Ghosts Of The Past-Chapter One

Chapter One

                    The van bounced along the pot-hole filled road on its destination to nowhere. At least that was how Jessie Jones perceived her situation. She sat in the back seat of the large vehicle, nervously picking at the white stuffing of the torn seat next to her, wondering where life was taking her now. 

                      Not so long ago she was living life to its fullest, with a successful career, complete with a six-figure income, a pent house flat and a red sports car. It took over ten years to build her impressive financial portfolio, but only one day for her world to come crashing down. 

                      The rain outside pounded the windshield, the squeak of the wipers swishing back and forth, brought back memories she spent the last six years trying to forget. The screeching of the tires, the shattering of glass and twisting metal sent a shudder of regret coursing through her. She shouldn't have been driving. She was exhausted after working a twenty hour day. In her eagerness to spend a quiet weekend at her secluded horse ranch not far outside the city, she ignored her better judgment by setting out late that rainy night. 

                      Vehicular manslaughter was the term the judge used when a person fell asleep at the wheel. Did six years seem appropriate for someone who drove into oncoming traffic, killing a husband on his way home to his wife? Not in her eyes. To this day, she felt the burden of guilt as strong as she did when they led her away in handcuffs to serve her sentence. 

                      "Here we are." The driver said pulling up in front of what she assumed was supposed to be a small cabin. Weeds dominated the lawn, growing up over the partially rotted porch. The screen door hung by only one hinge, and the roof appeared in the same form of deterioration. 

                      "There must be a mistake." She said to the portly, bald headed man as he came around and opened the back door. "This is where they want me to live?"

                      "I'm afraid so. "He said, reaching for her bag. She grabbed the strap, refusing to relinquish all that remained of her worldly possessions. 

                      "I was told I'd be working on a ranch." She said, gripping her bag tighter. 

                      "The Wilmot Ranch is just over the hill. This is where they told me to drop you off, so this is where I am dropping you off. Now come on, get out, I don't plan to stand in the rain all day." 

                      He grabbed her bag again, this time yanking her and the bag out of the truck.

  She barely had time to jump away from the van before the driver sped away. 

                      "Asshole!" she yelled at the disappearing truck and the insensitive driver. 

                      The man's dislike for her couldn't have been more obvious right from the moment he pulled up in front of the train station in Duluth Minnesota. He didn't bother to get out of the truck when he yelled out. "Are you the ex-con Jessica Jones?" through the rolled down truck window. 

                      She nodded and without lifting his fat ass out of the driver seat to help her with her bag he muttered. "Well come on, I don't have all day, let's go." 

                      Jessie wasn't sure what to expect when she left the big city life of Minneapolis, but it sure in hell wasn't this. 

                      "Home sweet home." She said to herself as she turned back to the dilapidated structure. Living in prison for six years had lowered her standards of expectations but this place was just downright wrong. There had to be a law or something against forcing someone to live like this. 

                      "Quaint country living my ass." She muttered as she hauled herself up onto the rotting boards of the porch to get out of the rain. The boards creaked as Jessie moved towards the screen door. She opened it carefully so not to pull the door completely off its hinges. Inside she found a small floral couch positioned in front of the cobblestone style fireplace. A twin-size bed lined one wall in the corner and across from that she appreciated the fully stocked kitchen. The bathroom lied behind a partial wall in the kitchen and consisted of a simple toilet and a stand up shower. She didn't see a television, not that she expected one way out in the sticks but at least she had a radio. And most importantly the place was clean. 

                      After making the spin around the room, she found a hand written letter on the coffee table.

                      I apologize for my lack of absence. I have some unexpected business to attend to, and I will be gone for about a week. Make yourself at home. The cabin is fully stocked but if you need anything else my ranch is just over the next hill. My farm manager will be able to assist you with anything you need.

 

  Eric Wilmot.

 

                      Great, now what was she going to do for a week? She would have stayed in the city for a little longer rather than being trapped out in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do. 

                      "It's a job." Dr. Wilma Johnson, the prison psychiatrist, told her. "The owner of Wilmot Ranch is a close friend of mine. A retired officer who is willing to give you work. I think you need to get away from the city for a while, to reflect on what is most important in your life." 

