The Arrangement (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 10)

  The Arrangement

  A Witches of Cleopatra Hill Novella

  Christine Pope

  Dark Valentine Press

  Contents

  The Witches of Cleopatra Hill

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Also by Christine Pope

  About the Author

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE ARRANGEMENT

  Copyright © 2017 by Christine Pope

  Published by Dark Valentine Press

  Cover design by Lou Harper

  Ebook formatting by Indie Author Services

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without permission in writing from its publisher, Dark Valentine Press.

  Please contact the author through the form on her website at www.christinepope.com if you experience any formatting or readability issues with this book.

  To be notified about new releases by Christine Pope, including upcoming titles in the Witches of Cleopatra Hill series, please sign up here.

  The Witches of Cleopatra Hill

  (Listed in chronological order, not order of publication)

  Darkangel

  Darknight

  Darkmoon

  Sympathetic Magic

  A Cleopatra Hill Christmas

  Protector

  Spellbound

  The Arrangement

  Impractical Magic

  Strange Magic

  Defender (May 2017)

  To be notified about new releases by Christine Pope, including upcoming titles in the Witches of Cleopatra Hill series, please sign up here.

  1

  Arizona Territory, October 1885

  A train whistle pierced the crisp October air, mournful, echoing off the pine forests that surrounded the mountain town. Jeremiah Wilcox paused on the doorstep of the Hotel San Francisco and waited until the last note had died away completely. Even though a year had passed, he still couldn’t quite prevent that familiar sound from evoking memories of the young woman who had arrived in Flagstaff accompanied by the whistle of the Atlantic and Pacific rail.

  However, it was not the train which had brought her. No, Jeremiah had been able to sense immediately that the newcomer was a witch, but it was not until she was about to disappear as mysteriously as she had arrived that he learned the truth about her, that she was not Eliza Prewitt, runaway bride from St. Louis, but his own niece, Danica Wilcox…although five generations removed from him and the world he knew in 1880s Arizona. The Wilcox blood and its strength appeared to have bred true, for she had accomplished a feat of magic that no other witch or warlock he’d ever heard of had been able to perform. She had traveled through time to be here, to save a young man whose heart had somehow called out to her across the unfathomable depths of time.

  Perhaps Jeremiah could smile a little at the memory, now that he had allowed some time of his own to pass. For he’d felt himself drawn to her, had hoped against hope that she might be the one to prevail against Nizhoni’s dreadful curse. It was not to be, of course; he knew that now. Yes, there were some who might have said that with so many generations separating them, the blood relationship was slight at best, but he would never have pressed her for something more, not once he knew the truth of who she was.

  Not that he’d been given the chance. For Danica left this time to return to her own, and had taken her wounded lover with her, so he might be healed in that far future world, one Jeremiah could hardly begin to imagine. All he knew was that Danica had assured him the Wilcox clan thrived and was prosperous and strong, even in her own time.

  He tried his best to be content in that knowledge. Some days, he almost managed to convince himself that his life was whole, that he did not require anything beyond what he already had. But it was difficult to see the happiness of his siblings and their spouses, and know he would never have that same happiness for himself. And he did not dare avail himself of the services of the young women who worked in Flagstaff’s saloons, for he could not risk one of them falling pregnant. That would be as good as signing a woman’s death warrant. Jeremiah thought he had enough blood on his hands, even though none of it had been remotely intentional.

  The disappearance of “Eliza Prewitt” and her lover, Robert Rowe, had been the talk of the town for weeks. Some might have whispered of foul play, for it was well known that the Wilcoxes, especially Jeremiah’s brother Samuel, had no love lost for the missing Mr. Rowe. But Jeremiah quietly cast an enchantment to remove all of Danica’s belongings from her room at Mrs. Wilson’s boarding house, and did the same thing with the items left behind in Mr. Rowe’s room at the San Francisco Hotel, so that in the end everyone agreed that the two of them must have simply run off together. Indeed, wagging tongues being what they were, it wasn’t too terribly long before people began to claim that they had seen the couple boarding the westbound train. Headed to San Francisco, no doubt, as that was the main destination for anyone going in that direction.

  Jeremiah knew better. The couple had gone much farther than the West Coast. But he also knew how to be discreet, a quality that served him in good stead when several of Mr. Rowe’s relatives arrived in town a month or so later, braving the first snows of winter to investigate what had happened to their lost warlock. Those relatives included Robert’s father, an older, more chiseled version of his son, right down to the same bright blue eyes, and a Winfield witch Jeremiah hadn’t recognized, although he knew he must be distantly related to her somehow, since the Wilcox clan had split away from the Winfields some time earlier.

  Mary Winfield had radiated suspicion the way a drunk might radiate whiskey fumes. Jeremiah supposed she did have every right to be suspicious, for if it had not been for Danica’s intervention, Robert Rowe most likely would have died at Wilcox hands, shot by Jeremiah’s younger brother Samuel. But Jeremiah also knew that Robert was safe, if forever separated from his kin.

