Water Witch Read online

  WATER WITCH

  BY

  JAN HUDSON

  Water Witch

  By Jan Hudson

  First published by Loveswept at Bantam Books, November 1988

  Revised and updated ebook edition by Jan Hudson copyright, 2012

  Cover design by Lori D.Wade copyright, 2012

  Published by Janece O. Hudson

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used, transmitted, or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the author except for brief excerpts used in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is purely a work of fiction and the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity between characters, names, or incidents and real people or incidents is coincidental. Certain historical facts or locales have been used fictitiously.

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  Flickering lights from the television cast eerie shadows on the walls of the room. Max Strahan lay in bed, her head propped against a pile of pillows, her hands clutching a bowl of popcorn, her eyes glued to the TV set. As she watched the grotesque shape on the screen rise from the swamp and drag itself through the woods, chills rippled up her spine. Her heart began to pound in tempo with the creepy background music as the muck-covered monster made its way toward the darkened house.

  A banging noise outside startled her, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She tensed, every sense alert. The Doberman lying beside her whined and burrowed his head under her arm. When she realized what had made the sound, she laughed and gave the dog a swat. “Oh, Dowser, you big chicken. It was just a tree limb blowing against the house. Hush. We’re just getting to the good part.”

  Max grabbed a handful of popcorn and munched wide-eyed as the violins continued their suspenseful strains. She trembled as the heavy-breathing creature dragged itself toward its destination, leaving a dripping trail behind.

  Dowser whined and burrowed deeper.

  Max knew she shouldn’t be watching this old horror picture. She knew she’d probably have nightmares—especially in an isolated, unfamiliar house in a strange town. She didn’t know a soul in the Texas hill country, unless she counted the kid who’d filled up the pickup at the gas station this afternoon.

  Had she locked the doors? Of course she had. The little one-story stone and cedar house beside the meandering river was snug. After she’d locked her truck in the attached garage, she remembered carefully locking the kitchen door behind her. She’d also bolted the front door and turned on the porch light to push away the shadows made by the huge, spreading live oaks sheltering the place. A lamp still burned in the living room. It was ridiculous to allow herself to imagine that a swamp monster might be lurking in the Guadalupe River.

  Wasn’t it?

  Of course it was. It was absolutely silly to lie here in this antique four-poster and allow herself to be scared witless. Max knew she should turn off the set right now. But she couldn’t. She was addicted to scary films—a monster movie junkie.

  And anyway, she thought, drawing the covers around her and scrunching deeper into the pillows, she’d left the remote on the dresser, and she didn’t want to get up.

  Who knew what might be under the bed?

  Mesmerized, one arm around the nervous Doberman and the other around the popcorn bowl, Max watched the slimy monster slip into the house and trudge up the stairs to the little girl’s room. The only sound was its labored, guttural rasping.

  As the creature slowly pushed open the door, Max gave a little squeal and covered her face with her hands. Hairs prickled on the back of her neck as she peeked through her fingers at the blond child innocently sleeping in her bed, not knowing that the ghoulish threat stood only a few feet away, its bulging eyes glowing green as it beheld its next victim.

  “Oh, I can’t watch,” Max whispered, turning away from the action on the screen. As her anxious gaze fell on the window of the bedroom, her eyes widened even farther and she sucked in a gasp. The sash was slowly rising open.

  First a man’s shoe, then his lower leg slipped over the sill.

  A piercing shriek ripped from her throat. Popcorn and pillows flew into the air as Max jumped from the bed and dashed across the room. She slammed the window down on the man’s shin and yelled, “Get him, Dowser!”

  The big hulk of a man outside was shouting and swearing and struggling to raise the window. Max held it down with every ounce of strength she possessed.

  “Dowser!” she yelled again. “Help me!”

  Dowser whined from under the bed.

  “You cowardly disposal, I’m sending you to the pound tomorrow!”

  His whining escalated to a mournful howl—still from under the bed.