                      Dr. Johnson had been her lifeline while she was in prison, her only grip on sanity in the hell hole which had surrounded her. 

                      "Why are you doing this? I am sure you don't do this for every ex-con getting out of prison." 

                      In response, Dr. Johnson pulled out a newspaper clipping of a school bus accident. 

                      "A class of fifth graders, on their way home from a class trip, went off the road and through the barricade, crashing into the river. A man in a speeding sports car cut the bus off while trying to get to work. He was talking on his cell phone, while doing over 90mph on the interstate. This man happened to be a patient of mine, who like you, followed a path of self-destruction, although, unlike you, he didn't survive the crash. Twenty children died on that bus, twenty children who will never have the chance to grow up. I couldn't help him but I can help you.  Whenever you begin to question what is most important in life, I want you to remember this story. You have a chance to make something of your life, make a difference in the world. There is more to life than what we hold in material possessions. Not many get a second chance, so don't waste it." 

                      What choice did Jessie have? She had to take the job. She had little money left, no home and no possessions other than what she had in her bag. A few changes of clothes, an extra pair of boots, some personal hygiene items and last her old riding outfit. Tan breeches, black dressage boots and wooly red sweater. She grabbed the sweater, holding it close to her face, breathing in the smell of the past. She lost the farm in a civil lawsuit, following her conviction; but the horses was what she missed most. The six large Dutch Warmbloods had been the only family she had ever known. Being an orphan, she grew up in foster homes, not knowing the real meaning of unconditional love. Until she purchased her first horse.

                      Aphis was a weanling when she bought him. The big, six year old black Dutch Warmblood gelding had been her favorite. She had a bond with the big 17hh horse that she never achieved with the others. When she rode him, she felt as if she were part of him, as if she could accomplish anything on his back. When she heard the news he was sold a little of herself had died that day.

                      She pushed back her depressing memories by changing. Jeans and a sweatshirt were okay for an air conditioned train and pick-up truck but the heat a July summer day in Michigan, prompted her to change into shorts and a tank top. Once she was more comfortable she decided to get more familiar with her surroundings. 

                      The cupboards in the kitchen were filled with canned goods; the freezer stocked with meats and TV dinners and noticed a six pack of bottled beer in the frig alongside a gallon of milk and the lunch meat. When looking for a bottle opener she also found a bottle of brandy in the cupboard as well. She'd save that for later. She'd start with the beer. She didn't hesitate to open a bottle, drinking it down quickly, and then grabbed another. Bottle in hand, she sat down on the couch, pulling out a small notebook from her bag, pulling out the newspaper clipping from within the pages. 

                      "Business women killed prominent Minneapolis Lawyer"\The head line read. 

                      Instantly her mind went back to that dark, rainy night. The sounds, the blood, a voice whispering... "I don't want to die alone." 

                      It took all her effort to fight back her rising emotions, while staring at the article in front of her. She kept the news clipping to remind what was more important in life, as Dr. Johnson had said. Or maybe it was just to keep punishing herself over something she wished she could go back and change. 

                      When she finished the last bottle of beer, she moved to the brandy. Not long after she started feeling the effects of a really good buzz. She knew she should stop now, before she went too far but figured what the hell. The sun had gone down long ago and it be time for bed soon, so with yet another glass of brandy in hand, she turned the radio on to some country music channel, curled up on the couch. The light next to the couch cast the room in a soft yellow glow, flickering every so often when thunder rumbled closed by. Soon her eyelids became extremely heavy, drifting closed on their own. One moment she was on the couch and next she was standing in complete darkness, except for a light shimmering in the distance growing brighter as something moved towards her.

                      A swirling fog accompanied the familiar sound of galloping hooves pounding the hard ground. The black form emerged out of the mist like a ghostly apparition, its silhouette danced between reality and illusion as they animal slid to a stop in front of her. Neck arched, muscles taunt under silkened skin, the horse slid to a stop only inches from her. The animal's hot breath rustled her blond hair, standing face to face with her. She reached out to touch the powerful animal only to be jerked awake by someone pounding on the cabin door. 

