Wildly, Boldly (Return to Culloden Moor #4)

Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

G reta Howard’s house sat at the edge of old Skagway, a weathered Victorian with a wraparound porch and more wind chimes than any one person could reasonably need. The elderly historian had lived there for over fifty years, collecting stories and artifacts from the gold rush era.

“You’re sure about this?” Wyatt asked as they climbed the creaking steps. Sophie had been unusually quiet on the drive over.

“Of course.” But she fidgeted with her phone. “Whitney says Greta knows everything about Skagway’s history.”

“She does.” He caught her arm as she nearly tripped on a loose board. “She also loves an audience.”

The door opened before they could knock, revealing a tiny woman with steel-gray hair and sharp blue eyes. “Well,” Greta said, looking between them. “About time you two showed up.”

Wyatt blinked. “We had an appointment?”

“No, but I knew you’d bring her eventually.” Greta ushered them inside. “The ghost hunter’s been all anyone can talk about. Tea?”

The interior of Greta’s house was a museum in miniature. Glass cases filled with gold rush artifacts lined the walls, and old photographs covered every available surface. Sophie immediately gravitated toward a display of mining equipment, her usual enthusiasm returning.

“Oh my god, is this an original sluice pan?”

“Good eye.” Greta appeared with a tea tray. “Found that one myself, up near Dead Horse Gulch. Still had gold dust in the grooves.”

They settled in Greta’s cluttered living room, where more artifacts competed for space with comfortable furniture. A massive illustrated map of 1890s Skagway dominated one wall.

“Now then,” Greta said, pouring tea into delicate cups. “What exactly are you looking for, dear? Ghost stories? Local legends? Or something more specific?”

Sophie glanced at Wyatt before answering. “I’m researching connections between the northern lights and supernatural activity. Whitney mentioned you might have some information about that.”

“Ah.” Greta’s eyes sparkled. “You’re after the old stories. The ones the original settlers wouldn’t talk about, except in whispers.”

Wyatt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. But something in Greta’s tone made him pay attention.

“During the gold rush,” Greta continued, “miners reported strange things in the lights. Shadows that shouldn’t exist. Voices calling their names. Some said the lights could show you glimpses of other times, other places.”

“Like a window between worlds,” Sophie breathed. “That’s exactly what my grandmother used to say.”

Greta studied her over the rim of her teacup. “Smart woman, your grandmother. The native peoples here have always known the lights hold power. The gold rush brought thousands of desperate souls to these mountains. Some say their energy...lingered.”

“In the lights?” Sophie was practically vibrating with excitement.

“In the land itself.” Greta set down her cup with a sharp click. “Tell me, dear. What do you feel when you watch the lights?”

“I...” Sophie hesitated. “It’s like everything becomes possible. Like the world is bigger and stranger than we imagine.”

“And you?” Greta turned to Wyatt. “What does our resident skeptic feel?”

Wyatt thought about the other night, watching the lights dance over Sophie’s upturned face. “Peace,” he said finally. “Like everything makes sense, just for a moment.”

Something knowing flickered in Greta’s expression. She rose and crossed to one of her many cabinets, returning with a leather-bound journal.

“This belonged to Elizabeth Pearson,” she said, handling the book carefully. “She came here in 1898, following her husband north. Started recording stories about the lights, about things she couldn’t explain.”

Sophie accepted the journal reverently. “May I?”

“That’s why I brought it out. You can read it here at the house whenever you like, but it doesn’t leave my possession.” Greta’s voice softened. “But be careful, dear. Some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved. They’re meant to be lived.”

“What does that mean?” Wyatt asked, but Greta was already moving to another cabinet.

“Did you know,” she said instead, “that your grandfather used to bring me artifacts he found on his patrols?”

The abrupt change of subject caught him off guard. “I didn’t know that.”

“Oh yes. Thomas Boone had a good eye for history.” She pulled out an old tin cup, tarnished with age. “Found this up near where you patrol now. Said he heard singing coming from an empty cabin, followed it right to this cup.”

“Grandpa loved his stories,” Wyatt said diplomatically.

“He loved truth,” Greta corrected. “Even when it didn’t fit his understanding of the world.” Her gaze shifted between him and Sophie. “Something to think about, perhaps.”

Sophie looked up from Elizabeth’s journal. “This is incredible. She writes about seeing shapes in the lights, about feeling drawn to certain places in the mountains. About finding things that couldn’t possibly be there.”

“Like what?” Wyatt asked, despite himself.

“Fresh flowers in winter. Warm cups of coffee in abandoned camps. Signs of life where there shouldn’t be any.”

“Easily explained.”

“Are they?” Greta’s voice had an edge now. “Tell me, Ranger Boone, have you never found something you couldn’t explain? Never felt watched on your patrols? Never heard music on the wind?”

He started to deny it, then remembered moments from his years in the wilderness. Footprints that led nowhere. Campfires that burned without fuel. The sound of laughter echoing off mountains where no one could possibly be.

“The lights will be strong tonight,” Greta said into his silence. “Stronger than usual. Be careful where they lead you.”

Sophie closed the journal carefully and set it on the table. “What do you mean?”

But Greta was already gathering their teacups. “That’s enough stories for today, I think. Though...” She caught Sophie’s arm as they headed for the door. “Remember what I said about mysteries, dear. Some answers find us when we stop looking for them.”

Outside, the autumn air felt sharp after the stuffy warmth of Greta’s house.

“Well,” Wyatt said as they walked to his truck. “That was...”

“Incredible? Terrifying? Both?”

“Interesting.” He helped her into the passenger seat. “Though I notice she never actually answered your questions about the lights.”

“Maybe that wasn’t the point.” Sophie looked back at the Victorian house, where Greta watched from her porch. “Maybe some questions have to wait for their answers.”

Wyatt started the engine, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling Greta’s warnings had left him with. But as they drove back toward the lodge, he found himself watching the mountains more carefully than usual, wondering what secrets they held in their ancient stones.

And wondering, despite his skepticism, what the lights might reveal tonight.