  Even though she was strong, Max was giving out. The quivering in her arms meant she couldn’t hold on much longer. Had the intruder the advantage of both feet on the ground, she wouldn’t have been a match for his brute force. Only an adrenaline rush gave her the strength she wielded. The man roared with fury as he strained against her. Besides a string of virulent oaths, she only managed to catch the words “damned idiot” and “breaking my leg.”

  “Pervert!” she screamed back at him.

  Looking around frantically for some kind of weapon. Max spied her geologist’s tool bag resting against the dresser. Still holding on to the window, she maneuvered until she could hook her toe around the strap and drag it toward her. Despite her best efforts, she felt the window give a fraction of an inch, then another.

  She jumped and shoved down, hanging her whole weight on the top of the window sash and kicking at the fingers on the bottom that were winning the struggle against hers.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yelled, falling back with a thud and more curses.

  “Thank God,” Max whispered as she realized the resistance had ceased. He’d fallen down. With his leg still trapped in the window, he wouldn’t be able to get up easily. Now was her chance.

  She upended the tool bag and grabbed a rock hammer and a spad. She pounded the naillike spad into one side of the wooden frame at the top of the sash, snatched up another and drove it into the other side so that the window couldn’t be opened further. For good measure, she picked up a third and nailed his pants leg to the sill.

  “How do you like them apples, smart guy?” she said as she slapped the super sized shoe protruding into her bedroom.

  Still clutching the rock hammer, Max turned and glared at Dowser, who had inched his head from under the bed and was staring up at her with soulful eyes.

  “You can come out now. I’ll protect you from the big bad man.”

  Never lifting his head from the floor, Dowser scooted toward Max. His whimper was pitiful and pleading.

  “All right. I’ll forgive you.” She reached down to scratch his ears. “Come on, let’s call the police.” Turning toward the window she shouted, “I’m calling the police!”

  “Good!” the man outside yelled back, then began another round of blistering oaths.

  After she called 911, Max sat down at the oak table in the kitchen, and began to shake. She clenched her hands and took a few deep breaths to gain control. “Don’t fall apart now,” she said, gritting her teeth. She could handle this. Like an affirmation, Max began to sing the familiar words of the classic “I Am Woman.” She was strong, she told herself as she sang. And she could do anything. Seemed as if she’d sung that song a thousand times lately.

  It was less than five minutes before one of Kerr County’s finest came roaring up the drive, lights flashing and siren screaming. Max ran out onto the porch to meet the officer. He got out of the car, grabbed his flashlight, and drew his gun.

  “He’s around there, officer,” Max said, pointing to the side of the cottage.

  “You stay in the house, ma’am. I�
��ll check it out. We’ve had some trouble with a burglar in this area. And from all accounts, he’s mean and he’s slick.”

  “Oh, he’s not going anywhere,” Max said as she trailed along behind him toward where the man lay muttering. “I’ve got him nailed to the wall.”

  The deputy passed the beam of his flashlight over the figure who was half on his back and hanging by his leg stuck in the window. Max noticed that he was wearing a dark suit and tie. He seemed awfully well dressed for a burglar. Come to think of it, she remembered the big foot in her bedroom having on what looked like a hand-sewn Italian shoe. Very peculiar.

  “Evening, Sam,” the burly cop said with obvious amusement. He holstered his gun and gave a tug at his hat. “Looks like you got yourself in a predicament.”

  “Don’t say another word, Dick Ware. Not another freaking word,” the intruder said. “Just help me get my leg out of this damned window. I think it’s broken.”

  Puzzled. Max looked from one man to the other. “You know this trespasser, officer?”

  “I’m not the trespasser, dammit!” Sam bellowed. “You are!”

  “I am not. I have every right to be here. Buck Barton gave me the key. I came in the front door. I didn’t try to climb through the window at midnight.”

  “Look,” Sam said, “can we get my foot out of the window before we discuss this?”

