Charmed by the Salem Witch: A Witch Romance (Appalachian Magic Series Book 3) Read online

  Charmed by the Salem Witch

  Appalachian Magic Book 3

  Debbie Herbert

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Debbie Herbert

  Charmed by the Salem Witch © 2015 Debbie Herbert

  Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  ISBN: 1-5397-1023-8

  Created with Vellum

  Many thanks for editors, friends and fellow writers who read this book and offered their advice and knowledge: Lauren Simpson, Jasmyn Novachek, Karen Morris Groce, Tammy Lynn and Gwen Knight. Also, although he can’t read, my thanks to my cat, Grendel, who is always by my side when I write!

  1

  Go to Salem, they urged.

  You’ll love it, they promised.

  It will be fun, they said.

  They lied.

  Tanner rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on a string of computer code. Some fun. He could have stayed in Alabama if he’d wanted to be stuck in a boring tech job. Sighing, he shoved out of his chair and walked to the window. In the darkness of late afternoon, a light shone in the library next door on the campus quad.

  She was there again. Sitting alone at a table, her long, brown hair swept to one side, her enchanting profile glowing like a halo of warmth against the New England chill. Damn, the unbearable cold had turned his brain to poetic mush. She was just a girl, and he’d had more than his fair share of dating last year. Before everything had turned to shit.

  He’d prove she was nothing special. Tanner abruptly closed down the computer, grabbed his coat, and walked down the semi-deserted hallway. “See you in the morning,” he called to his boss.

  Mr. Higginboth didn’t bother looking up from his hunched position over a computer. “Night,” he mumbled, pushing up wire-framed glasses from the bridge of his nose.

  Tanner shuddered. Would that be him thirty years from now? Buried in an academic environment, wearing old-man woolen sweaters and deciphering endless lines of computer code with steadily declining eyesight? Not how he’d envisioned his future. He closed his eyes and remembered the thrill of catching his one and only touchdown pass—the cheering crowd, outrunning the opposing team’s defenders, the ball tucked safely in his arms, and crossing the goal line. Score!

  How things had changed in one year. And not for the good.

  Bitter wind slammed into his body as he exited the tech lab. He clutched his leather jacket tighter, glumly trying to imagine how much colder Salem would be in winter. Back home, he’d still be in short sleeves and enjoying sunshine.

  His right knee throbbed, as it always did in cold weather. Damn nuisance. You’d think he was ninety instead of nineteen. He walked as quickly as he could with the bum knee, grateful for the warmth of the library as he pushed open its heavy, wooden doors. The cozy scent of old books and weathered oak lifted his sour mood.

  Quickly, he scanned the towering rows of books and the whispering crowd of students at the center tables. In the far right corner, on the second level, she was bent over a book, her long hair a veil, covering her face.

  Tanner inwardly groaned as he climbed the stairs, trying to avoid wincing at the darting pain needling through his knee. A gaggle of girls passed, shooting him sly glances. He winked at the boldest one, who had flaming red hair, dressed all in black, and sported a large pentacle pendant. Back home, she’d have stuck out like a black widow on a bed of white linen. But at the Women’s College of Salem, she was part of a notable minority that flaunted a belief in witchcraft. She smiled, but her eyes held no warmth. She turned her back and elbowed the girl nearest her orbit. “He’s cute but . . . all crippled up. Too bad.”

  His face warmed. The remark had been whispered, but it was loud enough to carry—as the girl no doubt intended. He was used to being called cute, but not to people wondering at his injury. At least, not that he’d overheard. Way to build his confidence as he approached the girl to whom he’d been drawn for the past few weeks.

  He squared his shoulders, determined not to let the offhand comment ruin his plans. If he’d learned nothing else from his old football coach, it was to persevere, no matter the obstacles. Still, he was used to outmaneuvering three-hundred-pound linebackers, not pathetically limping like an old man as he climbed a set of stairs. All while a group of girls insulted his dignity.

  The girls went their way, chattering, never sparing a glance behind them. Amazing—not in a good way—that he’d gone from a rising football star to nearly invisible.

  Different. A tiny flash of red on the floor caught his attention. Tanner bent over, picking up a small, black feather with a skein of red floss clumsily woven into its spine. A few inches of the red thread formed a tiny circle, perhaps large enough for a small wrist. Some kind of Native American bracelet, perhaps? He looked around, but nobody caught his eye. It probably belonged to one of the girls who had laughed at him. Too bad. He wasn’t going to search them out and ask. He shrugged and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, intending to throw it in the nearest trashcan.

  At last, he reached the top. Tanner gripped the railing, collecting his breath and his pride. Once both were again intact, he walked toward the mystery girl, his footsteps creaking on the old pine flooring, but she didn’t look up from the book held in her hands, a heavy, dusty tome—Salem Witch Trials and Mass Hysteria: 1692—1693.

