Chapter seventeen
Katrina and the Horseman rode on Inferno through the forest. Thankfully, the Horseman had designed a tandem saddle, and Inferno was large enough to hold both their weight, so the short distance wouldn’t strain the animal.
However, the steady rhythm of the horse’s gait did little to pull Katrina’s mind away from the strong arms around her waist. She eyed the gloved hands holding the reins in front of her and flushed at the solid chest pressing against her back.
With every bump against the forest floor, her legs bounced against Inferno’s side, and the Horseman’s arms flexed over her to keep her secure.
Heat seared through Katrina’s cheeks.
Her heart fluttered like the leaves dancing in the wind as her thoughts strayed to the face she’d seen materializing on the Horseman.
Although hazy, she couldn’t help but admire the straightness of his nose and the chiseled lines of his jaw.
She wondered how handsome the rest of his features would be once he recovered his head.
Blinking, she shifted and mentally shooed the thoughts away. His attractive features should be at the bottom of the list of all the things she should be thinking about. Instead, she should be celebrating how far they’d come to discover the truth of his past and how close she was to White Plains.
However, she couldn’t ignore the rushing tingles whenever the Horseman’s protective grasp tightened around her.
His scent of pine and damp earth after rain filled her senses, and a blanket of safety wrapped around her heart.
Then, when her thoughts strayed to the several portraits he drew of her, her mind floated in a pleasant lightheadedness.
He had drawn her as though she were the most extraordinary woman he’d ever laid eyes on.
She’d never felt this way with anyone and secretly wished this feeling would last forever.
If only he weren’t a ghost…
The Horseman pulled on the reins, and Inferno clomped to a stop.
“I cannot go any further,” he said gravely.
Nerves bounced in her stomach as her heart raced. Despite her reassurances to the Horseman, fear lodged in her throat at confronting the witch alone.
The Horseman hopped off his horse with one mighty swoop and extended his hand.
She accepted his offer, and his arm wrapped around her waist. Her traitorous heart gave a delightful leap as he effortlessly lifted her from the seat onto the ground.
As her slippers gently touched the forest floor, his hand lingered at her waist, and a tremor ran down her spine.
She stared up at his collar, around the shadowy area where his head should have been, wondering if his heart sped like hers.
“I still don’t like that you’re going alone,” he said.
She swallowed—the spell broken. Anxiety crept into her chest at his reminder. “I know. I-I’ll be careful, though.”
“If you feel uneasy, run. Listen to your gut and do not linger on my behalf. I believe she lives down that road. Do not stray from the path, and if you need anything, I’ll be waiting for you right here.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, gratitude swelling within her. Despite his stern instructions, it warmed her to know he worried about her.
Finally, she slipped out of his grasp, already missing how his arms felt around her, and started the trek down the dirt road.
The trees stretched over her head, forming an arch of scrawling branches.
The wind whistled through the remaining leaves clinging to their copse, and she wrapped her cloak tighter around her, attempting to steel her nerves.
After a few minutes, she spotted a homely cottage. It had a slanted wooden roof, and a harvested garden in front of a crude fence.
A wooden wind chime startled her as a bird screeched and took flight.
Katrina almost thought her heart would do the same, but she gingerly went around the perimeter of the cottage, wondering if perhaps the witch would be outside.
However, she knew she was stalling—dreading walking up to the front door and knocking.
Something suddenly poked her in the back. Katrina whirled around and bit back a scream. An elderly woman leaning on a misshapen, curved cane stared at her with narrowed eyes.
Katrina supposed the witch was not the ugly hag most people would describe. Instead, she appeared to be in her sixties, with graying hair woven into dark locks tied in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. A black dress fitted to her wrists and ankles adorned her short stature—a color for mourning.
“Who are you?” asked the woman, her voice sharp as a whip.
Katrina blinked in surprise before straightening. “My name is Katrina Van Tassel.”
“What business do you have with me? I don’t have any herbs for sale. It’s the dead of autumn. You should be on your way,” the woman said, twisting on her heel.
“Wait, please,” Katrina said, taking a step forward. “What is your name?”
The woman looked back at her, one brow raised. “Hildegard Fenwick.”
Katrina vaguely remembered the name Fenwick—one of the soldiers listed who died in the Revolutionary War. The woman’s lips curled into a sneer. “I don’t need some lily-livered lamb gawking at me. Stare any longer, and your eyes will curdle like milk.”
The threat sank into Katrina’s stomach, but she forced herself to speak through her jittery nerves. “Ms. Fenwick, I-I wished to speak to you about the Headless Horseman.”
The witch’s mouth thinned as she tapped her cane into the ground. “Straight to the point, eh? Don’t bother with formalities and the Ms. Fenwick nonsense. What makes you believe I have anything to do with him?”
Katrina’s mouth grew dry at the woman’s glare. “I don’t,” she answered honestly. “All I know is what people say.”
“And pray tell, what do they say?”
“That you cast spells… but all I want is the truth.”
A brittle laugh escaped Hildegard’s lips. “People say many things. You seem like a moon-eyed goose who’d believe any nonsense they’d spill to you. So why should I help on your little quest for the truth?”
Katrina swallowed, unsure if anything she’d say would help convince the woman to speak to her. Then her gaze trailed over the tattered edges of Hildegard’s ebony dress—the fabric worn from years of use. A familiar ache clenched in Katrina’s chest as she regarded the woman.
“I’m not here to stir trouble,” Katrina began softly.
“I seek your help because my friend promised me something special if I helped him recover his memories. I seek closure for my brother’s death, and I do not have much time to do so.
He passed in the War of Independence, but I did not give him a proper goodbye.
Please, if you have any information about the Horseman—anything at all—I will be eternally grateful. ”
Hildegard’s dark eyes considered her warily. “Is this friend of yours the Horseman?”
Katrina nodded. “Yes.”
After a spell of silence, Hildegard sighed in resignation. “Fine. It’s been long enough, I suppose. Let’s speak inside, though, because my bones are turning to ice.”
Relief soared up Katrina’s throat as she followed the woman into her cottage. The dry leaves crunched under their steps, and the wooden chimes jangled a discordant song when they passed.
Inside, a small table with two rickety chairs sat on a green woven rug. Pots of herbs and various flora hung from the room’s corners, and a small brick fireplace roared near the table. The space was warm and bright, with rosemary and thyme lingering in the air.
Hildegard placed her cane against the wall and sat at the table. “Ask me your questions, but do not expect simple answers. There is a darkness in the secrets you wish to unearth.”
Katrina gingerly sat across from her. “I am here for only the truth, whether it be simple or not. My first question is this: Did you curse Willem Van den Broek?”
Hildegard pursed her lips. The flames crackled beside them, casting shadows across the witch’s face. The chair creaked as she sat back, her eyes darkening with remorse.
“Aye,” the witch said, “I cursed the lad.”