Free Crane by Stacey Rourke

iota of self-preservation by calling the cops and turning the obviously troubled man over to them.
    A wry scoff huffed past her lips, blowing back her long side-bangs that had fallen in her eyes during her body-toting workout. Despite the warning siren blaring in her mind, she couldn’t do it. Something deep within her told her this was a man that needed a little kindness; for someone to protect him, even if that meant from himself. The certainty of that realization hushed the worrisome chatter within and provided her the only sense of peace she’d found in … well, a long enough time to make it seem a pretty damned crucial message.
    Ireland’s moment of reflection was interrupted by a low rumble directly behind her. Hot breath puffed against the back of her neck, sending electric chills of danger coursing through her. A frightened yip escaped from her constricted throat as she spun on her would be attacker … only to find herself completely alone. She and the few crickets that chirped their sweet serenade to the night were the only occupants in her ‘four mower swipes’ sized yard. Fear, like bubbles churning in acid, boiled through her, popping and oozing their own toxic thoughts of what could be lurking in the darkness straight into her bloodstream.
    Rubbing her arms to ward off her sudden rash of goose bumps, Ireland forced herself to maintain a steady stride back to the house. “Great job picking your fresh start town, Ire,” she mused.
    The sliding door slid shut behind her before she heard the darkness omit a guttural neigh in response.

 
     
    9

    Ichabod
     
    Ichabod’s slender fingers tickled across the piano keys, the haunting melody of Canon in D filling the inn’s gathering room. Long shadows, cast by the flickering candles, danced across the walls like merry little nymphs oblivious to the chaos outside. Suddenly, a sour note broke the melodic spell. Ichabod sat up straight and stretched out his back, only then noticing that his arm was quaking with a fresh onslaught of tremors. He flexed and straightened his digits, hoping it would relax them enough for him to quench his longing for the melodic keys, the memory of which still warmed and tingled his fingertips. Exasperation at the relentless spasming brought his gaze up, a groan of annoyance sneaking past his lips. There, reflected in the glass of the sea side painting hanging over the piano, he saw a ghostly female form reaching for him as she floated up behind him.
    Ichabod gasped , spinning with a jerk.
    Katrina emitted a small squeak of surprise and clutched her heart at his abrupt reaction. “I am so sorry if I gave you a fright! I saw your hand trembling and wondered if I could be of aid? ”
    “No, I am fine,” Ichabod nervously chuckled. “Or, I will be once my heart remembers how to beat in rhythm.”
    Concern creased her otherwise flawless face. “Again, I must apologize. Elsewise , are you all right? Was your hand cramping from playing?”
    “I wish that were the case.” Ichabod peered down at the hand that frequently betrayed him. The tremors had dulled, but not enough for him to resume playing. “During the war I took a bayonet to the shoulder. The nerves were damaged. By the grace of God, it was not severe enough to render the limb useless. Unfortunately, during moments of strain or stress, it tends to shake.” He glanced up at the lovely Katrina, suddenly uncomfortable with the level of weakness he’d displayed. “ Ahem , I do not speak of this often.”
    Candle light warmed her face with the sweet, ethereal glow of an angel. She stepped closer, her head cocked with interest. “What eases it when it flares?”
    Ichabod found no judgment or pity on her face, only genuine concern. It was that which kept him talking on this tender matter. “Relaxation, primarily. Once I can soothe the strain that is plaguing me, it tends to correct itself.”
    “Perhaps a bit of companionship could soothe you?” Blonde waves brushed