Chapter 9

Zeke followed the bluestone path. The well’s mound of stones seemed farther out than he remembered. No one stood between the two birch trees where he’d found Rosa. Something stirred in his chest. Why was he eager to see her again?

Those ice-blue eyes were intriguing, but what he felt toward her was different. He searched for the right word. The image came to mind of a warm blanket, his mother tucking it around him as she kissed his forehead. Comfort. Why would the thought of Rosa bring up such maternal memories? Every female he’d loved so far had crushed him. His mom, of course it wasn’t her fault, but still, she died and it nearly killed him.

Angela. Well, Angela was no angel. Her image came to his mind, standing behind the grill window. The steak house flames bathed her face in a crimson glow. At least his mom had never betrayed him as Angela had. Why was he so blind to her deceptions? How many people knew Angela was cheating on him and never said anything? Did Jeremiah know?

Obviously, Zeke lacked the skills necessary to discern a lie from the truth. He was too trusting. He nodded. He needed to assume people were lying until he could prove they were telling the truth. Like Ms. Rivers. What was she doing way out here? Why in the world would she have any interest in his inheritance or anything else of his business? She was definitely up to something.

“See,” he commended himself, “I’m getting better at this.”

“What are you doing here, boy?” A large man with a heavy ax stood just outside the tree line.

Zeke never heard him approach. But it was the same heavily accented baritone that had called Rosa earlier. The man’s chin was covered with a scraggly blonde beard and his hair lay in tangled curls just above his shoulders. Filthy tan overalls and a perspiration-soaked blue work shirt covered his body. Wood chips dusted his knees and chest.

The sudden stinging sensation in Zeke’s upper right arm startled him more than the man’s barking voice. He winced, sucking air through clenched teeth, and bent slightly. “Ow.”

“What’s wrong with you, boy?” the man growled, shifting the heavy ax from his left hand to his right.

“I...” Zeke staggered back from the close swing of the ax. A chilling breeze brushed up his back. He gritted his teeth and focused on the huge man. “Nothing. What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” The man threw back his head and bellowed. “Boy, I live here.”

He toyed with the ax, malevolently swinging it too close to Zeke’s face.

Zeke leaned back but tried to hold his ground. What was this guy trying to prove? “Really? Well, then you worked for my uncle.”

“Your uncle?” He caught the ax and stopped. “You Clayton’s golden boy?”

Golden boy? “No, my name is Zeke. Zeke Clay.”

“Well, Zeke, Zeke Clay, you got no business out here. Get on back to your uncle.”

What? He doesn’t know?

“Who are you, again?” Zeke asked. An icy shiver trickled down his back.

“Name’s Hoffman.” He planted his feet firmly where he stood and tightened his grip on the ax.

“Well, Hoffman if you worked for my uncle, I reckon you work for me now.” Zeke sounded braver than he actually felt.

“I am Groundskeeper for the Claytons, Zeke, Zeke Clay. I do not work for no boy.”

“Mr. Hoffman, I’m not going to argue with you.” Zeke hoped this wouldn’t start that ax swinging again. “I’m simply telling you if you worked for my uncle, you now work for me.”

“We will see what Clayton has to say about that.” Hoffman stomped toward the flagstone path.

“Yeah, well, you can’t do that.” Zeke’s voice was louder than he had intended.

Hoffman turned on his heels, the ax narrowly missing Zeke’s shoulder. The man’s large swollen knuckles grew white from his grip.

Hoffman’s face reddened and his lips pressed into a thin line. “What makes you think I cannot do that?”

Zeke considered taking the Neanderthal to the house and introducing him to the black urn but thought better of it. A kind approach was in order

“Mr. Hoffman, are you not aware Luther Clayton passed away?” Zeke searched his face for understanding. “He died, sir. That’s why I’m here. I’m his only living relative.”

Hoffman blinked once. Tension drained from the deep angry lines in his sun-dried face.

Zeke waited, giving the groundskeeper a moment to process the news. How could he not know? Rosa knew. Why didn’t he?

“Died? Clayton died?” Hoffman breathed in Zeke’s face.

Zeke leaned back and let his momentum cause him to take a step back. “Yes. I’m afraid so, sir.”

Hoffman’s face drew tighter than it had before. He slowly turned and walked away.

