The Witch's Stone by Dawn Brown Page B

her whenever possible.
    A good place to start would be by getting off her bed.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
Chapter Nine
     
    It was nearly noon when Hillary emerged from Agnes’s room, frustrated and disillusioned. She’d spent most of the morning searching through the clutter for Roderick’s journals, and still hadn’t found them. Every day that went by without them was a day closer to having to return home empty-handed, the whole trip a waste of time and money. 
    Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t really eaten today. Unless she counted a cup of the world’s worst instant coffee--which she didn’t.
    She went downstairs to the kitchen, passing the study on her way. The sharp, rhythmless clack of fingers on a computer keyboard seeped through the closed door. Relief drew some of the tension from her shoulders.
    Caid was back and busy at work. She’d have a little more time to figure out what she was going say to him.
    Miraculously, she’d managed to avoid him for most of the morning. He’d been gone when she woke, leaving her a brief note in the kitchen that he’d driven to the village for groceries.
    Just thinking about last night’s performance made her face hot. She must have looked absolutely pitiful. The memory of his warm hand stroking her cheek, his body heat so close to her on the bed sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with nerves.
    She had to stop thinking about him like that.
    Besides, she had more pressing concerns; like how to deflect any questions her behavior last night might have inspired. She didn’t even want to think about Caid’s reaction if she told him about Randall.
    For a moment, Michael’s narrowed, accusing stare, his face tight with suspicion, flashed in her mind. Cold fear tangled around her insides like an icy ribbon. She didn’t want to see that same expression clouding Caid’s face. And she didn’t want to analyze that feeling, either.
    Maybe she’d be able to get away with pretending nothing had happened last night, and if that didn’t work, a short “thank you for your kindness” should be sufficient. If he persisted in asking her about the dream, she would shrug him off. Everyone had nightmares from time to time. He need not know hers were recurring because she’d killed a man.
    What if she had the dream again? This had been the second night in a row.
    She gave herself a mental shake. No point in worrying about something she couldn’t change. Instead, she continued on to the kitchen and fixed herself something from the now well-stocked fridge and pantry. 
    She’d just taken a huge bite of her ham sandwich when the warbly doorbell chimed. Still chewing, she hurried down the hall to answer it, but Caid had beaten her there. He held the door and stepped aside so Bristol could enter.
    “Thanks for coming,” Caid said, shaking the big man’s hand.
    “Hullo Hillary,” Bristol said.
    She could only half-smile and nod, while trying to swallow the ridiculous amount of food in her mouth.
    “Hungry?” Caid muttered from beside her. His brows drew together in a mildly disgusted frown.
    She gulped the mouthful down, wishing she’d had the chance to pour herself something to drink and the forethought to bring it with her. “Yeah. So?”
    So much for the awkward moment she’d envisioned. Everything was back exactly as it had been. And thank goodness. So why the tiny kernel of annoyance? She should be relieved to find Caid as surly as ever. Just like nothing had happened. Just like she wanted.
    “When did you call Bristol?” she asked.
    “This morning, before I left.”
    Caid led Bristol into the study and Hillary followed. He’d been hard at work while she’d been upstairs. All the books had been pulled from the shelves, the deep wood paneling gleamed, and fresh paint covered the walls. The chilly breeze wafting through the open window couldn’t completely mask the caustic odors of paint and wood polish.
    But somewhere along the way, despite