Chapter 2
The peaked gables of Emerald Trail Stables appeared through curtains of shaggy conifers. Usually that sight meant she’d be in saddle soon, leaving the world behind on the back of her russet Thoroughbred, Red, but unfortunately, she wasn’t here to ride today.
Her call with the bank had not gone well. They would need time to investigate the wire transfer—upwards of forty-five days—and after all that, they would only return the money if they found evidence that their negligence had allowed the transfer through.
“You sure you didn’t authorize this, hun?
” Brenda, a woman with a pleasant Southern drawl, had asked.
“I know it can be real hard to admit we’ve been taken for a ride, but everyone’s vulnerable to these kinds of scams, especially with all the AI stuff these days.
When someone says they love ya, can make you act a fool.
There was this guy once, called himself Rodrigo, ass like an eight-layer honey cake.
He could’ve asked me to wire him a kidney, and I’d’ve said ‘gimme a minute.’ ”
Once the call with the bank had dashed her hopes for financial recovery, Hayleigh had been left with only one option. She technically had more money, but it was kept in a trust, doled out in chunks at major life events, so long as those events met with her parents’ approval.
There would be a payout when she got married, assuming they were enthusiastic about the groom, and then again when she gave birth to her first, second, and third children.
If she never married or had kids, the money would be forfeited, as anything remaining in trust on her fortieth birthday was set to be donated to the Grays’ church.
She’d dialed up her mother, hoping to frame the request for money as an advance, not a handout, but there had been no discussion, only a command.
“I’m at the stables,” said Luda Gray. “Come down, and we’ll talk.”
Emerald Trails was fully decked out for Christmas. The stalls were hung with heavy garlands wrapped in candy-striped ribbons and hung with stockings for each of the horses.
As soon as she’d learned the truth about Santa, Hayleigh had helped fill them up, delighting in picking out each of their favorite treats.
She’d once known the preferences of every horse boarded at her mother’s “pet project”—as her father, Colt, referred to Emerald Trails.
Red loved sugar cubes, Butters apples, Champion peppermints (despite the name, Champion had never, in fact, won anything).
The stables might have been her mother’s project, but her father’s name was on the deed. Same as it was on all the Gray family deeds. While Hayleigh had come to beg her mother, it was her father who would actually be deciding whether she got the money early.
But no one wasted Colt Gray’s valuable time to beg. Least of all Hayleigh.
Before leaving her car, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through social media. It was an obvious stalling tactic, but it gave her a moment to collect herself.
A video from “Elk Ridge Winter Fest” was the first to pop up.
The asset Goshen had failed to acquire last Christmas. That she had failed to acquire for them.
Yes, she was still following them a year later—an instinct she recognized was as healthy as keeping tabs on an ex’s new girlfriend—but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to unfollow, nor even reliably scroll past.
She let the video play.
Inside one of the festival booths, a mountain of a man with long blond hair and a plaid shirt hoisted a massive log before slamming it down onto a spiked base. The video then cut to him using a whirring chainsaw to slice free cuts of cedar as easily as skimming cream.
Stephan Midwinter. Brother to Rowan Midwinter, the very witch who had cast the spells that ruined Hayleigh’s career and, by extension, her life. He also belonged to the Elk Ridge coven and was a key player in the festival’s viral social media following.
The buzz of the chainsaw, the curling cloud of wood shavings, the way an owl had taken shape beneath his deft cuts, it was all a soothing balm for the senses, but there was no denying the main reason that this, and so many of the festival’s other videos, had infected her feed.
The camera fixed on the bend of Stephan’s legs as he lifted the log, pulling his jeans taut over thick leg muscles, and the ridges of his forearms and biceps bulged while he deftly maneuvered the chainsaw.
When he brought a hand up to wipe flecks of wood that had gathered on his cheeks and in his full beard, it was clearly an excuse to focus the camera on his square jaw and deeply set blue eyes.
“Is he gonna do the thing now?” women squealed in the comments during live streams—yes, Hayleigh had caught one or two of them—as, to their delight, he dramatically flipped his long blond hair to the opposite side of his body.
It was obvious. It was tacky.
She couldn’t bring herself to stop watching.
“Magic,” she muttered at her phone, “Midwinter magic.”
Yes, magic was certainly at play here, somehow.
