Stepping Back Read online

  A MESSAGE FROM SARA MACKENZIE

  Stepping Back and The East Wind are two stories I wrote at very different times in my writing career, and I hope you will enjoy reading them together here.

  Stepping Back was first published in 2009 in The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance. Originally it was going to be a novella but somehow the opportunity never arose. I wrote it during a time of severe drought in southern Australia, when reservoirs were so low that you could often see the buildings that used to exist, before they were flooded with water. When I was asked to come up with something for the Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance I remembered this story and rewrote it.

  The East Wind was first published in 1994 in an Australian anthology called Summer of Love. In those days I was writing Australian fiction as Lilly Sommers, but I think this story slots in well under Sara Mackenzie. I had the idea for a sailor ghost who rides the wind when I heard an old folk song on that subject, many years ago. Reading it still gives me goosebumps.

  Sara

  *****

  Sara Mackenzie is the author of The Immortal Warriors series of books:

  Return of the Highlander, Secrets of the Highwayman, and Passions of the Ghost. Visit saramackenzieparanormalromance on facebook

  https://www.facebook.com/saramackenzieparanormalromance?ref=hl

  And look out for her new website and new Immortal Warriors book coming soon.

  STEPPING BACK

  by

  SARA MACKENZIE

  1905

  She lifted her long skirt away from her riding boots with one hand, and stepped up onto the mounting block. Her horse waited patiently as she settled herself on the sidesaddle.

  Helen glanced up at the sky.

  It would be a fine day, one of those crisp, clear autumn days, perfect for riding. And she desperately needed to clear her head, to decide what she was going to do. What had seemed impossible only weeks ago was now dangerous reality.

  She could not remain here.

  But if she was to save herself then she must plan carefully, she must choose her moment, and she must not make any mistakes.

  She set off at a slow trot along the lane that passed between the paddocks, soon increasing to a gallop. The chill wind whipped away any lingering doubts, crystallizing her determination.

  “Tomorrow we will leave this place,” she told her horse. “Tomorrow we will go.”

  PRESENT

  Sunrise turned the dry, brown land gold and for a moment there was beauty in the valley. Claire sipped her coffee and squinted her eyes against the light, watching as the shifting sun touched the roof of Niall McEwen’s homestead. Now that the water in the reservoir was so low, the old homestead was completely exposed, although still unreachable. A deep moat kept the curious at bay.

  Claire hadn’t slept at all well. Once she used to fall into darkness every night, her dreams barely more than a surface ripple. Now instead there were vivid images in her head, nightmares, sending her tossing and turning, struggling upward to wakefulness. And wondering if they really were just dreams, or memories of the past she couldn’t remember.

  Last night, as she forced back the smothering folds of sleep, the usual doubts crowding about her, Claire had heard a dog barking. Sharp jarring barks that had her peering from the windows. The sound was coming from the reservoir, but just as she thought she had pinpointed it, the barking moved on. And then vanished altogether.

  Claire had not felt this unsettled since she woke up in hospital four years ago. That had been like being reborn, painfully. Apart from the physical injuries, there had been no identification on her and she could not remember who she was or where she had come from. One of the doctors had a daughter called Claire and so the patient had become known as Claire too, and Claire she remained.

  Claire tried not to think about the past. The hospital seemed to think that some trauma had befallen her and her previous life had been stolen—severed like a falling climber’s rope—so there was no point in longing for it. Either it would return when it was ready, or it wouldn’t.

  Besides, this was her home now, she told herself firmly. The house above the reservoir and the newspaper where she worked and her friend Gabe. Before didn’t matter.

  Now, as though to underscore the point, Claire stood up and tipped the remains of her coffee over the verandah railing onto the long suffering roses.

  The drought had been going forever and most of her garden was dead, but the roses persisted. Maybe it was their morning dose of caffeine that did it, she thought, with a smile.

  She lifted her face and allowed the sun to bathe it. The air was already hot and dry, taking all the moisture. Summer was stretching into autumn and there was still no sign of a let up. After five years of drought people were beginning to wonder if it would ever rain again. The town had been carting in water for months, and the reservoir was down to puddles. Unheard of in living memory.

  Again, Claire narrowed her eyes at the view in front of her, and reminded herself she should take some photos for the Bugle—the local newspaper and her employer. The homestead had not been visible like this since the valley was first flooded in 1910. Some years it had come close, but this was by far the most exposed it had ever been.

  Every morning, sitting on her verandah, looking out over the reservoir, every morning watching the waters recede, as the homestead slowly revealed its secrets.

  She’d begun to dread stepping out of her house. There was a curious sensation in her stomach, a tangled skein of fear and longing, that made no sense. And as the waters receded the nightmares had definitely got worse.

  Now it felt as if she was waiting. As if each passing day was another day ticked off on her way to . . . something.

  But if she was waiting, she didn’t understand why.

  Or maybe it was simply that she couldn’t remember.

