Free The Curse of Clan Ross by L. L. Muir Page A

after her own death?
    The panic that usually accompanied Jilly’s paranoia did not come.
    Grandma had a secret, and if it could be ferreted out, this would be the place to do it. Even locked in the damned tomb, the knowledge that Grandma was now powerless to stop Jilly from asking questions came with calming determination to do just that.
    The truth was out there somewhere. If she could just find out what Grandma knew, the old woman’s eccentricities could be put to rest, buried beside her in a grave her husband should occupy, but never would.
    Jillian Rose MacKay could move on.
    She’d once asked where her wicked grandfather lived, but the old woman had glared, told her to mind her own business, and then redirected Jilly’s attention.
    You had to hand it to Grandma; she had definitely controlled her own world, every discussion, every silence. She had nipped at Jilly’s heels and guided her every step, every thought, like a border collie manipulated sheep, with fear and a little sting when one least expected it.
    The image made Jilly smile in the dark.
    Ivy had even tried to wield that control from the grave, but thanks to a poorly constructed clause in her will, her power was cut.
    Jillian had millions and before getting locked in the tomb, she’d had her freedom, or so she’d thought.
    After finally crossing that Wyoming border, without Grandma quickly herding her back to the farm, Jilly thought she’d be able to hunt down her own happiness. Only hours from home, however, finally in a big city, she’d lost her focus and allowed the Muirs to do the herding. Only the twins had been much more subtle; they’d used whimpering instead of barking, and puppy dog eyes, albeit surrounded by an atlas of wrinkles. The outcome had been the same. Jilly was, ever and always, right where someone else wanted her to be.
    But no more. If she ever got out of here, she’d get to the bottom of Ivy MacKay’s conspiracy theory, she’d ditch the Muir twins, and grab some Highlander off his...mountain, and take him home for a pet. She’d need a home. Italy would do. She’d get tattoos and pay for Italians to serenade beneath her balcony—even when she wasn’t home.
    She’d have fresh flowers in her bathroom, for hellsakes.
    She’d never again return to Wyoming, or to Scotland. And if she ever had a daughter she’d warn her...
    No. She wouldn’t.
    There was nothing about her grandmother’s actions she’d ever wish to repeat.
    Jilly could almost feel the old woman rolling in her grave.
    Lost in her rantings, it took a moment for Jilly to discern the pounding in the floor beneath her. She felt it more than heard it actually, but held completely still until she was sure she was not hallucinating. Considering her unlikely situation, she thought she’d done a reasonably good job of keeping her imagination in check all these hours—or was it days?  But with oxygen deprivation, mirages of sound may be just around the corner.
    Then she felt it—a direct hit on the stone beneath her cheek. Her ear was ringing from it and she cried out in a mixture of surprise, pain and hysteria. Good Lord, she was going to blubber all over someone, and she sure hoped it was that Quinn Ross.
    Maybe the penny was from the late nineties and he’d be a little younger.
    The stone jumped and she squealed. “I’m here. Oh, thank God. I’m here!”
    Then nothing.
    Nothing at all.
    She begged her heart not to stop, forbade her eyes from crying.
    Just count to ten. Just count to ten. You can endure anything for the count of ten.
    She counted to ten, backed up a couple, and counted 8, 9, and 10 again.
    What was it with this place?  If you cry cried out, you lost?  If you kept your mouth shut, you got out?  If she had to start her parole over again, there wasn’t enough air to survive it.
    “Listen you, whoever you are,” she yelled at the floor. “You get me out of here right now. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but I...am... dying in here. I