It had its tendrils all throughout that damned Hallmark movie of a town, making it possible for Rowan Midwinter and her coven to prevent Goshen’s buyout and carry on the festival in their own, kumbaya fashion, leaving Hayleigh’s professional reputation in tatters.
While she couldn’t confirm the brother was involved, he was guilty by witchy association.
Hayleigh scowled at his smirking, satisfied face for good measure, then stowed her phone.
Her feet sank into the soft, well-stirred soil of the footpath leading her to the edge of a paddock where trees lining the fence shivered with a gust of frosty wind. A shadow flicked in the corner of her vision, and she tensed, scanning the forest.
What was she expecting to find? The old woman from the mall?
Or was it something else?
“The leshi left no tracks, only took the form of a tree, waiting for an unwary traveler…”
The snippet emerged from a story she’d heard once. Whenever they visited her maternal grandparents, her Grandfather Vasyk would gather the children around his burgundy overstuffed chair and tell stories from the old country.
But that was all they were—stories. As her mother had so often, and intensely, stressed when Hayleigh would come in with leaves in her hair and stories of a voice from the trees that guided her out of the forest when she’d lost her way.
And yet witches were the stuff of fairy tales too, but they were out there, valiantly defending their right to run unprofitable businesses and wiping people’s memories with haphazard spells.
What else had she been taught not to look for?
She found her mother on the back of a roan Appaloosa with a deliciously frisky gait, putting him through his paces. Luda Gray’s posture was rigid in her crisp riding gear, and a long yellow-stranded braid swung down her back from beneath a matte black velvet helmet.
The only thing more impeccable than her form was her appearance.
She was the picture of Slavic beauty with high cheekbones, a soft jaw, a petite upturned nose, enormous eyes, and rose petal lips.
Features Hayleigh mostly shared, though they had never seemed to come together quite as well when she looked in a mirror.
A full face of makeup, paired with regular cosmetic treatments, belied her mother’s age.
As fast as time chased Luda Gray, Luda Gray was faster, taking every advantage money could buy in her race against aging.
The stable manager, Gordon, leaned against the fence, appreciating the mastery on display. His blue heeler, Smoke, jumped up when Hayleigh approached, letting out one bark of greeting before coming to stand beside her with an anticipatory gaze. She leaned down to scratch the dog all over the head.
Gordon’s eyes slid her way, mustache twitching with his smile when he realized who he was seeing. “Wonder who’s got who trained, huh?”
“Oh, it’s pretty obvious Smoke’s got us all under her thumb.”
Smoke padded off to inspect the tree line, sniffing its edge, and Hayleigh’s spine stiffened, as she couldn’t help but wonder if the dog had caught the scent of something that shouldn’t be there. The dog finally found what she was looking for—a bone tucked away for a late day—and trotted off.
Nothing. There was nothing out there. Just the way it was supposed to be.
“Chilly day for a ride, kiddo,” said Gordon.
“Mom’s riding.”
“Pretty sure your ma would ride through a blizzard if the mood took her.”
“True. She rode in a competition with a broken pelvis once.”
Luda Gray didn’t believe in pain, or weather, or letting anything keep you from showing up except for death itself. It was an attitude that had helped her escape poverty, but it hadn’t made it easy to be her daughter.
Gordon chuckled and shook his head. “Sounds like our Luda.”
“Well, anyway, I’m not here to ride.” Hayleigh leaned against the fence and flicked horsehair caught in a pinch point in its planks where the horses loved to scratch themselves. “Mom and I are supposed to have a chat. But…has Red been groomed yet today?”
“No, you want to do the honors?”
“Please.”
“Hayleigh.” Her mother’s crisp voice commanded attention, and she snapped to as obediently as the Appaloosa.
Luda passed the reins off to Gordon before reaching out to touch the skin at the corner of her daughter’s eyes.
“You look tired.” And then with a scan of her body, she added, “What have you been eating?”
“My normal diet…mostly.”
“Mmm.” The sound was dubious, and it left Hayleigh feeling like a child who had just tried to blame a broken window on a freak asteroid.
Luda led them to the front of the stables, where someone had sculpted a papier-maché snowman over the doors.
Just before they stepped inside, Hayleigh stole a final glance toward the forest.
“What are you looking for?” Her mother’s voice was sharp.
“I…nothing,” said Hayleigh, looking firmly forward.
Luda studied her a moment longer and then slipped off her gloves. “So you need money.”