  The waiting seemed endless as the evening dragged on. All she wanted to do was go to bed and lie there, awaiting midnight. And then he made some excuse to come into her private parlor, eyes everywhere, threatening her by his very presence.

  “You’re mine,” he said. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks, we both know the truth.”

  “Go away.” And then, her voice shaking, “Please.”

  He smiled then, knowing he had her measure. But he didn’t know about her plan, and thank God for it. Because if he knew then he’d stop her. She wouldn’t put any evil past him. And he’d already told her that if he couldn’t have her then no one could.

  Work was much the same as it always was. Today it was Claire’s job to write up the sport section. It was Gabe’s newspaper now, but it used to be his grandfather’s, and everything was still done in the same old-fashioned way.

  “Professional, as always,” Gabe said, when he read her piece. “Thank you, Claire.”

  He allowed his gaze to rest on her a moment, blue and intent, and as usual Claire felt as if he could see much more than the tired circles under her eyes. Gabe was her savior—he had found her bruised body and driven her to the hospital—and when she was well enough, he’d given her a job and helped her relearn the myriad details of life she’d forgotten. For a time she’d felt like a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by the terrifyingly unfamiliar.

  “Will you come to dinner tonight?” she said, surprising herself.

  He smiled. “I’d love to. Any special reason?”

  Just to say thank-you, she thought, but didn’t say it. Gabe didn’t want her gratitude, he’d told her often enough. What did he want, then? Her love? She thought she might be in love him but Claire knew that somewhere in her past love had been a threat to her life and she found it difficult to trust anyone. And Gabe didn’t pressure her in any way. He was willing to w
ait.

  “Just because,” she said now, with a shrug, and left it at that.

  During the afternoon she found time to visit the newspaper archives and look up the file on the old McEwen homestead. There was a photograph of the building as it used to be, before the valley was flooded to provide water for the town and district.

  Claire stared at the tattered old photo and tried to imagine the house and land as it had been then. She closed her eyes—that was better. Now she could see long stretches of paddock, with horses running beside a wooden fence, and men gathered by pens where sheep were being rounded up by working dogs. A woman servant in an apron was carrying laundry in a basket, her dust boots peeping out from beneath her long drab skirts.

  A door slammed.

  A man came striding along the homestead verandah and down the steps. He was tall, with thick dark hair, and he was wearing a brown jacket and trousers, with boots up to his knees. The way he walked, with his head up and his back straight, the way he looked around him . . . Well, it was as if he owned the whole world.

  It must be Niall McEwen. There was no one else it could be.

  With a start Claire opened her eyes. She felt dizzy, her head woozy, light, as if she’d been asleep. She had been day dreaming, that was all, and yet the dream had been very real.

  “The curse of a good imagination,” she told herself with a laugh.

  She let her gaze drop once more to the old picture of the homestead. It would be good background for her own photo, and whatever story she could cobble together. And yet, niggling away in her mind, was the knowledge that that wasn’t the only reason she wanted to find out about Niall. There was something more. If only she could remember what it was.

  “Do you remember how low the reservoir was four years ago?”

  Gabe waved his wine glass in the direction of the view below Claire’s house.

  “Not this low, surely?”

  “Almost. And then there was a thunderstorm, gallons of rain. It kept raining for weeks. We thought the drought had broken but it was only a brief respite.”

  “I was in hospital then, Gabe.”

  “Of course.” His gaze rested on her, calm, gentle. She felt safe with Gabe. “Has anything come back to you? Do you remember?”

  Claire shook her head. “Sometimes I get a sense of . . . of dread.” She laughed, to lighten the word. “But nothing concrete.”

  Gabe was silent a moment, and when he spoke again he’d moved on. “There was a bad drought in the 1930s. My grandfather was just a boy then, ten years old. He told me how he’d come down here to take a look at the old McEwen homestead, and then something very strange happened. He spotted a pure white horse swimming across the reservoir. It reached dry land and shook itself and stood a moment, as if confused. He coaxed it with some sandwiches he’d brought with him and took it home. No one claimed it. He ended up keeping it.”

  “Where had it come from then?”

  Gabe shrugged. “Another odd thing. My grandfather swears that some of the old people alive then told him they remembered that horse. It belonged to Helen McEwen. And it disappeared the same night she did.”

  Claire smiled. “A ghost horse then.”

  “A time traveling horse,” he retorted.

  When it was time to go, she walked Gabe out to his car.

  “I worry about you up here on your own,” he said, staring down at the homestead in the reservoir below.

  “Why? I’m perfectly all right, Gabe.”

  When he kissed her his lips brushed hers rather than her cheek, and before she knew it her arms were tight around his neck. The kiss deepened and if Gabe had let her she might have led him back into her house and her bed, but he drew away.

  “I want you to be sure,” he said, his palms cupping her face, his eyes intent on hers. “I wish—”

  But whatever he wished remained unspoken. Claire watched him drive way, feeling emotional and confused. If only she could remember her past. No wonder Gabe was cautious. What if she had six kids and a biker husband waiting somewhere? The thought made her smile despite herself, and then yawn.