Zeke considered Hoffman’s goliath frame as it faded into the odd mist. He guessed the man to be six foot four, maybe five. His broad shoulders, arms, and legs bulged with years of heavy work. He was as solid as the trees in which he now disappeared.

Sharp pin-pricks stung Zeke’s arm. He lifted his sleeve. The red rash at each of the penetrating thorns looked more irritated than earlier. Either the red ink was causing an allergic reaction which was ridiculous. It’s been over three years. Or something weird was happening to his tattoo every time he came out here. He squeezed his eyes and shoved the nuisance from his mind. Whatever it was, he still wanted to talk to Rosa. He scanned the woods, but she wasn’t there. He sighed. Disappointment weighed heavy in his heart. Adrenaline still coursed his veins. Hoffman was a bully. He’d have to do something about that. It didn’t sit well in his gut. He glanced at his phone. It was getting late and he needed to thaw out some steaks. Maybe take some antihistamine. Take karate lessons?

Back in the house, he glanced at the oven clock. 4:13. Whoa. He’d better push the thawing process. He threw the frozen T-bones into the microwave and hit auto-defrost.

He searched the refrigerator for potatoes. There were none in the vegetable bin or on the pantry shelves. At home, Angela always kept a sack under the kitchen sink. He checked there, nope. In the freezer, he found a package of Steam ‘n Mash frozen potatoes, ready for the microwave.

“Hmm, never tried these.” He set the package next to the cooktop and nodded. “Okay. Steak and mashed potatoes. That’ll do.”

The grill had a tub on the right side, under the wooden cutting board. He pulled out the tub, where there was an unopened bag of charcoal. A large gun-trigger lighter hung from a hook and a brand new chimney sat on the cross boards at the bottom of the grilling frame. Everything he needed.

Just another piece of the enigma. Somebody knew how to grill. Or somebody knew he knew ... He shook his head. A weird feeling somebody was watching him and knew his every move crawled over him like spiders. He looked up into the mountain wall. Nothing. He stared a moment longer. What did he expect to see? The glimmer of a mirror, signaling Morse code?

The microwave dinged. He smiled and returned to the kitchen. After he removed the steaks from the machine, he pulled back the wrappings. They were not fully thawed, but good enough. Good-looking steaks, nicely marbled. They could finish thawing on the cutting board.

Dismissing the creepy feeling outside, he looked at Luther’s urn. “I need to find a better place for you. Where do you want to spend eternity?”

The mantle above the fireplace in the great room was too stereotypical. He mentally walked through the rooms. The library would be a logical place. Probably spent most of his time in there. He picked up the cold black vase and walked down the hall to the library. The large desk-like table looked appropriate. He sat it there and stood back. “Yeah ... maybe.”

The locked door drew his attention. Gotta be a key somewhere. But nothing looked like a plausible hidey-hole. No drawers, no hooks, no nails, no boxes.

Hmm. “What do you have hidden in there, Luther?”

Thankfully, the urn sat silently on the table.

Zeke squinted at the locked door. Why do I want in there so badly? It’s probably just a closet with nothing but junk stored in it. Since when would a locked door have such a pull on his interest? Exactly like the stone well. Why did he have such a strong urge to go to it? Was it the well itself or seeing the woman? Both maybe? And while he was thinking about it, why did his tattoo hurt every time he went near the well?

Now, that was weird. Everything here in Colorado had been weird, so far. Okay, not weird, but certainly different. The lawyer lady, the mortician lady, this house. He, himself, had been different. And another strange thing, Angela hardly crossed his mind.

Shouldn’t he be grieving the loss of his girlfriend? Shouldn’t he feel heartbroken? Instead, he felt nothing. Just like when his mother died; he felt nothing. In all honesty, he was heartbroken. Obviously, this was true, because when he experienced extreme emotions, he shut down. Coping, it was called in his Psych class.

This life in Colorado was the polar opposite of his life in Texas. And most unpredictable of all—the Inheritance comes with a condition he did not understand. How could he possibly break a family curse that up ‘til yesterday he didn’t even know existed? It was all ... very ... curious.

If he was totally honest with himself, life here had been one big puzzle to piece together. And it intrigued him. A lot.

The doorbell played its familiar tune and he drew out his phone. 6:46 PM.

“Clifford,” he said. “Good grief, the time?”