  Tanner flicked his index finger against the book’s spine to get her attention. “A little light reading?” he joked.

  Eyes as gray as a November sky regarded him with a decided chill. He was definitely striking out with the ladies today.

  Her voice was smooth and cold as ice. “Nothing light about the killing of innocent women.”

  “That’s what you call irony.” Tanner pulled out a chair across from her and sat, uninvited. “You writing a history paper on the trials?”

  She cocked her head to one side and regarded him with a raised brow. “Yes. Do you need to use this book?”

  “Oh, no, I’m not a student.”

  Wariness sharpened her delicate features, and her fingers gripped the edge of the table. Real smooth there, Tanner. Now you’re scaring the women away.

  “Then who—”

  “It’s okay,” he said quickly. “I work here. In the IT department. My uncle—Ralph Landers—is the college dean.”

  Her death grip on the book relaxed a fraction.

  “I can prove it.” He dug in his coat pocket and fished out his employee ID. “See? I’m totally legit.�
�� He slapped the card on the table and slid it toward her.

  “Tanner Adams,” she read aloud, comparing his face to the awkward employee picture. “Computer tech, WCS.”

  The way she said his name with her proper, reserved New England inflection was strangely sexy. She pushed his ID card back on the table, and their fingers touched.

  Chills, the good kind, vibrated through his entire body. Holy crap, what would it be like to kiss this girl, feel her arms around him—and . . . more. Much, much more. Uncharacteristic heat crept up the back of his neck. Having sexy fantasies while in a library was a novel experience for him. He pictured the two of them in a back room, making out in the stacks. Books crashing to the ground as they groped each other and peeled off layers of clothes. She’d be wild and—

  “My name’s Sarah,” she said, interrupting his pleasurable thoughts. “Sarah Welch.”

  The name suited her. Kind of old-fashioned and sweet.

  “We meet at last,” he replied.

  Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  Damn. If he told her he’d been watching her for weeks, she’d think he was a stalker. It just so happened his office view directly faced the library’s window. And she—Sarah—was predictably present at this same desk every afternoon.

  Fate.

  If you believed in such a thing. For him, it was more like pure luck.

  He shrugged. “Just an expression. You seem like the studious type.” As if he didn’t realize she studied every day.

  The ice in her eyes and body melted. “I am. I love it here—so many interesting courses. WCS was my first pick.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, the flexible Special Studies program, the small class sizes, the setting—”

  Tanner held up a hand, grinning. “We’re not filming a WCS advertisement, are we? Unless . . .” He half-rose out of his chair, making a show of looking in all directions. “Unless there’s a hidden camera I don’t know about?”

  Sarah laughed, an enchanting sound. “I love your accent. Where are you from?”

  “Sweet Home, Alabama—”

  “—where the skies are so blue,” she finished. “Okay, I’ll bite: How did you end up working at a women’s college in Salem?”

  He couldn’t tell her the truth—that he’d fallen into a self-pitying rut after a bad knee ruined his dream of making it to the NFL. It was the only thing he’d ever wanted, and it had been snatched away in an instant.

  “Loose ends.” He shrugged. “Figured a change of scene would do me good. My uncle offered me a job.”

  “Nothing like a little nepotism.”

  Did he imagine it, or was there a bitter tinge under the words? Was her smile a little too tight at the edges? Looking for a diversion, he tapped the open book between them. “Salem witchcraft, huh? Was the topic assigned? Rite of passage around these parts?”

  “It fascinates me.”

  He studied Sarah, intrigued at her directness. “I’ve noticed an awful lot of folks around campus doing the Goth thing. Do you play at witchcraft, too?”

  “Play?” She bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Oh, hell. Sarah imagined herself a witch. Stupid to think that when he’d left the Appalachian hollows of home he’d left behind his magical heritage. This was Salem, after all. Too bad its past hadn’t stayed buried.

  Tanner pointed at the book. “Witchcraft’s dangerous. Playing with fire can get you burned, you know. . . or burned at the stake, as the case may be,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

  But the frost had returned to Sarah’s voice and eyes. “I never said I was a witch.”

  Way to score, stupid. “Doesn’t matter to me if you’re one or not,” he lied. Actually, he preferred women who weren’t, but he couldn’t be picky in a town like Salem if he wanted a girlfriend. Besides, Sarah intrigued him.

  “That’s awfully open-minded of you, considering . . .” She hesitated a heartbeat.

  “Considering I must be a conservative Southern redneck?”

  Her face flushed. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.” Tanner winked at her. “It’s okay. I’ve gotten used to it since moving north. But if you’re feeling guilty, you can make it up to me by going out with me tomorrow night. Dinner and a movie?”

  Sarah closed the book and gathered her paper and notecards, stuffing them into a tote bag. He waited, holding his breath. At last, she faced him. “Maybe.”

  At least she didn’t flat-out say no.

  “C’mon,” he coaxed, laying on the charm. “Don’t break my heart. We’ll have fun.”