  Time to get some sleep before she rose early tomorrow morning to take some photographs of the homestead in the pre-dawn.

  Helen waited until it was well after midnight before she began her escape. Her bag was packed, just a few things, and Moppet was sleeping on the end of her bed. The little dog looked up at her as she dressed, head tipped to one side, aware something was out of the ordinary. Helen knew she

  couldn’t leave Moppet behind.

  “You must be very quiet,” she murmured against his warm body.

  Her horse was waiting and quickly she readied the saddle and tied on her bag. Moppet was at her feet and she tucked the little dog under her arm. A moment later she was riding out into the starlit night, moving toward an uncertain future.

  Claire climbed out of bed in the darkness, wondering whether her job was really worth it. She slipped into jeans and a loose, long sleeved shirt. Her camera bag was ready, and she opened the door and was outside before she knew it. The world was silent, black and empty, and as she looked down on what was now a valley of baked bare earth, Claire experienced a shiver of unease.

  Quashing it, she pulled on her gum boots—there were still muddy patches and debris to negotiate—and found her flashlight. Pointing the circle of bright light before her, Claire walked more jauntily down the gentle slope than she felt. The sun wasn’t up yet, and the scene was certainly creepy enough. It would make the perfect set for a horror movie.

  The idea slid through her mind and away again. She let it go. No point in frightening herself any more than she had already. She slung her camera bag more securely over her shoulder and began to pick her way out toward the homestead.

  The few patches of water between her and her destination were shallow, but there were obstacles like the old fence posts. She trudged toward the rise where the homestead stood. From her window each morning the building had appeared small, a child’s doll-house. Now, the closer she got the larger it seemed. The more real.

  Several times she stopped and took some photos, but the silence and sense of isolation compelled her to keep moving. She glanced over her shoulder, towards the light left on in her home, as if to remind herself she wasn’t so very far from safety. There was another flicker of light, further down the valley, where the spillway had been built. Startled, Claire stopped, staring towards it.

  Someone is watching me.

  Just for a moment her heart began to beat hard, and then she told herself not to be stupid. It could be anyone. A maintenance crew at the spillway, or Merv, her neighbor.

  She walked on, her steps ever more reluctant, until eventually she had to stop. The puddles around the homestead were still too deep to walk through, forming that strange circular moat. As if Niall McEwen was protecting his property from trespass, even beyond death. Claire stood, surveying the glint of water, and knew she couldn’t risk it, didn’t want to. Give the drought another week, she decided, and the water would be gone. Then there’d be nothing between her and the homestead.

  From where she stood now she could see the gaps of the windows and a doorway, no glass or door, of course. All the fittings were gone. Nothing left but a shell, and even that appeared twisted and warped. One wall was leaning far more dangerously than she had realized. Could be, she thought, as she moved slightly nearer, that the homestead would not be around much longer. Best take the photos while it was still standing.

  As Claire lifted the camera to her face she could hear the faint drip, drip of water.

  The body of Niall’s wife Helen was never found. Was it still somewhere under the mud beneath her feet?

  The nasty thought entered her head like a sly whisper and she lowered the camera. Her heart was pounding and she didn’t like that; she didn’t like not being able to hear. But what was there to listen to, apart from the dripping water?

  Once again, Claire lifted the camera and this time took a series of sh
ots looking down the valley towards the spillway, capturing the old verandah in part of the frame. She adjusted the lens and stepped back, preparing for the next shot. But her heel landed in a deeper hole in the mud and her knee buckled. Off balance, she tried to save herself, and then realized there was nothing she could do, that she was going to fall. The camera! She held it against herself protectively as her side hit the ground. Mud squished beneath her hip and shoulder, but although soft the ground still managed to jar her unpleasantly. Her breath came out in a whoosh.

  She saw stars, or at least she thought she did. For a moment the sky danced around her, and then a shadow moved over her and a man’s voice said, “Helen?”

  And then she was up on her feet again. Rigid. Staring at the empty old house and listening to nothing at all.

  Claire got her photos. The sun came up eventually, and she took several from further along the valley. But she did not go back to the homestead. The moment when she had fallen was as clear in her mind as the memories she no longer had, but she did not want to think about it. She could not think about it.

  But as she trudged home, ignoring the prickling urge to glance over her shoulder, that voice reverberated in her head. Deep, hoarse and despairing.

  Helen . . .

  Someone was following her. She was hardly beyond the gate when she sensed she was not alone after all. Moppet struggled and began to bark and she was forced to set the dog down. It ran back the way they’d come, barking steadily.

  Helen didn’t know whether to go on, and while she hesitated, torn at the prospect of leaving her pet behind her, he came out of the darkness.

  “Where are you going?”

  There was no point in lying. He would know.

  “I’m leaving.”

  He steadied his horse, blocking her path, body tense and ready if she tried to sidestep him. “I don’t think so. That was never part of the bargain, Helen. ‘Till death us do part’, isn’t that what the vicar said?”