Kate Hoffmann - Spellbound

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Title Page Spellbound Kate Hoffmann www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Copyright

“That’s it. That’s her shop. She calls herself a witch, mixes up potions all day long. My wife spends fifty dollars in there every week for oils, and lotions, and teas, and who knows what. It’s your job to put an end to it.”

Will Ross shoved his hands in his pockets as he stared across the street. When he took the job as police chief in the remote village of Barstow Ferry in northern Maine, he’d wanted to find the kind of peaceful existence that wasn’t possible as a vice detective in Boston. He hadn’t expected to deal with a lot of serious crime. But he hadn’t really signed on to run witches out of town, either.

But the president of the village board had handed him a list of priorities upon his arrival, and Kelsey Quinn had been at the top of his list, right above repositioning the moose crossing sign on Main Street and driving 100-year-old Barney Boulet around town on his birthday.

“Have you talked to her?” Will asked the board president. “Maybe you could just ask her not to sell to your wife anymore.”

“Are you crazy?” Ben Murphy asked. “She’ll put a curse on me. She hexed Wibby Phillips and he tripped on the porch steps and knocked out his two front teeth. Used to play the trumpet. Now he can’t blow a note.”

“Are you really sure she was responsible? I mean, I don’t really believe in spells. Maybe this Wibby just slipped on a patch of ice?”

“I don’t care what you believe. The village board voted. You need to close her down. Chase her out of the village. That’s all there is to it.”

Will drew a deep breath. “All right. I’ll see what I can do. But there is the matter of the law here. If she’s not breaking any laws, I really can’t touch her.”

“I wouldn’t even think of touching her,” Ben said, wandering off down the street and waving his hands. “Get it done!”

Will started toward the “witch’s” tiny shop, set between a tavern and the post office. If he had to imagine a shop that a witch might run, this would be it, with its pointy little roof above the door and its leaded glass windows. In fact, it resembled one of those old filling stations from the 1920s, with gingerbread decorating the facade and red tile covering the roof. The building looked completely out of place among the more solid, weather-worthy properties on the street, as if it had been dropped into place during some moment of magic.

“All right,” he murmured to himself. “This is going to be your first official act. Better make it good.”

In truth, Will hadn’t wanted to leave Boston. But several very close encounters between himself and a speeding bullet had convinced him that his number might be coming up faster than normal. The last incident had been so close, the bullet had grazed his ear as it had flown by before it had hit his partner in the arm.

So when Dave Simon, his partner, had taken a job in his hometown in Iowa, Will decided it was time for him to make a change, too. For some reason, fate had marked him and the only way to escape the inevitable was to go somewhere where criminals didn’t exist, or didn’t carry guns. So Will had found a new job on the border between Maine and Canada, in a place called Barstow Ferry, a quaint little village on the St. John River.

When he reached the front door of the shop, he pasted a charming smile on his face and tried to think optimistically. He’d dealt with violent drug dealers and trigger-happy wise guys. He could certainly handle some old lady who thought she was a witch.

Kelsey Quinn looked up from the herbs she was grinding with her mortar and pestle. A man stood in the doorway and she stared at him for a long moment, wondering what he wanted. Most of her business was with the women in town. When a man stopped by the shop, it was usually to warn her off doing business with his wife.

“Can I help you?”

He paused for a long moment, an odd expression coming over his face. “Are you Kelsey Quinn?”

Kelsey sighed and went back to her task. “If you have a problem, I understand there’s a new police chief in town. Would you like me to call him?”

The man stepped inside and slowly crossed the room to the counter. As he came closer, Kelsey held her breath. He was a stranger—she knew almost everyone in town and she would have remembered meeting this guy. His thick dark hair framed a handsome face with intense blue eyes and a mouth that curled up at the corners in a charming smile.

“You and I need to talk,” he said.

Kelsey picked up the cordless phone and dialed the number for the police station. “Have a look around. The police are usually really slow. If some bloodthirsty ax murderer happened to show up in Barstow Ferry, I’m sure he’d have plenty of time to kill the entire village before the police showed up.”

“Really? That bad?”

Kelsey nodded, listening for the connection. “Yes, this is Kelsey over at the Thistle and Thorn. Could you send someone over right away? I have another disgruntled spouse.”

She hung up the phone and watched as the man picked through a basket of blackberry tea. “Blackberry leaf tea is good for stomach problems. And it can be used as a poultice for sunburns or other skin irritations. I gather those leaves from wild blackberry bushes up on the ridge above the river. The bushes have been there for over a hundred years.”

A shiver skittered through her as she watched him wander around the shop. He really was a beautifully built man, tall and lean. Her gaze dropped down to his hands and her breath caught in her throat as she imagined those hands touching her face, skimming over her shoulders, spanning her waist. She tried to calm her suddenly racing pulse.

A loud squawk split the silence of the shop, jolting Kelsey out of her fantasy. The stranger pulled a small radio out of his jacket pocket. “Ross here,” he said, depressing a button on the side.

“We have a 10-44 in progress,” the woman’s voice said. Kelsey recognized the police department’s dispatcher, Lenore Wilkens, a retired schoolteacher they’d hired last year.

“A 10-44 would be a possible mental subject, Lenore. I think for this call we should say it’s a 10-70 or maybe a 10-94. You need to memorize the codes if you’re going to work dispatch.”

“Why can’t I just tell you what’s going on?” Lenore asked.