Chapter ten
Katrina rarely lost her composure around men. She did not blush or giggle unless she purposefully meant to do so in order to charm her way out of a situation. There hadn’t been a single man in Sleepy Hollow who had made her heart flutter—except the Headless Horseman.
Somehow, a man without a beating heart stirred hers into a frenzy.
After their meeting last night, she couldn’t shake the memory of his kind smile when he told her she had a glow about her.
He had no face besides an overgrown squash, so why couldn’t she get his words out of her head?
Was it because he saw her for more than her father’s wealth?
Or was it because he had seen past her beautiful face and saw the light within?
Regardless, the Headless Horseman was a ghost. There would be and could be nothing romantic between them. Even the notion of romance with the headless specter was ludicrous.
With a steely resolve, Katrina pushed the preposterous thoughts away and opened the kitchen door.
Heat warmed her skin from the brick oven, and sweet apple pudding wafted to her nose.
Her mouth watered when Marta drizzled caramel over the dessert.
An unruly strand of hair swung over Marta’s eyes as she carefully set the cast-iron pot to the side.
Katrina tiptoed over, extending her finger for a taste when Marta’s back was turned.
“Don’t even think about it,” Marta said as Katrina’s finger hovered over the pudding.
Katrina whipped her hands behind her back when Marta faced her and gave her a knowing look.
“Not even a little taste?” Katrina asked with a mock pout.
“None. Not until after dinner,” Marta said sternly.
“Very well,” she said, backing away from the tempting treat.
Marta dusted the flour from her apron. “Is there something you need, dear? I love your company, but I’m in the middle of dinner preparations.”
“I know,” she said with a sigh. Katrina didn’t enjoy pestering the cook when she was busy, but she sought out the affectionate woman when she needed a place of solace or advice. Perhaps Marta would have the insight she needed.
Katrina leaned against the worktable in the center of the kitchen. Her hip bumped into a bowl of dough next to a rolling pin. “I suppose I need your help,” she admitted.
Marta’s face softened. “What is it? I can spare a moment.”
Katrina paused to consider how she would approach the subject without revealing her secrets about the Headless Horseman. Marta waited patiently, but Katrina knew she couldn’t keep imposing on the woman’s time.
“It’s about my brother,” Katrina said softly. “I cannot remember as much as I’d like about our time when I was younger. I fear I might lose the memories of him altogether. How do I begin to recall the past again?”
A frown worked its way onto Marta’s face. Her wrinkles deepened, and her brows furrowed before she reached for the dough and rolling pin.
“Ah, I see,” Marta said, punching the lump and folding it into itself. “Memories can be slippery, but it’s a lot like cooking.” She sprinkled flour on the table before slapping the dough onto the surface.
“Cooking?” Katrina asked.
“Yes. Sometimes, I’ll forget a recipe, but the more I dig into the spices, taste as I go, and feel the dough between my fingers, the more it’ll come back to me, one ingredient at a time.
It’s often good to retrace our steps to find our way back,” she said, kneading the mixture until it yielded into a ball.
“The past sometimes lingers in places we last left it.”
Katrina considered her words, wondering if her counsel would help the Horseman. “I hope I can find them,” she murmured.
Marta smiled while dusting her hands. “Don’t fret too much, dear. Memories also have a habit of returning home when they want to. You just need to wait until they’re ready.”
Katrina bit the inside of her cheek. If only she had time to wait for the Horseman’s memories to be ready.
That evening, Katrina met the Horseman with a basket over her arm at their usual place.
“It’s for you,” she said at his curious stare.
“I don’t have any names today, but I thought you might like some apple pudding Marta made.
Our orchard produced an abundance of apples this season.
She’s been making apple desserts all week.
” Katrina giggled, and a dark chuckle rumbled from the Horseman’s chest. Its deep, rich quality made her stomach flutter with something warm.
Clearing her throat, she reached into the basket and held up a small box. “I also brought this.”
“What is it?” he asked, his brows pinching together.
“It’s a sewing kit. I thought your coat needed some mending.”
The yellow light burned brighter against his carved features. His crooked mouth stretched upward. “That is kind of you, Katrina.”
A pleasant shiver raced down her spine at how her name hummed from his mouth—the sound soft as a sacred vow.
“I’ll need somewhere to sit,” she said suddenly to distract herself. “Let’s find a spot for me to work—other than the ground.”
“We could go to my cabin,” he suggested.
Her brows shot to her forehead. “You have a cabin?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s where I rest,” he said innocently.
Rest or haunt? She wondered but didn’t dare to ask aloud, lest she offend him.
Without another word, he waved for her to follow. They walked silently with Inferno clomping beside them for twenty minutes until they came across a wall of dense brush. The Horseman moved a cascade of vines where a large tunnel was carved into the shrubbery.
The light from his pumpkin guided their way until she stepped into a clearing.
On the tall grass, a small log cabin with a dilapidated stone chimney slanted to the left.
Parts of the wooden roof had collapsed inward, and undergrowth climbed the walls into the gaping holes.
The cabin must have been abandoned for several years, but the Horseman pushed the creaky door open like an eager host. It was a one-room cabin with dirt floors and a lone straw bed in the corner.