  She tilted her head to one side, assessing him. “Okay, I guess.”

  A little of the sadness that had plagued him the last few months lifted. He pulled out his cellphone, and Sarah entered her number, a smile tugging at her lips.

  “Do you live on campus?” he asked.

  “Clara Hall, room 323B.”

  “I’ll give you a lift,” he offered. “Unless you’d rather drive your own car?”

  Her eyes darkened. “Don’t have one. Too expensive.”

  Mentally, Tanner kicked himself for stepping on her toes again. “You’re going to walk home in this weather?”

  “What weather?” she said, glancing out the window at the chilly night. “This is nothing, Bama. Anyway, I rode my bike—I’m not going to freeze.”

  “Then I’ll walk with you. Make sure you get back to the dorm safe.” Sarah’s brow arched, and Tanner shrugged. “My mama would have a fit if I didn’t at least offer.”

  “Ah, chivalry,” she muttered, but she didn’t protest when he followed her to the stairs. If Sarah noticed his limp, she didn’t say anything. He only hoped she didn’t regret accepting a date.

  Tanner schooled his features to control the pain. Stairs were the worst. It had been seven months since the injury, and despite the surgery and rehab, the pain seemed to worsen with time. He’d been so desperate to recover that he’d even asked his coven for help. There’d been some slight relief, but nothing lasting. Making the request had been a considerable blow to his pride since he’d pretty much rejected their ways for years. Witchy stuff was for Goth girls and Earth-worshiper types, while he and his best friend, Michael, were all about football.

  He held the library door open, and Sarah slid past him. “My bike’s over there,” she said, pointing to the racks at the front of the library. She hesitated, shooting him a sideways glance. “Really, you don’t have to walk me home. I don’t want to make you walk a long way.”

  Was she hinting at his injury? He scowled. “It’s just a bum knee from a football accident. No big deal.”

  “Yeah, no offense, but you’re hobbling like an old lady before a storm. Don’t be stupid.” She considered her bike for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision. “Are you parked nearby? If you insist on seeing me home, get your car, and I’ll pick up my bike in the morning.”

  Sarah’s assessment of his condition stung, but her offer was good. “Actually, I drive a truck. We can throw your bike in the back. I’m parked at the side of the building next door. Wait right here.”

  “And make you face the cold, dangerous night alone?” she teased. “What would your mama think of me?”

  Unlocking her bike, she followed him to his old beater truck, and Tanner slid Sarah an assessing look. Most of the students at WCS were rich, pampered princesses, but Sarah passed the test on this, too. If she felt the old truck was beneath her, she didn’t say a word as he lifted her bike into the bed. With the ancient heater wheezing, they headed down the main campus drive to Clara Hall, an aged brick building with white marble columns in the front. He eased into a space by the entrance and cut off the engine, and Sarah stared down at her hands in her lap.

  He laid a hand on her shoulder. “It was nice to meet you, Sarah. I’m looking forward to tomorrow night.”

  “Me, too,” she mumbled, a slight blush staining her cheeks.

  As he reached in his po
cket to put away the keys, the forgotten black feather slipped free and drifted between them in the console.

  “What’s that?” Her voice sharpened, and her eyes narrowed. She picked up the feather and examined it, then drew in a quick breath.

  “I found it in the library,” said Tanner. “Looks like a cheap bracelet someone made.”

  “You don’t know what this is?”

  He shrugged. “Should I?”

  “Stick around here long enough, and you’ll learn a few things,” she replied, turning the feather over. “Supposedly, this is used in binding spells. Red thread encased in black represents a person’s blood bound to darkness, or so I’ve heard.”

  “Supposedly,” he noted drily. He could call his mom or Callie and ask. Callie even had experience with such spells.

  Sarah held the feather up. “So, what are you going to do with this?”

  “Throw it away.”

  “I’m not sure that’s wise.” She gazed thoughtfully at the feather.

  He shrugged. “Do what you want. I certainly don’t want to keep it.”

  “Yeah,” she muttered. “Look, I’m not saying I believe all that stuff, but just to be safe, I’ll research the best way to dispose of it.” She slanted him a questioning glance. “Aren’t you going to ask what a binding spell means?”

  “I’ve heard a few things myself,” he said evasively. “They take away a person’s free will. Supposedly.”

  Wariness clouded her eyes. “Not every day you meet someone who knows a little about dark magic.”

  “Agreed.”

  So she wasn’t the only one taken aback. Sarah nodded, dropping the feather into her tote bag. “See you tomorrow night.”

  “Goodnight, gorgeous.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. You say that to all the girls.”

  “Only if it’s true.” He winked at her.

  Sarah laughed, a sound that warmed the pit of his stomach.

  Suddenly, his hand seemed to take on a mind of its own and stretched toward Sarah’s face. Gently, he traced the sensuous curve of her lips with his fingertips.