Read Online Swamp Magic (Crimson Romance) by Bobbi Romans - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bobbi Romans
Tags: Romance, Paranormal
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described as insight
.
According
to whispers she’d heard as a child, Great-Great Grandma Mirabelle had been a self-proclaimed witch, and Beth’s mother always had a nifty way of stopping things. Beth had dropped a vase once, and miraculously her mother had rescued it before it hit the floor. Thing was, she’d been across the room. Even as a kid, Beth knew her mother couldn’t have made it in time — yet she had.
Yeah, her family didn’t quite fit the typical
Leave it to Beaver
stereotype. But who was she to complain? They were a laidback, honest, open-minded, colorful bunch of folks. She’d met her share of the so-called “typical” families, who for the most part couldn’t stand being in the same room with one another. She’d never have been able to tolerate that sort of family. She loved her quirky but close-knit family and would accept them over the typical family, any day of the week.
“I suppose, yes, I’ve always suspected we were uh, unique?”
Grace choked on her tea so hard, drizzles of it ran down her nose. “Oh, I love that. Unique. Yes, I suppose that’s an appropriate description.”
“Okay, back to the story. Do you know who he is?” A strange, panicky feeling nagged Beth, as if Moss’s life depended on her solving the mystery. Like some internal clock ticked away, and the alarm was set to go off any minute.
“I’m not one hundred percent certain, mind you, but yes, I’m fairly confident I know who he is, and what happened to him,” Grace offered with a sly smile.
“And?” Beth nearly screamed in frustration. “Who do you think he is?”
“Well, sweetie, many years ago a legend began. One told faithfully around these parts from as far back as I can remember, but word of mouth dates the story clear back to the eighteen hundreds. My grandfather told the tale, as did many other grandfathers in these parts, I suspect. It was said to be based on true accounts. You’ll have to make up your own mind about that.”
Slamming back her hot tea, Beth had a feeling she’d lose the tea and head straight for the “spice” by the time Grace finished telling of Moss’s possible tragedy.
“A group of young settlers arrived late one foggy evening to settle down in these parts. Their leader found the safest spot he could, considering it was late and visibility was next to nothing once our famous swamp fogs rolled in. Many were quite unnerved with the chosen spot; however, nightfall decreed they must stop. Word said several protested, nearly violently, urging their young leader to move on, even if just a few more feet. But others had already settled the horses and had begun to bed down in their wagons. The leader, a young husband and father whose name has never been mentioned, had taken charge of the small group upon the untimely death of the original leader. Seems he allowed a few of the older boys to venture out for an evening’s constitutional. After asserting they were not to wander far and come swiftly back, he’d settled back and indulged in some much-relished Jameson Irish whiskey.”
“What happened?” Beth hurried her, sensing the “but” coming. Something bad must have happened. Behind every great legend was always a greater tale of tragedy
.
Chapter Ten
“Well, as I said, the man was young and unaccustomed to liquor and ended up drinking a tad too much. The story goes that when the boys didn’t return, his fellow settlers tried to rouse him. They were successful; however, he became ill and indisposed. Irate at his irresponsible behavior, several went searching for the boys themselves. The leader’s young wife, feeling somewhat responsible, led the search party out into the dark, unknown swamp, as her husband attempted quick sobriety. She refused to return with the others several hours later after exhaustive attempts turned up none of the missing children.
“When they returned, they angrily blamed their leader for the event. Having finally purged himself of the
.
According
to whispers she’d heard as a child, Great-Great Grandma Mirabelle had been a self-proclaimed witch, and Beth’s mother always had a nifty way of stopping things. Beth had dropped a vase once, and miraculously her mother had rescued it before it hit the floor. Thing was, she’d been across the room. Even as a kid, Beth knew her mother couldn’t have made it in time — yet she had.
Yeah, her family didn’t quite fit the typical
Leave it to Beaver
stereotype. But who was she to complain? They were a laidback, honest, open-minded, colorful bunch of folks. She’d met her share of the so-called “typical” families, who for the most part couldn’t stand being in the same room with one another. She’d never have been able to tolerate that sort of family. She loved her quirky but close-knit family and would accept them over the typical family, any day of the week.
“I suppose, yes, I’ve always suspected we were uh, unique?”
Grace choked on her tea so hard, drizzles of it ran down her nose. “Oh, I love that. Unique. Yes, I suppose that’s an appropriate description.”
“Okay, back to the story. Do you know who he is?” A strange, panicky feeling nagged Beth, as if Moss’s life depended on her solving the mystery. Like some internal clock ticked away, and the alarm was set to go off any minute.
“I’m not one hundred percent certain, mind you, but yes, I’m fairly confident I know who he is, and what happened to him,” Grace offered with a sly smile.
“And?” Beth nearly screamed in frustration. “Who do you think he is?”
“Well, sweetie, many years ago a legend began. One told faithfully around these parts from as far back as I can remember, but word of mouth dates the story clear back to the eighteen hundreds. My grandfather told the tale, as did many other grandfathers in these parts, I suspect. It was said to be based on true accounts. You’ll have to make up your own mind about that.”
Slamming back her hot tea, Beth had a feeling she’d lose the tea and head straight for the “spice” by the time Grace finished telling of Moss’s possible tragedy.
“A group of young settlers arrived late one foggy evening to settle down in these parts. Their leader found the safest spot he could, considering it was late and visibility was next to nothing once our famous swamp fogs rolled in. Many were quite unnerved with the chosen spot; however, nightfall decreed they must stop. Word said several protested, nearly violently, urging their young leader to move on, even if just a few more feet. But others had already settled the horses and had begun to bed down in their wagons. The leader, a young husband and father whose name has never been mentioned, had taken charge of the small group upon the untimely death of the original leader. Seems he allowed a few of the older boys to venture out for an evening’s constitutional. After asserting they were not to wander far and come swiftly back, he’d settled back and indulged in some much-relished Jameson Irish whiskey.”
“What happened?” Beth hurried her, sensing the “but” coming. Something bad must have happened. Behind every great legend was always a greater tale of tragedy
.
Chapter Ten
“Well, as I said, the man was young and unaccustomed to liquor and ended up drinking a tad too much. The story goes that when the boys didn’t return, his fellow settlers tried to rouse him. They were successful; however, he became ill and indisposed. Irate at his irresponsible behavior, several went searching for the boys themselves. The leader’s young wife, feeling somewhat responsible, led the search party out into the dark, unknown swamp, as her husband attempted quick sobriety. She refused to return with the others several hours later after exhaustive attempts turned up none of the missing children.
“When they returned, they angrily blamed their leader for the event. Having finally purged himself of the
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