Haunting Ellie Read online

  Haunting Ellie

  by

  Patti Berg

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Copyright © 2012 by Patti Berg

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

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

  Originally published as Till the End of Time

  First published in the United States by Jove Books 1997

  First e-book edition: April 2012

  Second e-book edition: November 2012

  Third e-book edition as Haunting Ellie: March 2013

  Cover design: Dar Albert

  Author photo: Bob Berg

  For Bob and Melanie—

  the magic in my life.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Other books by Patti Berg

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  An icy wind snaked its way along the main street of Sapphire, Montana, a swirl of powdered snow following in its wake. It slithered uneasily around the old, abandoned hotel, past the ornamental hitching posts in front of the First National Bank, slowly meandering across the road and up the steps, circling about the boots of the man standing in the doorway of the Tin Cup Cafe.

  Jonathan Winchester shivered in the cold, turning up the collar of his rawhide and lamb’s wool coat to ward off the bitter January chill. He tucked his chin into the fleece hugging his neck and let the brim of his Stetson shield his face from a sudden blast of frosty air. But his eyes didn’t turn away from the cold; instead, they stayed focused on the snow-and-mud-crusted red Jeep Cherokee sliding to a stop in front of the Sapphire Hotel.

  The new owner had finally arrived. Crazy woman! For the life of him, Jon couldn’t imagine why anyone would buy that old hotel unless they’d been sold a damn fine bill of goods by that cousin of his. Wouldn’t be the first time Matt had sold a worthless piece of property; wouldn’t be the last.

  But the Sapphire Hotel? Hell, it was nothing more than a hundred-plus-year-old relic of the town’s better days. It hadn’t been fit for human occupancy in half a century and would be better off torn down, or left empty and uninhabited—at least, by anything human. Jon laughed at his thought, and a cloud formed in front of his face from the warmth of his breath. He’d dispensed with thinking the hotel might be haunted when he was a kid. He didn’t believe in ghosts. And he never would—not again.

  But a movement in the hotel’s third-story window drew his attention, bringing all the old memories back to the surface, and he gave in to those thoughts for just a brief moment. He looked upward, to the top of the weather-beaten building. The remnants of a tattered pair of curtains swayed gently behind the broken glass. Only the wind, he decided. He hadn’t expected anything else—not a phantom, not a spirit, not a lost soul haunting the upstairs rooms. Only the wind. Yet that one small movement made him wonder anew if what had happened all those years ago might have been real.

  Again he laughed, pushing the thoughts away, and turned his attention to the movement inside the Jeep. Through the fog-coated driver’s side window he could just barely make out the woman’s form, could see her struggling into a parka and pulling a hood over her head.

  Leaning a shoulder against the jamb, he watched as the car door cracked open, then whipped out of the woman’s hands in the force of another burst of wind. She quickly reached out and grabbed the handle, stopping the door before it broke from its hinges, but the force of the gale yanked her body halfway out of the vehicle, and she held on tightly to the handle for balance. A knee-high red leather boot swung from the car, then another, both heels digging into the ice-and-snow-crusted ground before the warmly bundled driver climbed out.

  Jon grinned as he watched her struggling against the wind and snow and the heavy door. Somehow she shoved it closed, slipping on the ice, catching hold of the handle again to keep from falling to the ground. She labored to stand up straight, and Jon gave a moment’s thought to offering her help. It seemed wrong to stand and stare, to laugh at her expense. But, hell! She was wearing hooker boots in the middle of winter. What was she thinking? They might be practical on some sleazy big-city street corner, but they had no business on the icy roads of Sapphire.

  No, Jon would rather stand back and watch, laughing softly to himself.

  The humor disappeared, though, the moment the hood she wore blew away from her face, revealing a woman Jon thought he’d seen before—in his dreams. He’d seen her in books, too, in oil paintings by the Old Masters, in marble statues—a goddess with ebony hair; high, noble cheekbones; sensuous red lips. Damn! Even a blind man could caress the planes of her face and see her beauty.

  Jon didn’t believe in love at first sight any more than he believed in ghosts, but he knew instinctively he’d been waiting for this woman all his life. She was the woman he’d wanted to sculpt, the woman whose curves he’d wanted to study and mold. The woman whose beauty he’d longed to have stretched out, naked, on a chaise in his studio.

  Slowly, methodically, he moved away from the cafe’s door to the edge of the snow-dusted boardwalk. He watched her even more closely as she rounded the car, one hand on the hood for support to keep from sliding on the treacherous pavement.

  Tall. Very tall, especially in those heels. She had great legs, too, encased in black pants that hugged her right up to her thighs. Then, unfortunately, the body he could picture just in his mind disappeared under that furry red parka.