  So it had not been difficult at all to look Mary straight in her no-nonsense dark eyes and state with all honesty that yes, it was true — Mr. Robert Rowe had taken off with the new schoolmistress, and no one had seen them since.

  The Winfield witch had not been happy, but neither had she argued, because she was a truth-teller, one who could sense lies and deceit. She knew Jeremiah had told her the truth. And then he smoothed out the situation further by offering to buy the piece of land Robert Rowe had purchased not long before his disappearance.

  “For I am sure your clan has no need of it,” Jeremiah said, “and perhaps my purchase of the parcel will help a little by returning those funds to your family’s coffers.”

  Although Mary Winfield had not looked terribly pleased by this development, William Rowe accepted the overture, and thanked Jeremiah for his generosity. And they had left on the train the next day. That appeared to be the end of the matter, although it took most of the winter for the tension to entirely ease itself from Jeremiah’s neck, since he could not be sure that a contingent of Winfields
might not still descend, wishing to continue the investigation of the unnatural “luck” of the Wilcox clan that Robert Rowe had begun.

  They never appeared, though, and life continued at its usual pace. The children grew taller, and Jeremiah’s brother Nathan and his wife Jennie added another boy to their brood. And during that time, Jeremiah’s own son Jacob turned eight, although the child did not seem terribly pleased by the prospect, despite the occasion being celebrated with cake and ice cream and presents. In truth, Jacob never seemed pleased by much of anything, watching and observing, but never joining in.

  And Jeremiah was damned if he knew what he should do about it.

  A flash of deep wine color caught his eye, and he glanced over toward the depot. Descending its wooden steps was a woman he’d never seen before — not so surprising, as he guessed she must have just alighted from the train. But it wasn’t her status as a stranger that made him want to stare.

  She was beautiful, with the sort of looks that would catch any man’s eyes. Her raven-dark hair fell in long, perfectly formed curls down her back, and her skin was smooth as cream. The modishly draped bustle dress she wore perfectly accented the curves of her figure, although, as befitted a traveling gown, it covered her to the neck. Gold and jet drops hanging from her ears glinted in the sun as she walked.

  In one hand she held a valise, and in the other a parasol. Behind her trotted a pretty young woman in a severe dark dress, clearly a lady’s maid, a hatbox in her right hand and another valise swinging from her left.

  This apparition was so unexpected that a moment passed before Jeremiah realized he was staring. And in the next instant, he realized the woman and her companion were headed in his direction.

  Of course they were. He stood on the porch of the Hotel San Francisco, a natural enough destination for a visitor to Flagstaff — or even a resident, for the more well-heeled men in town preferred to take their drinks there, rather than at the rowdier saloons over on Humphreys Street. Jeremiah himself had just finished a shot of whiskey, a reward to himself after going over the books with the family’s accountant. At any rate, it wasn’t so extraordinary that this enchanting stranger would be headed in his direction — even if said stranger happened to be a beautiful woman who also appeared to be quite on her own, except for her maidservant.

  There was no time to hurry away without his departure seeming terribly obvious. Jeremiah was forced to stand his ground, although he directed his gaze elsewhere, pretending not to notice her until she was almost upon him.

  A tip of the hat and a neutral “ma’am” seemed safe enough. Then she was safely past…but not before she had offered a brilliant smile in response to his greeting. Just that flash of white teeth, and the charming dimple which appeared in her cheek next to her mouth, was enough to send an unwanted rush of heat through him, followed by an ache in places he had fought to ignore over the past few years.

  No, he told himself, you cannot be interested in her. You cannot. She must be only passing through. And then she will be safely gone, whoever she is.

  He made himself walk down the steps of the hotel and head home to his empty house on Leroux Street. He would not allow himself to look back.

  Lorena Simms found herself unexpectedly distracted as she went about the business of checking into the hotel. Luckily, the man at the front desk did not seem inclined to give her any trouble, not after the surreptitious glance at the wedding band on her left hand and the mourning locket of jet that glittered at her throat. Lorena still felt rather conspicuous about wearing color, but nearly five years had passed since Walter’s death. No one could fault her for taking off the unbecoming grays and lilacs of half-mourning. The wine-colored gown she wore now was her way of telling herself that it was time to move on.

  In more ways than one. As she signed her name to the register, she couldn’t quite keep her thoughts from straying to the man she had passed when she entered the hotel. What a striking figure he had been, tall and with coal-black eyes that didn’t seem to miss a single detail of her person. However, he had been carefully polite, with only a tipped hat and a murmured “ma’am” to indicate that he had noticed her at all.

