Free A Stolen Chance by Linda LaRoque Page A

little room. Earlier, she’d turned it down to sixty-eight degrees.
    She got out of bed...again. Stepping into her house shoes to protect her feet from the cold tile floor, she strode toward the wall unit, flipped on the light, and checked the reading on the thermostat. Good grief. Seventy-eight degrees! She reread the setting. I know I put it on sixty-eight. Now it’s set ten degrees higher. Am I going nuts? She slid the control back down.
    Something wasn’t right, but she didn’t know what. A sound, one she couldn’t identify, like possibly water running in the toilet or wind whistling through a window—but she’d checked both. She slowly swiveled, checking the dark corners of the room as she did so. Nothing. Not a blooming thing out of the ordinary. She chuckled. Nary a ghost. Darn Carson’s hide for putting that ghost bug in her head. She switched off the light.
    Shuffling to the bed, she kicked off her slippers and crawled between the covers. She lay still and waited for the heat to click off. And waited. Darned if it didn’t feel even hotter.
    She hit the mattress with both fists and then sat up and screeched. “All right. I’ve had enough. If you’re Mr. Riley’s ghost trying to make yourself known, then stop playing games and show yourself. I’m not afraid of you.” Liar. Goodness, please don’t. She might claim to be unafraid, but she’d not seen a ghost since childhood, and back then her perception was different . Then there was that image in the flames at Chaco Canyon, but she’d chalked that up to a vivid imagination and the mystifying air surrounding the Anasazi pueblos. “If you want to, that is, but please leave the heat alone. I’ll end up with a cold.”
    Still nothing, and the heat continued to blast. If it didn’t stop soon, she’d be opening windows. “Don’t you know ghosts usually cause cold spots, not hot?” She shrugged a shoulder. “Not that I’m an expert, you understand, but that’s what they say on those TV shows where they hunt ghosts, and in the books I’ve read. Plus, the ones that visited me as a child didn’t ever try to roast me. What kind of spook are you, if you don’t follow the rules?”
    Suddenly the heat clicked off. She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Thank you, God .” She probably sounded like a total idiot, but... “And thank you, Mr. Riley.”
    Susan caught a faint whiff of pipe tobacco. It wasn’t unpleasant, yet smelling smoke made her uncomfortable. “Don’t be setting any fires in here. Carson would kick me out.” The odor disappeared.
    Odd . She shivered. The room grew cold. She lay down, settling her head against the pillows, and pulled the covers up to her chin.
    “Are you still here?”
    The heat clicked on and then off. Her heart thumped in her chest, and goose bumps dotted her skin. “O...kay, I take that as a yes. Can you show yourself?”
    In front of the fireplace, a faint glowing vapor morphed into the shape of a man wearing a loose-fitting long-sleeved shirt tucked into buckskin-type pants held up with a multi-colored woven belt. Calf-high moccasins matched his pants. His blurred facial features morphed into angled planes lined with age. No doubt he’d been handsome in his prime. Long, silver-streaked hair, held by a headband, flowed around his shoulders. Below a broad forehead with prominent brow bones, dark eyes studied her. Why, he greatly resembled the Indian who had appeared in her campfire in Chaco Canyon. Surely it couldn’t be the same man.
    Susan couldn’t breathe. Calm down. If he planned to hurt you, he’d have done it by now, right? Her breathing calmed and the knot of fear in her throat lessened. “Sh...should I be afraid of you?”
    A muted chuckle reached her ears. “No. I mean you no harm.” His voice, a soft guttural whisper, set her nerves on end.
    Shit, shit, shit. Susan drew the covers over her head and, body shaking like she had the ague, snuggled down into the bed as far as she could. A ghost was