However, her mouth parted as she stepped inside.
Moonlight danced against the sheets of parchment, scraps of newspaper, and torn pages from books that were tacked on the wall.
Dark charcoal lines filled the haphazard collage.
Half-formed faces and buildings merged with abstract shapes as if he were desperately trying to recall the images and failing.
Stray fingerprints and charcoal dust lingered on the edges of the parchments.
Some drawings were like unfinished puzzle pieces, while others she recognized.
Katrina approached some drawings of the bakery in town.
She noted the details in the windowpane and the carvings on the doorframe, and she wondered if he had been there before.
Another piece had drawings of people in the village, some she recognized as the Reverend and the vendors selling their wares.
Her eyes wandered to the sketches of her family estate captured from various angles: the orchard, the fields, and the farm.
Warmth settled in her chest as she traced the dark lines of his drawings, seeing her world through his pumpkin eyes for the first time.
Then, something tucked in the corner of the cabin seized her attention.
The Horseman lingered behind, watching as she drifted toward the sketches of a woman.
The drawings were softer and detailed, free of lingering smudges.
A delicate face with wide, expressive eyes and a familiar curve of lips stared back at her. A breath snagged in her throat.
It was her.
Katrina stepped closer, her pulse racing as she raised the drawing.
There was another. And another. Images of her tilting her head back in laughter, an outline of her silhouette, her side profile, and some capturing a thoughtful but sad expression in her eyes.
With each page she peeled back, another drawing of her likeness replaced the next.
“It’s me,” she said, barely above a whisper.
The Horseman did not respond, but he shifted from the corner of her eye. Turning on her heel, he would not meet her gaze, and the golden light flickered uncertainly.
“Why did you draw me?” she asked—anticipation built in her chest, competing with the frenzied butterflies swarming her stomach.
“I thought I might have answered that question last night,” he replied.
Brows furrowing, she recalled his words, which she hadn’t been able to free herself of since.
“You have this glow, a… soft radiance I cannot ignore. Since I laid eyes on you, I’ve been unable to turn away.”
“But… I still don’t understand,” she said, gesturing to the countless images of her. It wasn’t just because he’d drawn her; it was how he captured the quiet moments when she thought no one was looking—a side of her she thought no one noticed.
But he did.
“I do not know why I draw you,” he admitted, the light wavering as he spoke. “Only that my thoughts turn to you when I feel the darkness pressing in. I find you, and I find the light. I feel a connection to you that I cannot explain.”
“Have you been watching me?” she asked cautiously, eyeing the paintings from when she was a few years younger. “Before you saved me on the bridge?”
“Yes.”
Katrina’s mouth parted, blinking to process his answer. She couldn’t determine if she was more shocked by his bluntness or the idea that a ghost had been studying her.
“For how long?”
“For at least ten years. I… have been watching over you.”
Katrina’s eyes widened. A pinwheel of emotions spun through her as she stared at his carved, jagged smile.
However, fear and disgust did not tear through her as she thought they should.
Instead, her pulse spiked. The scent of charcoal and fall leaves mingled with the tentative, unspoken tension brewing between them.
He had been watching her all this time? Perhaps her theory that her brother sent a guardian angel wasn’t too far off.
Removing herself from the wall of sketches, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I suppose that coat of yours isn’t gonna mend itself. I should start working on it before it gets too late,” she said suddenly.
The Horseman didn’t blink at the blatant shift in conversation.
Instead, he shrugged out of his coat and handed it to her.
Draping white sleeves adorned strong, lean arms, and a solid chest filled out his shirt.
Without his jacket, her eyes lingered on the shapely figure beneath the tattered garments.
She shook her head and sat on his straw bed to remove herself from the visual temptation. But she paused over the heat emanating from the fabric. Katrina presumed ghosts to be cold creatures incapable of producing heat like humans could.
It should be impossible. He wasn’t human—no one could survive without their head on their shoulders. But the warmth remained as a strange clue she could not decipher.
Silence filled the small room as she worked.
The rhythmic motion of her needle going in and out of the fabric kept her mind occupied.
It distracted her from thinking of her secret guardian angel, who had watched over her all this time.
Heat filled her cheeks. The Horseman watched her with curious eyes as he settled on the floor.
“Do you have any memory of when you first had consciousness?” she asked to distract herself.
He considered her question with a long pause. “Yes, I woke to a field nearby.”
“Perhaps we should plan a visit there. I heard it’s wise to retrace one’s steps if one wishes to regain certain memories. It might work for you as well.”
“It might,” he whispered.
A cold draft blew through the broken slats of the roof. She shivered.
“You’re cold,” he said. It was not a question, and before she could reassure him, her fingers trembled over her needle.
Rustling sounded before something warm and heavy wrapped around her shoulders. She peered down at the thick, tattered cloak draped over the length of her body.
Her breath caught when their eyes locked. The light flickered before he turned away, and she bit back a smile. The smell of rain, smoke, and leather filled her nose as she wrapped the cloak tighter.
“Thank you,” she said.
For once, she allowed herself to enjoy the warmth enveloping her heart.