The Artist's Inheritance

Chapter One

Maybe his brother's love of the fort drove him away from the subject.

She ran a hand along his shoulders. "Come downstairs when you can, honey."

Trevor blinked and set the chisel aside. "I'm sorry. What needs doing?"

She tugged his hand. "Come on, I'll show you."

Another set of boxes managed to make it into the attic, but by dinner Trevor was hard at work again. Caitlin frowned, stirring a dish of steaming vegetables.

He was driven. She had to give him points for that. He spent hours, days thinking about his work; nights brought dreams of the chair.One night not long after they'd cleaned up the living room, Caitlin found him sitting in the attic, staring at the oak construction, muttering to himself.

"No, not good enough. Useless piece of trash—"

"It's lovely. Keep going."

"Ugly, terrible. Quit wasting your time."

"Honey, who are you talking to?" Caitlin said.

He held the chisel poised against the chair. The moon shone through a gap in the curtains. Caitlin stood at the door, watching, worried. She took a step forward.

A frosty blast seeped over her.

She crossed her arms tight across her chest to ward off the chill. Another step forward and the chill vanished. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Her worry for her beloved remained. "Trevor?" Fixing her gaze on the chair, she could see yet more intricate designs in the wooden surface, swirling vine-like etchings, a few stylized horses and ravens.

The chisel fell from his grip.

Did she see a severed human head among the marks? "What are you doing?"

"Dreaming. I mean, I thought I was." He scanned the room, bewildered. "I don't know."

She took his hand and tugged him to his feet. "I'd say you were sleepwalking." She frowned at the chair. "Or I guess, sleep working."

Trevor wasn't prone to sleepwalking. How bizarre to find him working while unconscious! "Come back to bed." She led him to their bedroom, pulled the bedcovers back, and he crawled underneath them, shaking.

Everything after she'd snuggled down next to him was an utter haze. Yet, somehow, here, three-thirty in the morning, he'd ended up in the darkened attic working on the chair again. She switched off the light and pulled him into her arms. "You need to give that chair a rest. You'll burn out if you're not careful."

His twin brother Gordon had. Gordon worked himself to death his wife said. Of course, exhaustion wasn't the official explanation for Gordon's demise. The local news had a field day with the story. His was the first famous death at the fort in . . . a long time.

She didn't want to think about it.

Three days passed and the more Trevor's head cleared, the more he spent time with Caitlin and their new home. He trailed behind while Caitlin trawled the nearest garden center, picking out flowers for her garden, then spent all day planting. Beside the lavender, marjoram and other herbs she'd planted in spring she added some pink blooms—what the garden center employee called Echinacea. She was all set to plant a tray of geraniums, momentarily.

Caitlin took a swig from a water bottle and brushed the sweat from her brow. "I hope these last through fall. You know my horrible luck with plants." Several years of trying in vain to keep chrysanthemums alive on their apartment porch proved her words. Somehow, she suspected those deaths were due to her timing and hoped she got it right this time.

Trevor bit back a laugh. "That was a fluke."

"Uh huh." Caitlin picked up a geranium start, squeezing its plastic pot to loosen the roots. "We'll see."

When she exhausted her day's gardening efforts she allowed herself to relax. A shower proved a great balm to her aching back, and she smiled when she peeked out the window to see the red and purple blossoms in her new garden. If the geraniums and Echinacea didn't last, she hoped the rose bushes would survive.

She rolled her shoulders and dragged the towel over her wet hair, deciding she would pay for all the hard yard work tomorrow.

If it didn't kill her.

"You know, I think I'll let you do all the yard work from now on, and just direct from the shade." She sauntered into the bedroom. Empty. She slid her favorite nightgown over her head and padded through the house. Trevor wasn't in the kitchen, either. Only the lunch dishes waiting in the strainer met her gaze. She peeked out the front windows.

No Trevor.

Where did he get to?

Tapping met her ears. She mounted the stairs, and pushed the attic door open. There he stood, tools in hand.

Hard at work—again.

She leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed, watching. "I don't mean to sound like a worried mother, but haven't you done enough work?"

"Mom was never so worried about me."

No, because for all we know, she's dead.

Caitlin shuddered, willing the thought away. She was unsure how to describe the sound of his chisel—tapping in designs, or nailing a coffin shut? "Suit yourself. Don't blame me if your batteries are drained in the morning."

"In a—oh, hell. I forgot what I meant to add." He sighed and tossed the chisel onto the floor beside the chair. "You're right, as usual." He pushed to his feet and loped past her, placing a kiss on her cheek. "What's for dinner?"

She rubbed her hand along his back, and turning, frowned at the chair.

For a split second, she saw a figure in the chair, a man with his head lolling at a weird angle. The lips gray and cold under the dark beard, the eyes open, staring at something she couldn't see.

The soldier's black boots waited beside Trevor's monstrous creation, as if he might step into them any moment. His military-style coat hung over the high back. He'd died, and would never use any of them again.

 Her heart seized for the poor man. Who was he?

The shape of his face changed, shedding the beard, the jawline tapering into a more feminine line.

The face mutated further until she recognized it: The face was her own.

Caitlin sucked in a quick, startled breath and took the stairs as fast as she could.

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The story continues in part two. :)