Something to Witch About (Wicked Witches of the Midwest Book 5) Read online

  I was airborne, sailing through a sea of nothingness. Then I was falling, the ground rushing up at me. I hit. Hard. And then everything went dark.

  EVERYTHING was gray. Was it night? Was it almost night? No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t even noon yet. How long was I unconscious? Had I lost an entire day?

  I struggled to a sitting position, glancing around to get my bearings. I didn’t recognize my surroundings. Hey, trees look like trees. In Ghost’s panic, I’d lost track of where he was headed. I had no idea where I was.

  Seriously, why is it so gray?

  “Where are you?”

  I straightened. I didn’t recognize the voice. Maybe Landon had organized a search party when he couldn’t find me. “I’m over here.”

  I waited. No one appeared, though. This wasn’t a great rescue. I put my hands to the ground and pushed up, gaining my footing. I expected pain, but I didn’t feel any. I didn’t know whether that was a good or bad sign. On one hand, no pain meant I wasn’t seriously hurt. On the other, I could be in shock and bleeding internally. I could be dying and not even know it. What? I’m a glass-half-empty girl.

  “Don’t make me come looking for you!”

  What kind of a search party doesn’t want to search? I probably got the lazy crew. Typical.

  I followed the voice, pushing through some shrubs and hoping to find a familiar face on the other side. Instead, a ramshackle building came into view. Where the heck am I? I’ve never seen this place before in my life.

  I sighed. Maybe the owners have a phone? Landon was probably worried. Dark was obviously approaching. I had no idea whether the rest of his family was even safe. I mentally cursed myself for leaving my phone in my saddlebag. It would’ve come in handy right about now.

  The front door of the cabin was ajar. I peered inside, praying to see someone I recognized. The small living room was empty, though. Great. I knocked on the door lightly. “Hello.”

  Nothing.

  I knocked again, louder this time. “I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “I got thrown by a horse and … well … I’m not even sure where I am. I was hoping to use your phone.”

  Still nothing.

  There were voices in the other room. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it wasn’t as though I had a lot of options. I walked through the living room and pushed the swinging door.

  What I found was … peculiar. A woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties – although the creases around her eyes hinted at a few more years – was cowering behind a ragged kitchen island.

  A man, his eyes blazing and the stink of whiskey wafting from his pores, stood a few feet away.

  “Um, I’m sorry to interrupt … .”

  “I feel fine,” he said. “I feel fabulous.”

  “I’m glad,” the woman said, obviously terrified.

  What the hell is going on here? “Listen, this looks like a really bad time,” I said. “I need a little help, though.”

  Neither one of them looked in my direction. That’s when I realized what was happening. “I’m not really here, am I?”

  I watched as the man walked to the stove and tipped the pot over, spilling its contents onto the rusted surface. “Well, I felt fabulous until I came home and found you cooking this slop again.”

  “I’m sorry. What would you like me to cook?”

  What an ass.

  “I don’t want anything you’re going to cook. You’re a terrible cook – and a terrible wife. My mother told me you would be, but I didn’t listen to her. I should’ve listened to her.”

  “Then why don’t you cook your own dinner,” I suggested. “Why should she have to cook anything for your ungrateful ass?”

  The woman was saying something, but it was hard to hear. Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “Don’t tell me what to do!”

  Why am I here? Am I dead? Is this hell? No, I shook my head. This was something else. There was a flash of … something. What was it? Where had I seen this before?

  “What are you saying? Are you saying I don’t pull my weight around here? That I’m lazy?” The man was enraged.

  Realization washed over me. “Floyd?”

  “You’re a good provider,” the woman said, shrinking as she pressed against the counter behind her.

  “Oh, Mrs. Gunderson,” I breathed. “You should’ve told someone.”

  “I am,” Floyd said. “You’re an awful wife, though.”

  “What you are is a dick,” I complained. “I can’t believe you got two women to fight over you.”

  “Please. Please don’t hurt me.” Her voice was piteous.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to teach you a lesson. You obviously need one.”

  “Don’t you touch her!” I realized this was a memory, one that didn’t even belong to me. I wanted to change the outcome, though. I needed to change the outcome.

  “Floyd, please, I’m begging you.”

  “Don’t beg, Ginny. It just makes me hate you more.”

  Floyd reached over, grabbing Mrs. Gunderson by her collar so he could hold her still as he struck her.

  Mrs. Gunderson grabbed the side of her face, crying out in pain.

  “Shut up!”

  I tried to grab him. I tried to stop him. I wasn’t really there, though. My hands passed through him, finding no flesh, no blood, no life to hold or strike.

  “Floyd, please!”

  “Just shut up,” he growled. “You have no idea how much I hate the sound of your voice.”

  Floyd reared back and hit her again. I closed my eyes, but could still hear the horror. When I opened them again, Mrs. Gunderson was on the floor, her body curled into a small ball. She wasn’t even trying to fight off his fists.

  “I hate you!”

  Another punch.

  “Stop. Please!”

  “You’re worthless!”

  Another punch.

  “Ugh.”

  “You’re nothing!”

  He lashed out with his foot, making contact with her ribs.

