Free Thirteen Chances by Cindy Miles

letdown.
    She’d expected … more.
    Then, those treacherous, ivy-covered steps caught Emma’s eye. Not really so treacherous—only when you slipped and dangled could they pose a slight threat …
    As if a light had switched on in her brain, Emma thought of exactly what she needed to do. Hurrying over to a bench that sat with its back against the wall, she set her camera bag down, pulled her sweater down over her hips, and marched over to the ivy-covered steps.
    Glancing up, Emma noticed just how gray and dark it’d grown outside. Willoughby had warned her of a storm brewing, but she figured when it started raining, she’d just head back to the manor until the rain cleared up.
    She never imagined she’d be busy getting PO’ed at a spirit.
    Reaching the steps, Emma drew a deep breath and recklessly took them two at a time. When she reached the top, she quickly said a prayer of thanks for not having a fear of heights, then turned and hollered over the courtyard. “You can show yourself at any time now, Arrick. Seriously. I’ve got all day. I’ll just be right here.”
    And with that, Emma eased over the edge of the steps, fingers digging into the stone ridge, just as she’d inadvertently done before when the thermos had fallen.
Dangling,
twenty feet above the hard ground.
    She didn’t have to dangle long.
    “Are you witless? Pull yourself over!”
the voice thundered.
    Emma smiled.
    “I’m not moving until you show yourself,” she said. She swung her feet a bit, and she could have sworn she heard a sharp intake of breath.
    “Not doing it,” she said again, wiggling. She closed her eyes.
    She was awarded with a growl.
    “Are you daft? Get your stubborn arse back over here!”
    Emma’s eyes cracked open, the voice closer, clearer. Sure enough, there knelt the helmeted warrior guy, not two feet away. His stare was fixed on her face.
    Arse?
    “I’ll pull myself up once you take off that ridiculous helmet,” she said.
    No sooner had the words left her mouth than the helmet disappeared. A pair of brilliant blue eyes glowered at her through a fall of tousled, long bangs. “Now get up here.”
    Emma pondered. Her arms were starting to ache and her fingers had grown numb. She narrowed her eyes at the ghost. “If you disappear, I’ll go back over and dangle some more.” She really
did
want to get back up now.
    “Just get up here.”
    With ease—only because she knew where the footholds were this time—Emma grasped on to the damp rock and pulled herself back to the steps. Quickly rolling to her backside, she sat. The ghost had kept his promise. He’d not disappeared.
    He stood a few feet away, staring down at her. He was … massive. Perhaps not bulky-massive, like those World’s Strongest Man guys who have trouble walking with their thighs reasonably close. This guy—
ghost
—just looked like he could kick the phooey out of anyone he wanted. With his eyes glaring and his face drawn tight, he looked so … furious.
    Why did he seem so angry at her? She couldn’t possibly have done anything to make him so mad. She’d been here a week, not nearly long enough to tick someone off. During high season dozens and dozens of tourists crawled around Arrick’s ruins. What was it about her that bothered him so much?
    Suddenly, he muttered something under his breath, then turned and headed down the steps.
    And just as suddenly, it hit Emma square in the nose: she was interacting with a spirit, the ghost of someone
dead.
That guy with the chiseled face and gorgeous eyes had lived, and had
died.
And he was muttering, angry at her.
    Why?
    Quickly, she followed.
    “Hey, wait,” she called, trotting after him. When he didn’t stop, she hollered,
“Please!”
    The warrior froze, and waited.
    Emma, her heart pounding a bit faster now, cleared her throat. “Please turn around.”
    Several seconds passed as the warrior-ghost considered her request. Emma stared at his back while she waited. His hair, a deep mahogany