  But she rather thought he had. She was used to that sort of thing, had been pursued in her youth as a beautiful heiress, and again now that she was a wealthy, attractive widow. It was not vanity to admit such things to herself, only a recognition of the way things were.

  However, she could tell from the expensive silk brocade of the stranger’s waistcoat and the richness of the gold watch chain draped across it that he certainly did not lack for wealth himself. So she did not think he was a bounder, the sort of man always on the lookout for an unattached woman with money. And the way he had stood there, watching the street beyond the hotel, made her think rather of a ruler surveying his kingdom. He clearly belonged here, was as much a part of this place as the high mountains and deep forests that ringed the town.

  She had intended her stay in Flagstaff as only a brief stop, a few days to stretch her legs and take in some scenery before continuing on her way to San Francisco. After all, she was expected there. While Walter was alive, they had enjoyed their positions as some of that city’s greatest hosts. With her deep mourning behind her, and after spending the years since his death in their other home in New York, she intended to return to the West Coast and take up her role as the doyenne of a fashionable salon. Perhaps that would be enough to erase the ache inside her, the emptiness she still couldn’t quite fill, no matter how many exhibitions and concerts and balls she attended.

  Now, though….

  She thought of the man she had just seen, of the way those piercing black eyes met hers and then shifted away. The smallest of shivers went through her, but they were pleasant shivers, evoking a time when she and her body had both felt alive.

  Perhaps she would extend her stay.

  She needed to find out who he was.

  2

  “You are woolgathering today,” his sister Emma remarked as Jeremiah sat in her parlor.

  “Am I?” he responded. For some reason, his gaze kept straying to the window, as if he somehow thought that exotic stranger would come wandering down Leroux Street. Which was patently ridiculous. Of course she would stay in the more public areas on San Francisco Street and Aspen Avenue. She had no reason to come down here.

  None at all.

  “Yes, you are,” Emma said. “It is a good thing the children are all still in school, or they would surely think there was something wrong with their uncle.”

  No more so than usual, he thought grimly. But he did not respond, only lifted the teacup Emma had set before him and took a swallow. The tea was quite strong, the way he liked it, although after the whiskey he’d drunk at the hotel’s bar, it tasted insipid.

  “Perhaps it is the time of year,” his sister went on. Her dark eyes, so much like his, were narrowed slightly as she regarded him for a moment. Then she retrieved her own teacup from the table before them, although she didn’t drink, only held the fine bone china cup in her long, graceful fingers. “It has been almost exactly a year, hasn’t it, Jeremiah?”

  “Yes,” he replied, wishing she had not brought up the subject.

  She was the only one he had confided in. Even now, after so many months had passed, he found himself barely able to speak to Samuel. Jeremiah put on the best face he could when the children were present, but he saw no reason to reward his brother with any sort of courtesy when they were alone. Not when he had nearly murdered Robert Rowe, had almost brought the wrath of the Winfields down upon them.

  Almost broken Danica’s heart.

  But Jeremiah had told his sister the truth of what had happened. Emma was wise enough to keep her own counsel. Although she loved her husband dearly, her first loyalty was to her brother as primus, and to this fledgling clan he led. She had never revealed Jeremiah’s confession to anyone else.

  In that moment, though, he rather wished he had not confided in his sister. Those long-lashe
d dark eyes of hers missed very little. Although he had said nothing of the regard he’d begun to feel for Danica, Emma was able to guess well enough what he’d hidden in his heart.

  “A year, and yet you still have not forgiven Samuel.”

  The words were spoken calmly enough, and yet Jeremiah could still sense the smoldering anger within him begin to flame into something much more brilliant…and dangerous. “He is not worthy of my forgiveness. His hotheaded ways could have sent us all to ruin.”

  “Perhaps,” Emma allowed. At last she drank some of her tea, then set the cup back down on its saucer. She folded her hands, the new sapphire and pearl ring Aaron had bought her for their anniversary gleaming on her middle finger. “And you know I will make no apologies for him. But…we’re family, Jeremiah. We’re all the family we have. If you allow this animosity to continue to fester, then it very well may create a rift that will continue into the next generation. Would you want Jacob to look down on Samuel’s children, and treat them as lesser, simply because his father bore a grudge toward his uncle?”

  Wise words. From time to time, Jeremiah wondered if perhaps he had made a mistake in declaring himself the leader of this clan, rather than allowing Emma to be its prima, the way tradition would have dictated. But then, he’d never cared much for tradition. And as much wisdom as Emma might possess, she was not a strong enough witch to keep their clan safe. Her healing powers did very well to keep them all hale and hearty, but she would never have been able to fend off an attack from a hostile witch family.

  “No, of course I would not want that,” he said harshly, and made himself drink some more tea, although in that moment he wished for something much stronger.

  “Then be mindful of what you do, Jeremiah,” Emma said, “for you know that Jacob sees far too much for a boy his age.”