  “Floyd!”

  My blood ran cold. I recognized the new voice. When I turned, I saw her. Aunt Tillie. She was fifty years younger, but just as terrifying. She’d entered the kitchen through the swinging door as the beating progressed.

  Floyd straightened, moving his attention from Mrs. Gunderson’s prone body. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  “You step away from her,” Aunt Tillie warned.

  “Don’t tell me what to do! No bitch is going to tell me what to do!”

  “You’re a piece of shit, Floyd,” Aunt Tillie said, her voice chilling. “You’ve always been a piece of shit.”

  “You obviously need a lesson, too,” Floyd said. “I’ll be glad to teach you.”

  “Don’t you touch her,” I yelled, shivering as Floyd moved through my body in Aunt Tillie’s direction. “Don’t you touch her!”

  I didn’t see what happened next. The memory was gone. I jerked to a sitting position, my body screaming in protest.

  It was dark and I was alone. I was in the woods. Alone.

  “Crap.”

  Twenty-Two

  I ran my hands over my body, checking for signs of breaks and profuse bleeding. I was sore. No, I was in pain. Real, hardcore pain. Still, I couldn’t find any broken bones. That was a good sign. Right?

  I looked up, searching through the budding leaves in the tree canopy. The sun was high in the sky, but it was creeping toward the downward horizon. I’d lost most of the day.

  Crap.

  I raised my hand to my forehead, cringing when my fingers detected the pronounced bump near my hairline. Great. I probably had brain damage. That would be just my luck. Too bad this hadn’t happened the day before. I could’ve blamed my truthful pronouncements on brain damage.

  Dammit!

  I blew out a breath and planted my hands on the ground, splaying my fingers to improve my balance. I had to get up. Even if people were looking, ther
e was no guarantee they would find me. It’s a big area. I didn’t have a phone, so I couldn’t be tracked. I couldn’t rely on anyone else. I had to help myself.

  I gained my footing, swaying a few times and almost going down again, but my equilibrium slowly returned. Once erect, I saw what my eyes missed on first glance: The ruins of a house. No, the ruins of a shack. The Gunderson shack.

  The house was barely standing in the memory, a strong storm risking its ultimate destruction. Fifty years had almost wiped it from existence, only a brick foundation and weathered boards standing witness to a lost life of horror.

  I glanced around. I still wasn’t sure where I was. I could make an educated guess, though.

  I pointed my body toward the east – the opposite direction of the setting sun – and started to walk.

  Every step made me want to scream, my muscles protesting the trek, my head throbbing as it demanded rest. I pushed forward, one step in front of the other.

  I needed to distract myself, so I focused on the memory. Floyd’s memory. What did it mean?

  Well, Floyd was obviously an ass. A drunken ass, to be exact. A wife-beating ass. Why would Mrs. Little have an affair with him? I understood the pathology of a battered woman. They convince themselves they don’t deserve better, so they settle for less than nothing. Mrs. Little, though, she was a different story.

  Why was Aunt Tillie there? Did she know what was going to happen? Was she trying to stop it? Had she killed Floyd to stop it?

  What if she had? Floyd could’ve killed his wife. Aunt Tillie was protecting her. Why would they hide that?

  Something else was going on here.

  I caught a shadow in the distance. I stilled, sighing in relief when I realized it was the Dandridge. Help wasn’t too far away.

  It took me fifteen minutes to get there. Sam Cornell was the last person I wanted to see – especially now – but beggars can’t be choosers and I didn’t have another option.

  I knocked on the door, trying to decide what I should tell him when he opened it. One look at his surprised face, though, and my mind went blank.

  “Bay.”

  “I got thrown from a horse,” I blurted out.

  Sam’s brow furrowed as he ran a hand through his dark hair. “Are you okay?”

  “I probably have internal bleeding and I’m going to die.”

  “Are you being serious?”

  My body was almost numb now, so I wasn’t sure. “Possibly.”

  Sam looked over his shoulder, clearly unsure about what to do. “Well … come in.”

  I stumbled into the Dandridge, looking around curiously. I hadn’t been inside for almost a month, and Sam had obviously been busy. The furniture in the main room was covered with tarps – new drywall hanging and ready to be painted. “You’ve been busy.”

  “It’s a work in progress.”

  I heard a voice in the other room. “Who was at the door?”

  Clove. I freaking knew it!

  Clove froze when she saw me, stunned worry on her face and a damp dishtowel in her hand. She looked so … domestic. “Bay. What are you doing here? Are you following me?”

  “She was thrown from a horse,” Sam said, moving between the two of us.

  Clove’s brown eyes widened, finally seeing the signs she’d missed on first glance. “Oh … oh … are you okay?”

  “Do I look okay?”

  “You look … bad. You look really bad.” Clove took two small steps forward, lifting her hand to the side of my head, but pulling her fingers back before she made contact. “That looks really bad. Is that your only injury?”

  “I have no idea,” I replied. “My whole body hurts … and it’s numb. I hurt and I’m numb. I’m pretty sure that means I’m dying.”

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” Sam said.

  “No.”

  Sam raised his eyebrows, shifting his gaze between Clove and me. “I think you need to go to the hospital. You just said you were dying.”