                      "What the hell!" she exclaimed as she staggered off the couch, nearly hitting the floor in her inebriated state. She made, what she assumed, a straight line for the door and without thinking first if it were wise or not, she flung the door open. Imagine her surprise when she found a large form filling the doorway. She being five foot three had to put the man standing in the doorway well over six feet. She may be three sheets to the wind, but not so much so she couldn't appreciate how good looking the man was. The form fitting white t-shirt he wore emphasized his body builder frame by outlining every bulging muscle, including his skin tight blue jeans. Damn, she was in prison far too long if the first thing she found herself staring at was this man's package. Get it together girl, he's just a man.

                      "Who the hell are you?" she demanded, but the impact of her irritation was drowned by a following hiccup which brought out a smile from the stranger in her doorway. 

                      "I see you found my beer." He said in a deep, masculine voice. 

                      "The brandy to but I didn't see anyone's name on it." She managed to slur back. "And this is my place. I'm working at Wilmot ranch." 

                      "Yes, I know. Name's Tex. I heard you arrived and came to make sure you settled in okay, which obviously you did." His deep blue eyes had a certain twinkle to them that she found rather appealing. 

                      "During the day when I work on the cabin I leave the beer in the fridge, rather than haul it back and forth from the farm."

                      "You work on the farm?" she asked once again kicking herself for sounding so stupid. Of course he did, a man built like him obviously use to physical labor. You didn't get a body like his by lying around. Of course, he might be on steroids, you never could tell these days. 

                      "More or less." He answered, which took a moment for her to comprehend.

                      "What the hell does that mean?" She slurred out, attempting to cross her arms over her chest in defiance but managed to lose her balance instead. She hit the door first, heading in the direction of the floor if the stranger didn't reach out and grabbed her. His arm moved around her waist supporting her while his other hand... where was his other hand? Realization hit her fast. 

                      "You want to get your hand off my ass?" she said, pushing against the brick wall of his solid chest. "Let me go." 

                      "If I let you go you're going to fall flat on your backside." 

                      "I maybe drunk buddy but last time I recalled my legs are what hold me up, not my ass." 

                      "Suit yourself." He chuckled and let her go. She took a couple steps and sure enough, she would have fallen on her backside if he didn't reach out to steady her again. Only this time he didn't hold her so close. Why did she feel disappointed in that? Now come to think of it, why wasn't she worried about this powerhouse of a man standing in the threshold, when any sane person would never open the door to begin with? She was in the middle of nowhere, with a stranger three times her size and all she had on her mind was finding out how good he was in bed. Once again her eyes fixed lower, wondering if he was truly proportionate in every aspect of his massive size

                      "Lady, as much as I might enjoy what is on your mind you're not really my type." The man said in a rather husky tone. 

                      "Can you read minds? "She whispered, realizing how stupid she sounded once the words were out. The man just insulted her, didn't he?

                      "No, but any red blooded male can read the look in your eyes." He muttered, actually taking a step away from her. 

                      "Ahh, you're married. Figures. " She said, waving a hand towards him. " A man as good looking as you, would be. You got the body of a god, and I bet if you turned around your ass is so firm you could serve a meal on it." 

                      "I'm not married." He blurted out, almost as if she embarrassed him. 

                      "So then you're gay. Fine. I have nothing against gay people." 

                      "I'm not gay." He said defensively. 

                      "Then prove it."          

                      She caught him off guard with that one. 

                      "What?" 

                      "Come on, prove it." She moved towards him with one intention. "I've haven't had male company in an awfully long time. All the sexual tension I have bottled up will prove to be a rather interesting encounter for you, I promise. Even if I'm not your type. " 

                      Was she that drunk she lost all common sense she thought as her eyes focused on his lips? She moved towards him, standing on tip toes to get close to the object of her intention. She tipped her head back, moved in and suddenly a wave of dizziness washed over her. Seconds' later bile rose up and out came most the food she had recently eaten, all over the man's brown leather hiking boots. 

                      "Yeah, not sure about most men but being puked on is a big turn off for me."  she vaguely recalled him saying before she passed out.