  Max turned to the deputy, who was snickering. “I don’t think he’s too dangerous, ma’am. You go raise the window and I’ll get him on his feet.”

  “Who is he?” she asked Dick Ware.

  “I’m Sam Garrett,” the man on the ground answered. “Buck Barton’s nephew. Now go raise the damned window!”

  “Okay, okay,” she said, and went inside.

  Buck Barton’s nephew? Dear Lord, she’d done it now. A sickening dread filled her. Had she blown the whole deal? She had to have this project. She was down to her last fifty-seven dollars and her charge card was to the limit. Already she’d sold her car and most of her furniture, and the mortgage payment was a month overdue. She couldn’t lose everything. She just couldn’t.

  Even though the late September night was pleasantly cool, Max had broken out in a sweat by the time she retrieved her rock hammer and went to the window. Sticking the pick end through the eye of one of the spads, she gave a yank.

  “Stupid, Max, stupid,” she muttered, berating herself in the same tone her father had always used. You always manage to screw things up. She pried out the other spad from the window and knelt to remove the one skewering his pants. Maybe she could make Sam Garrett understand—

  “Would you hurry up!” she heard him yell.

  She sighed, pulled out the last spad, and raised the window. Slowly she walked to the living room and waited for the inevitable.

  Breathing fire, Sam Garrett limped onto the porch and jerked open the door. His leg wasn’t broken, but it was throbbing like hell. He was going to tear a strip off of that little gal and toss her out on her—

  He stopped cold. A tall, sloe-eyed angel with long legs and golden skin stood across the room wringing her hands, looking as if she were about to cry. She had high cheekbones and full lips and a little dent in her chin that didn’t quite make a dimple. And she had a body that wouldn’t quit.

  With the light to her back, the thin white nightshirt she wore didn’t leave much to the imagination. Given the fix he’d been in earlier, he hadn’t paid much attention to what she looked like. And he couldn’t see much of her in the dark outside.

  But he could see her now. A different throb began to replace the one in his leg.

  He tried to say something, but his mouth was dry and the words got stuck in his throat. He could only stand and stare at the outline of her breasts as they rose and fell with each rapid breath. He could see the dark shadows of her nipples beneath the sheer fabric, and a silky lock of honey-blond hair draped over her shoulder and curled just above the peak of the left one.

  “Mr. Garrett?”

  Sam forced his gaze to her face. When she licked her lips he heard a roaring in his ears and licked his own.

  “Mr. Garrett?”

  “Sam,” he said. “Call me Sam.”

  Max’s unblinking gaze traveled his length from head to foot and back again. Sam Garrett was a big one, she thought. At least six feet four, he was slim-hipped and square-jawed, and his shoulders seemed to fill the door frame. He had a ruddy, weathered complexion which had probably sported a mass of freckles as a kid, and a shock of red hair, thick and unruly, fell across his forehead. Power radiated from him like a generator. Here was a man used to calling all the shots. Under other circumstances she might have found him fascinating. He was some kind of a hunk—and she suspected he knew it—but now, all she could think of was that her only hope was about to go down the tubes.

  She met his squint-eyed stare and swallowed. “Where’s the deputy?”

  “Gone,” Sam said, still staring at her as if he were about to eat her alive.

  Max wrung her hands and swallowed again. “Do you need to go to a hospital? How bad is your leg?”

  “My leg?”

  “Yes, your leg . . . the window . . . your leg.”

  “Oh, my leg,” Sam said as if coming out of a fog. Glancing down, he lifted his foot and bent his knee a couple of times, testing. “It’s just a little bruised, skinned up some maybe.” He looked up and flashed a sexy, lopsided grin. “Angel, to make up for it you could probably kiss it and make it better.”

  Her jaw dropped, then her eyes narrowed as fury flashed through her. With clenched fists on her hips and feet planted apart, Max glared at him. “It’ll be a cold day in hell, Mr. Garrett. What do you mean by breaking into my bedroom and scaring the pants off me?”