  Only a greenhorn would wear a get-up like that in the harsh Montana winter. She should be wearing heavily treaded boots, at least until she could learn how to walk on the frozen ground. On second thought, he was beginning to like those three-inch spiked heels. Again he thought about that imaginary woman on the chaise in his studio, but this time she wasn’t completely naked. No, that red leather hugged her ankles and calves and stopped just at her knees. The rest of her porcelain-skinned body radiated in the natural light that beamed from all corners of his solitary turret.

  It didn’t seem possible that a stranger could mesmerize him so, but she had. Much, much more than any woman he’d ever known.

  Jon sucked in a deep breath of icy air, letting it out slowly as he studied her movements, just as he would study any other being he planned to sketch and mold. He’d sculpted eagles and mountain men, grizzlies and buffalo, but he’d never created a woman in bronze.

  But he would.

  Soon.

  oOo

  Elizabeth Fitzgerald ground her spiked heels into the snow and ice at the base of the hotel’s steps and tilted her head upward, using her hand to block the wind from her eyes as she inspected the ancient structure. Gingerbread dripped from the overhangs on all three lev
els, and scallops of wood rimmed the windows and embellished the facade of the once proud Victorian. Salmon paint had flaked off the walls, forest green stiles were missing from the porch railing that wrapped around the building, and where the roof wasn’t covered with six inches of snow, loose shingles hung haphazardly on the steepled slopes.

  So, this is the hotel that brother of mine talked me into buying. Elizabeth shook her head and sighed deeply, wondering what kind of mess Eric had gotten her into this time. She took another quick look and smiled. At least the old place was standing—something she couldn’t say about the house she’d left behind in Los Angeles.

  She put a hand on the wobbly banister and inched her way up the stairs of her new home. It was far from the picture of perfection her brother had painted of a Victorian masterpiece. “You’ll love it, Ellie,” he’d told her. “It’s the perfect place for those antiques you love to buy. We’ll turn it into a country inn and you can test your gourmet food out on someone other than me.”

  Eric’s excitement had rung out loud and clear. She’d heard his words, gotten caught up in his enthusiasm, and given him the money to buy the place without checking it out herself.

  In other words, she’d been irresponsible—just like her brother. “Don’t worry, Ellie,” Eric had said. “Matt Winchester told me once the place was refurbished, he’d keep the rooms filled with paying guests. It won’t take much to get it into shape. A little paint. Some cleaning. We can have it up and running in no time.”

  Elizabeth looked around her again, taking note of all the obvious things that needed repair or replacement. Without a doubt, she knew she’d definitely made a mistake. And the biggest mistake of all was believing Eric would really join her in Sapphire, Montana, population 372.

  The words Eric had uttered to her months after she’d bought the hotel and weeks after she’d closed her photography business rang out strong in her mind, too. “Sorry, Ellie. I can’t go with you. I’m getting married.” A week ago she’d smiled and thrown rice, and tried to feel good about starting a new life in a new town. It was one of the promises she’d made the year before; it was one of the promises she wouldn’t forget. Eric had a new life now, and she, apparently, had one, too.

  Only, Elizabeth hadn’t planned on being alone.

  In the cold.

  In the middle of nowhere.

  She took a deep breath of the frigid air and climbed ten creaking stairsteps that led to the expansive covered porch surrounding the Victorian. She ran a gloved hand over the railing and pictured a fresh coat of forest green paint glistening in the summer sunlight. Maybe Eric was right; maybe all it needed was a little cleaning, some paint and polish. A lot of work. And a lot of love.

  Her home in Los Angeles had looked like a dump in the beginning, but she’d turned it into a showplace. It wouldn’t be difficult to do that all over again. Maybe, just maybe, this was what she needed to take her mind off what had happened a year ago. Heaven knows the psychiatrist hadn’t been much help. Work had always been her salvation, and from the looks of her new home, she’d be stress and worry free for the rest of her life.

  She studied her surroundings, picturing the place as it might look when summer arrived. She’d fill planter boxes and Grecian urns with red, pink, and white geraniums and scatter hanging baskets of English ivy and Boston fern along the beams. She’d serve iced tea and lemonade to her guests in cut glass tumblers and cheesecake and petit fours on antique china. Men and women would sit in wicker rockers on the porch and talk about the latest good book they’d read, about music, and their travels, or maybe debate politics.

  It all sounded so wonderful, so dreamlike. She’d have a home again, a garden. She’d be in a town where clean, fresh air was the rule rather than the exception. Where people walked by slowly and smiled and maybe even stopped for a moment to chat. Sapphire, Montana, sounded so perfect.

  Except for the cold.

  She pulled the collar of her coat more tightly around her neck and attempted to get a view of the town through the blowing snow. She hadn’t seen much while she’d driven; most of the time she’d kept her eyes glued on what little road she could see and fought the storm to keep the Jeep on the highway. Now, only the brick bank building on one side of the hotel and the Tin Cup Cafe, which sat directly across the street, were in sight. And out in front of the rustic restaurant was a man standing at the edge of the boardwalk—staring directly into her eyes.