  “I’ve been missing all day,” I replied. “I just want to go home.”

  “What do you mean you’ve been missing all day,” Clove said, her voice shrill. “I think someone would’ve called me if you’d been missing all day.”

  “Did someone call you?”

  Clove bit her lower lip. “Thistle has tried to call my phone five times today.”

  “I’m guessing she was trying to tell you.” My tone was cool, clipped. Clove was nervous and I was taking perverse pleasure in keeping her that way. I had no idea why.

  Clove paced to her purse, pulled her phone out and looked at the screen. I kept my face devoid of emotion as I watched her press a button and hold the phone to her ear so she could listen to her voicemail. Her face drained of color as the messages revealed a full-on Winchester meltdown. “Oh.” She started flapping her hands. “Oh.”

  I rolled my eyes. Leave it to Clove to have a panic attack when I was the one thrown from a freaking horse.

  Sam wrapped his arm around Clove’s shoulder in an effort to offer her support. “Are you okay?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “She doesn’t look fine,” Sam countered.

  “She’s dramatic.”

  “Aren’t you all?”

  “Point taken,” I said, holding my hand out. “Hand me her phone. She can be dramatic without her phone.”

  “I can call someone for you,” Sam offered, never moving from Clove’s side.

  I waved my hand again.

  Sam sighed, taking the phone from Clove and handing it over. I hit the keypad and started to punch in a number. That’s when I realized I didn’t know Landon’s number. It was programmed into my phone but not my mind. Ugh! I hate technology. I typed in Thistle’s number instead.

  She picked up on the first ring. “I’ve been calling you all day! I know you’re being all self-absorbed and hiding something – and I don’t really care what … okay, I care, but we have bigger worries right now. Bay is missing!”

  “It’s me.”

  “Bay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you been with Clove all day? Half the town is out searching for you. I’m going to kill you.”

  “I was thrown from a horse.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I was thrown from a horse,” I repeated. “I was thrown from a horse and I woke up in … hell. I woke up in hell.”

  “Are we talking literally or figuratively?”

  “Both.”

  “How did you end up with Clove?”

  “Well, when I woke up, I started walking. I found myself at the Dandridge.”

  “I still don’t understand what that has to do with Clove.”

  “Think about it,” I replied through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Send Landon to come get me.”

  “She’s been sleeping with Sam?”

  I glanced over at Clove, watching as Sam rubbed her back and whispered something in her ear. “That would be my guess. I haven’t gotten to see the actual show, though.”

  “What’s her excuse?”

  “Did I mention I got thrown from a horse?”

  “Yeah. I heard you the first time … and the second.”

  “Send Landon to come get me.”

  “He’s not here,” Thistle said. “He’s out looking for you. Everyone is out looking for you. He went with Marcus because Marcus thought they could cover more ground on horseback. He’s a mess, by the way.”

  “Then you come and get me.”

  “I’m supposed to stay here in case anyone calls with an update,” Thistle said.

  “I’m calling with an update,” I snapped. “Come out here and get me.”

  Thistle quieted on the other end of the phone for a moment. “Are you all right?”

  “Come and get me now.”

  “Bay … .”

  “Now!”

  THISTLE arrived fifteen minutes later, greeting Clove with a chilly glare befor
e focusing on me. “You look terrible. I think I should take you to the hospital.”

  “Take me home.”

  “Are you sure? What if you have internal bleeding?”

  “Then I’ll die at home.”

  “You seem … off,” Thistle said. “Has she been like this since she got here?”

  “You mean bitchy? Yeah, she’s been like that since she got here,” Sam said. “She’s been nothing but mean to Clove.”

  “Maybe that’s because Clove deserves it,” Thistle said.

  “Why? Because she’s been seeing me?” Sam was spoiling for a fight.

  “I’m not thrilled she’s dating you,” Thistle admitted. “You’re … a tool, quite frankly, but that’s not why I’m angry.”

  “I think that’s exactly why you’re angry,” Sam countered.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then why are you mad?”

  “Because she’s a big, fat liar,” Thistle said. “She’s a big, fat liar and hider and I’m really, really ticked off about it.”

  “I got thrown by a horse,” I muttered.

  No one bothered looking in my direction.

  “Maybe she wanted some privacy,” Sam suggested.

  “Maybe I don’t care,” Thistle replied. “When I wanted privacy she and Bay stalked Marcus behind my back.”

  “We thought he was a murderer,” Clove protested.

  “Well, maybe I think Sam is a murderer.”

  “I’m not a murderer,” Sam said.

  “He’s not a murderer,” Clove whined.

  “I don’t care what he is,” Thistle said. “I care that she lied. If she’s lying, that means she knows something is wrong with you. That’s what I care about.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with him,” Clove echoed.

  That was it. I couldn’t take it one more second. “I. GOT. THROWN. FROM. A. HORSE!”

  Thistle jerked, focusing on me. “Stop being so dramatic and get in the car. I’m done here anyway.”

  I started shuffling toward the door, fighting the urge to throttle both Thistle and Clove.

  “Does everything have to be about you?” Thistle grumbled.