  Sam’s grin widened as his gaze swept her figure, revealed even more clearly with the stance she’d adopted. His gaze rested at the juncture of her legs. “Oh, is that where they went?”

  Max drew her brows in a puzzled frown and looked down at herself. Mortification pulled the blood from her face. Dear Lord, she was nearly naked as a jaybird. With all the excitement, she’d forgotten that she was clad only in a short batiste nightshirt.

  When he chuckled, she glared at him again.

  “Ohhhhh, you . . . you . . .” Turning, she stomped into the bedroom and slammed the door so hard that all thirteen of Mrs. Barton’s bluebonnet paintings rattled on the walls.

  Dowser looked up from under the bed, and she could have sworn he grinned. She scowled at him.

  Rummaging through her suitcase. Max found a pair of cotton panties and pulled them on. She located a long plaid robe in the closet and donned it, muttering invectives against Sam Garrett as she snapped every snap from throat to hem. When she was done, she grabbed Dowser’s collar and hauled him up.

  “Come on, you lily-livered beast. At least you can pretend to be a watchdog. Heel!”

  Max reached for the doorknob, knowing it was too much to hope that Sam Garrett might be gone. She was right. He sat sprawled in a chintz-covered chair, his big foot propped on a matching ottoman, his pants leg pulled up to reveal a nasty scrape on his shin. Already it was turning various shades of purple. The moment she saw his leg, Max’s righteous indignation dissolved.

  “That looks awful. Let me get the first-aid kit.” Turning to Dowser she commanded, “Sit. Stay.”

  She went back into the bedroom for her kit, and when she returned, she found the Doberman and the man watching each other carefully. It was hard to tell which one was more nervous. Biting her lip to keep from giggling, she knelt beside Sam and got antiseptic ointment from the kit.

  Sam winced slightly when she applied the cream to the scraped area. “Angel, do you think you could call off the dog? I never did trust big Dobermans.”

  Ducking her head to hide her amusement, she said, “He’s well trained. He won’t bother you unless you make any sudden moves. And my name isn’t Angel. It’s Max.”

  “Max? What kind of a name is that for a woman?”
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  “My full name is Angela Maxwell Strahan. My mother’s name was Angela too. I’ve always been called Max. It saved confusion.” She screwed the cap back on the ointment, not bothering to add that her father had told her she wasn’t fit to be called by her mother’s name.

  “Tell me, Angela Maxwell Strahan, what are you doing in Buck and Honey Bear’s house?”

  “I’m working on a project for Mr. Barton. I’d planned to camp out but he wouldn’t hear of it.” Max taped a couple of gauze pads over the abrasion and replaced the supplies in the kit. “Hell, lil’ lady,” she said, tucking her chin and giving a perfect imitation of Buck Barton’s gravelly bass, “ain’t no sense in that. We’ve got a weekend place on the river up there sittin’ empty as a church on Monday morning. We won’t be usin’ it for a spell. Honey Bear’s draggin’ me off to New York City to get some new duds and to go to some of them high-priced art stores.” Max smiled at the memory of the gruff old wildcatter who was one of the richest men in Houston. “He said to make myself ta home.”

  Sam laughed. “That sounds like Buck all right.”

  Sitting back on her heels, Max looked up at Sam. “Now you know what I’m doing here. What are you doing here? And why were you trying to break in?”

  “I wasn’t breaking in.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Funny, you could have fooled me. Most people use doors.”

  Glancing back and forth from the dog to Max, Sam said, “The Bartons’ housekeeper in Houston told me today when I called that my aunt and uncle were in New York for a few days. I was headed for my place down the road, and when I saw the lights on here, I thought maybe some kids were taking advantage of an empty house to have a party. They’ve been known to do that sometimes. I knocked on the damned door for five minutes and nobody answered.”

  “Oh,” Max said, feeling foolish. “I thought you were a tree limb.”

  “A tree limb?”

  “Yes, a tree limb. Banging against the house in the wind. I told Dowser that’s what it was.”