Weathering Rock. Mae Clair

      The June moon rode a ragged ridge of bone-white clouds, filmy and pale as the translucent skin of an onion. Honeysuckle mingled with the aroma of sweet clover and drifted through the open window of Arianna Hart’s Chrysler Sebring. It was a pleasant night, touched by fog and ripe with all the scents and sounds that heralded summer’s arrival. In the distance, the rooftops of Weathering Rock jutted above the trees, silvered with the ice-white blood of the moon.

      The old manor home predated the Civil War and had been a landmark for the town of Sagehill as far back as she could remember. Ball lightning and freak storms were said to roll through the surrounding fields like a tempest of Earth and sky, giving rise to superstition and legend. Even now, tendrils of fog twined among the trees. Arianna didn’t care about the weather anomalies or myths. It was the past that fascinated her, a passion she’d carried into her career as a teacher of American history at the local middle school. Engrossed in her thoughts, absently humming along to Lady Gaga on the radio, she was unprepared when a man on horseback plunged from the trees.

      “Shit!” With a shriek of horror, she slammed on the brakes sending the Sebring fishtailing across the road. The horse reared upright, trapping the rider in the beam of her headlights, his hair a blaze of bright silver. She watched in horror as he lost his battle to stay mounted and tumbled backward to the ground. The horse wasted no time in thundering off between the trees, and was swallowed by ribbons of fog.

      “Oh, God!” Arianna popped the door, fumbling off her seatbelt and stumbling in her haste to reach the prone man. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.” She was babbling, her heart in her throat, nerves in the stratosphere. “Are you all right?”

      Of course he wasn’t all right! He wasn’t even moving. He looked to be in his early thirties, dressed in jeans, a dark t-shirt and an archaic-looking frock coat. The garment was straight out of a history book.

      “Sir?” Arianna knelt on the roadside. Now that she saw him up close, she realized his hair was blond, not silver, cut longer than fashionable. He had a lean but muscular physique and–she couldn’t help noticing–was handsome as sin. If she was going to mow someone down, why not go for the gold? “Um–” She prodded his shoulder, jumping when he responded with a groan. Arianna sank back on her haunches. “Thank God!”

      The man stirred and rolled his head on the asphalt, dragging one leg upright. He made an abortive attempt to wedge it beneath him, and raised a hand to his head. “What happened? I need to reach Meade.”

      “Who?” Arianna didn’t like the way he was holding his head. “Uh, look…I’m not sure who you are, but I’m going to call an ambulance. My cellphone is in the car–”

      “No.” Wincing, he struggled to sit.

      Arianna did what she could to assist, surprised when he completed the action by climbing to his feet and steadying himself against her. He was taller than she’d thought, six foot-one or two, every inch of him dazed and wobbly male. She could feel the press of his body to hers–sinew and muscle, the taut, well-formed lines of a denim-clad hip and thigh.

      “I don’t need an ambulance.” His eyes were touched by an eerie silver sheen. Like an animal’s at night when reflecting light. “I live at Weathering Rock.

      “You might have a concussion.”

      “No hospital.” He looked away and his face fell back into shadow. It made her wonder if she’d imagined that feral glow. When he spoke again, his speech carried a formal inflection. “May I impose upon you to drive me home? It appears I require assistance.”

      “What about your horse?”

      “It knows the way.” He pressed two fingers against his temple, his eyes narrowing to painful slits. “I didn’t see you. Like Seth at Crinkeshaw.”

      His distraction worried Arianna. It made her reconsider calling an ambulance, but he seemed to read the thought in her eyes. “My…brother…is at home. He’s a doctor.”

      “Your brother lives at Weathering Rock?”

      “We both do. It’s not far.”

      “I know the way.” Forcing herself to speak calmly, Arianna guided him to the passenger’s side of the Sebring. She didn’t know if she was crazy or foolish for helping a stranger into her car. She said a silent prayer he was harmless and wouldn’t turn out to be a deranged serial killer.

      “I’m going to call a friend. He’s a cop.”

      “No.” He grabbed her wrist and held fast. “I won’t hurt you.”

      She balked, disturbed he’d read her mind so easily. He needed to have his head examined if he thought she was going to take his word at face value. Wasn’t she always getting something in her email, forwarded by a well-meaning friend that warned of men who preyed on unsuspecting women? There was nothing to stop him from stuffing her in the trunk and driving off.

      Except if he’d wanted to harm her he would have done it by now. Not everyone was an ax murderer or a fugitive from American’s Most Wanted.

      She pulled her arm free. “What’s your name?”

      “Caleb.” There was pain in his voice, the answer spoken through gritted teeth. “Caleb DeCardian.” He opened the door of the Sebring and folded into the seat. With his face turned away, Arianna did a visual check, searching for blood. She couldn’t see any, but suspected he’d hit his head when he’d fallen. He appeared dazed enough to be nursing a concussion.

      Squelching her panic, she rounded the vehicle and climbed in the driver’s side. She left the door hanging open, the dome light brightening the interior of the car while she fished in her purse for her cell. “I have insurance.”

      “It

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