worn, red-soled Christian Louboutin heels she’d picked up secondhand before she left civilization. “That’s right, the Louboutins. Go ahead, Universe. Take my shoes. Just let me find the place I’m looking for.”

      A flash of lightning showed a carved wood sign: Rousseau’s Roost. An arrow pointed left. This is it!

      As the thunder rattled around her, she made the turn. She had asked, and the Universe had answered. She was on her way, nearly there. Survival was within her grasp. Did she really have to give up the shoes?

      The final stretch of road to Rousseau’s Roost was marked by deep ruts. On the plus side, she was moving away from the scary trees, heading across an open space with a barbed wire fence to her left. Things were looking better, much better. The rain seemed to be letting up.

      In another crackle-boom of lightning, she saw the outline of a two-story house with a wraparound porch. In photographs, Rousseau’s Roost had a rustic charm that appealed to Gabby. She couldn’t believe she owned half of this property. She’d been on her own since she was eighteen, and her living space in Brooklyn had been a series of one-room apartments. Now she was a home owner with a house and a barn and acreage.

      Her great-aunt Michelle—who Gabby had met exactly five times in her whole life—had left the property to Gabby and her older brother, Daniel, whom she hadn’t heard from since her twenty-third birthday party three years ago. Every attempt she’d made to find him and tell him about this strange windfall had fallen flat, which made her sad. With Aunt Michelle dead, her jerk of a brother was her only living relative. She wouldn’t really mind splitting the inheritance with him if they could be a family again.

      When she parked in front of the house, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. She turned off the engine. It was entirely possible that the car wouldn’t start up again in the morning, but she’d deal with that problem when it happened.

      The lawyer who’d contacted her had sent the key to the front door, which she had already attached to the key ring that held her car keys, a couple of keys to friends’ apartments that she really ought to mail back to them, a lipstick-sized container of pepper spray and one very special set of rhinestone-embellished keys that she had hoped would unlock her fondest dreams. She remembered the day when she and her three friends had used these keys to open the door to the storefront shop on Myrtle Street. For almost two years, they ran a little boutique where—in addition to seamstress work and fittings—Gabby got to show off her original designs. Then the money ran out.

      She pulled her pink hoodie over her damp brown hair and shoved open the car door. All of her earthly belongings were jammed into her compact car, but her primary necessities were in a red polka-dot carry-on she’d kept on the passenger seat beside her. Wrestling that suitcase past the steering wheel, she started toward the front door. Mud splashed on her black platform sandals. No big tragedy, these shoes were past their prime.

      The mountain sounds bore no resemblance to the hum of people and cars and electricity in Brooklyn. Out here, she could hear the splat of the raindrops, the rustle of wind through the branches of a leafy tree at the side of the house and—as she stepped onto the porch—a heavy thud like a door slamming. Had that sound come from inside the house?

      She stood very still and listened with her ear against the door. She heard a creak and a shuffle as though someone was walking on tiptoe, trying not to be heard. But that couldn’t be right. Nobody was supposed to be here. The lawyer had told her that the house wasn’t occupied. Did she have an intruder? A squatter?

      Her phone was dead so she couldn’t call 911 for help. She’d have to face this threat by herself. Okay, fine. I’m from the big city. I know how to handle muggers. First rule, don’t get too close. Second, make a loud yell to startle them. Rule number three, run like hell.

      But where could she run? Turning around on the porch, she squinted through the misty rain until she saw the lights of another house in the distance. All she had to do was drive to the neighbor’s place.

      Listening again, she didn’t hear another sound. Maybe she’d imagined the slamming door and the squeaky floorboards. If there wasn’t really an intruder, she’d feel like a dope, running away from an invisible boogeyman.

      She cleared her throat and pitched her voice to a low, authoritative level. “Hello? Is anybody here?”

      Nothing.

      Setting her suitcase to one side, she turned the key in the front door until it clicked. When she eased the door open, the hinges whined. An old house like this was bound to make creaks and thumps and rustles. Stepping across the threshold, she reached for the place beside the door where a light switch ought to be. Her fingers glided down the wall. No switch.

      The faint light from a couple of stars peeking around the edge of the clouds shone on the carpeted floor in the entryway. The curtains were drawn inside the house, making the interior even darker than outside. She stumbled into a large room, walking like a blind woman with her arms out in front of her until she bumped into a table with a lamp. Groping along the base, she found the switch and turned it on.

      A pale glow lit up the parlor. Her great-aunt Michelle had been an artist and was fairly successful, even had some showings in Manhattan. Her taste showed in the eclectic furnishings, which were a crazy combo of claw-foot tables, sleek-lined sofas and jewel-toned pillows.

      “Nice,” Gabby said. In spite of the desolation, she could get used to living in a place like this.

      From the corner of her eye, she saw movement and whirled around. Standing on the carved, wood staircase in the entryway was the figure of a brown-haired woman in a long, white gown. Not a zombie. Maybe a ghost? Gabby blinked. Was Great-Aunt Michelle haunting the place?

      “Who are you?” the ghost demanded.

      “Me? Who are you?” Gabby shot back.

      “Get out!”

      “This is my house.” Gabby’s fingers tightened on the pepper spray. Ghost or not, this person was skinny and the voice was female. If this came down to a physical confrontation, Gabby liked her odds.

      In a rush, the ghost descended the staircase. Her long, stringy hair fell past her shoulders almost to her waist. On the landing that was three steps up from the wooden newel post carved in the shape of a gargoyle, the ghost reached down. When she stood, she was holding a rifle.

      “Now,” the ghost said. “Tell me who you are.”

      The odds had shifted. Gabby had the good sense to be scared. She raised her hands beside her head and moved toward the staircase.