  A shiver ran down her spine and she couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or from the eyes boring into hers. The man reached up and tipped his hat, welcoming her, she imagined, in typical cowboy fashion. But he made no other move to approach, he just continued to stare.

  Elizabeth’s heart began to race. She felt it thumping under the thick layers of her coat and sweater. What was it about the man’s eyes that mesmerized her? She’d been stared at before, but never so intensely, so thoroughly. She was flattered, yet frightened.

  She forced herself to turn away and quickly retrieved an old brass skeleton key from her pocket. She slid it into the lock of the grimy beveled glass and oak-framed door, anxious to get inside, away from the heat of the man’s eyes, which she could still feel beating against her back. For some strange reason, she felt she had to get away from him. She attempted to turn the key, but it stuck.

  She tried again. Nothing.

  She looked back across the street. The man was still standing there, still watching.

  Ignore him, Elizabeth. Just ignore him and maybe he’ll go away, she told herself.

  But he didn’t go away. Instead, he walked down the stairs and into the street. He was moving toward her. Still staring. With those eyes.

  She turned away and tried the key again, imploring it to turn, but it wouldn’t budge. She gripped the old brass knob with her leather glove and attempted to twist it, wishing she could push open the door and escape from the stranger.

  She heard his boots on the walk. Coming closer. Closer. She gave the knob one more try. The leather of her glove slipped on the handle; it was as if she were trying to twist a ball of melting ice. The soles of her boots slid on the icy doorstep and she grabbed at the handle again, trying to keep herself from falling. But her efforts were in vain, and she landed loud and hard, smack on her tush, which slid on the ice, and left her flat on her back.

  She was absolutely mortified.

  “Need a hand?”

  She looked up at the giant of a man looming over her. He didn’t look threatening any longer—even from this position. He just looked big and powerful, and those eyes of his blazed down on her from under his snow-dusted black Stetson. He was staring, from the top of her head to the tips of her boots and back again. She hated to be stared at. She hated to be laughed at, too, but those bright blue sapphire eyes of his were doing just that.

  He reached toward her with a rawhide-gloved hand. “You’re going to get awfully cold if you lie on the front porch the rest of the day,” he said, and instead of watching his eyes, she looked at the grin on his face, at the lopsided way his lips cocked up on the right and not on the left.

  The easy thing to do would be to accept the help he offered, but she’d been doing things for herself most of her life. She wasn’t about to accept help now, especially from a stranger. “Thanks,” she finally said, “but I got down here by myself; I’m sure I can get up on my own.”

  “Suit yourself.” He leaned against the porch railing, folded his arms across his chest, and glared.

  Her jaw tightened. Her eyes narrowed in determination. She pushed up with her elbows and hands until she was sitting upright. That hadn’t been too difficult. She hadn’t slipped even once. Proud of herself, she looked at him again to see his reaction to the feat she’d accomplished.

  He just glared. Even that lopsided grin was gone.

  She smiled sweetly, and with great effort.

  She drew up her knees, ground her boots into the thin sheet of ice on the porch, wrapped a hand around each knee for leverage, and pul
led upward.

  Whoosh! Her boots lost their grip and slid right out from under her again. Her bum landed with a thud on the wooden planks and she didn’t know which hurt more, her backside or her pride. She looked at the man out of the corner of her eyes. His grin had returned.

  Slowly his arms unfolded from in front of his chest, and she heard each of his bootsteps as he moved toward her. “As much as I’m enjoying the floor show, I think it’s about time I stepped in to help.”

  He didn’t wait for her to accept, didn’t wait for her to reach out, he just leaned over, slid his big hands under her arms, and lifted her easily, like a tiny child.

  Which she wasn’t.

  “Thanks for your help,” she said, pulling quickly out of his arms and latching onto one of the porch rails. Hard wood seemed a much safer thing to hold onto than one of his arms. This man, this stranger, might not look intimidating up close, but when she felt herself in his arms, breathing became much too difficult. And she had to breathe, for heaven’s sake!

  “Need help with anything else while I’m here?’ he asked, folding his arms once more across his chest. “Or do you have everything under control?”

  She could answer yes, but the problem with the lock on the door hadn’t been resolved, nor had the problem of how she could get up off the ground if she fell again. “I can’t seem to get the door unlocked,” she answered. Oh, how she hated to ask for help, but she swallowed a bit of her pride. “Do you think you could give it a try?”

  His grin widened. She knew he sensed her discomfort in asking for assistance and that he was bound and determined to make her wallow in forced acquiescence. Slowly he unfolded his arms, took two steps to the door, pounded the side of his fist on the wood just below the lock, and turned the key.

  Elizabeth heard the click. Why did it have to be so easy for him? Why couldn’t he have trouble, too?

  “Anything else?”