Stacey Joy Netzel Boxed Set Read online

  Stacey Joy Netzel

  Boxed Set

  If Tombstones Could Talk

  Ditched Again

  Dragonfly Dreams

  Copyright 2011 Stacey Joy Netzel

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Available at : Smashwords

  Website and Blog: http://www.StaceyJoyNetzel.com

  Cover art by Tamra Westberry

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  If Tombstones Could Talk (paranormal novella)

  Ditched Again (high school reunion)

  Dragonfly Dreams (Christmas novella)

  About the Author

  Other Titles by Stacey Joy Netzel

  Welcome To Redemption Series with Donna Marie Rogers

  Colorado Trust Series with excerpts

  Mistletoe Rules Christmas anthology (3 stories in one)

  Chasin’ Mason with excerpt

  Lost In Italy first chapter sneak peek

  Golden Opportunity by Donna Marie Rogers

  first chapter sneak peek

  If Tombstones Could Talk

  a paranormal romance

  by

  Stacey Joy Netzel

  (back to top)

  Had someone asked Melanie Sparks if she believed in ghosts, she’d have laughed before voicing an emphatic “No.” Then she takes a walking tour of the cemetery in her new hometown of Lindeman’s Crossing, Colorado and meets one of the residents face to face. The story behind Andrew Lindeman's tragic death after the Pike’s Peak Gold Rush in 1859 triggers dreams in which she relives his last moments. Drawn to the handsome ghost, attraction builds, and she resolves to clear his tarnished name. A passionate kiss sets his spirit free, but will Melanie lose her heart forever?

  Reviews:

  Romance Junkies: “IF TOMBSTONES COULD TALK is sweet, sensual and one of the most romantic stories I've ever read. This story had an incredible storyline that kept me intrigued until the very end. The ending brought tears to my eyes, which doesn't happen very often.” ~ Amanda

  Fallen Angel Reviews ~ 5 Angels ~ “The plot was brilliant and well played out. I enjoyed every aspect of the story. The ending left me smiling and happy.” ~ Becky

  Dedication:

  For my family.

  They let me write and follow my dreams.

  I love you all!

  Chapter One

  Melanie Sparks stood in the cemetery lane, torn between catching up with the rest of the group and examining the black granite stone off to her right. It sat deep in the shade of a large red oak tree with the Rocky Mountains towering in the background, yet somehow, that one tombstone had caught her attention from the moment she’d arrived.

  She took a step closer, leaving the sun’s warming rays. A curtain of her fiery-red hair fell forward, but she absently tucked it back behind her ear to get a better look across the cemetery.

  Something stirred in the shadows next to the stone. Her heart beat faster, startling a small flutter in the pit of her stomach. She paused and squinted. Was someone over there?

  All remained still, except for the faint rustling of oak leaves in the gentle Colorado breeze.

  Drawing a deep breath, Melanie quickly caught up to the others on the walking tour. She found herself wanting to look back over her shoulder, but forced her attention to the excursion’s leader. John, he’d introduced himself, and he’d proved to be a great storyteller.

  As a lawyer who dealt a lot with cold, hard facts, she always enjoyed a well-told story—the more history, the better. Settled in 1852, Lindeman’s Crossing promised to keep her fascinated with its colorful past. Which is why she came on the tour, to learn more about her new town beyond the stories her grandmother used to tell her as a little girl while they snuggled on the couch with hot chocolate. A town that she swore called to her soul during an impulsive detour last summer as she made the stupidest mistake of her life. That detour was the only thing good to come out of following Chuck all the way across the country.

  Melanie shook her head. The move was about reconnecting with her roots and putting the past behind her. Her personal past, anyway. The town’s past was a whole other story she wanted to immerse herself in.

  At present Lindeman’s Crossing was a small, quiet town, likely to be absorbed by the ever-encroaching Denver suburbs; but when her great-great-great grandmother lived here in 1859, during the height of the gold rush, it’d been bustling with excitement and activity. Every once in a while, when life closed in with suffocating pressure, she wished she could’ve been born in that time. Back when bank robbers were the terrorists and global warming wasn’t the buzzword of the day. Horses ate hay and grass, and gas didn’t cost almost four dollars a gallon.

  She knew the settlers had faced many other hardships, but for some reason it didn’t dim the enthusiasm she harbored for history. A simpler time, when a man on a horse, sweeping his woman off her feet, was just so romantic.

  She pictured him, tall, dark and handsome—the total cliché. The complete opposite of her jerk cheating ex, this guy’s dark eyes glittered from beneath his wide-brimmed black hat. He smiled at her, his white teeth flashing bright against his shadowed face. He leaned down, extended his hand to grasp hers and pulled her effortlessly onto his lap atop his coal-black steed.

  Andrew.

  Melanie jolted to a stop. Where had that name come from? She glanced around self-consciously, hoping she hadn’t done something stupid during her impromptu fantasy. Not one of the residents from the Riverview Senior Living Center paid her any attention as they came to a stop beneath the giant red oak. Her stomach started its acrobats again when John placed his hand on the waist-high, black granite headstone. She’d been so preoccupied she hadn’t realized they’d made their way around to this side of the cemetery.

  Melanie shifted her gaze down. Her heart leapt into her throat, and the hair on her arms stood up, yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the stark etchings in the stone.

  Andrew Lindeman

  1831-1860

  A good man we are forever indebted to.

  “And this leads us to the last tombstone, the man our town is named after.”

  She hugged herself, rubbing her hands up and down to relieve the unnerving sensation tingling across her skin as she stared at the name on the headstone.

  “Are you cold, dear?”

  She looked down at the short, white-haired lady who stood at her side.

  “You young kids these days care more about fashion than comfort,” the older lady chastised as Melanie’s grandmother used to do. “It’s not warm enough for sleeveless blouses yet.”

  Her high-pitched warble had drawn the attention of the tour guide, as well as the rest of the group.

  “Just a little case of the willies,” Melanie explained before offering John an apologetic smile for the interruption. “Please continue.”

  His gaze moved to the others. “Andrew Lindeman is the source of many debates for the Historical Society over the years, because although our town is named for him, there are details of his story t
hat have created much controversy.”

  Melanie felt the interest level rise around her. Seemed everyone loved a good story, the more controversial the better. Her own anticipation pulsed in her veins, and she eased closer. The name Andrew Lindeman had never been in her grandma’s repertoire of tales.

  John stepped back to allow a clear view of the tombstone. “Legend has it, he arrived in town for the gold rush in the spring of 1859. Young and eager, he was one of the lucky ones, struck it rich in a matter of months. Most of them left once they filled their pockets, but Andrew stayed and started the town newspaper.”

  “The Lindy Gazette? You mean it really was established in 1859?” one of the gentlemen asked.

  A picture of the front page of the newspaper that thumped against her front door every morning flashed in Melanie’s mind.

  The tour guide nodded. “It sure was, George. Others have come and gone over the years, but The Lindy Gazette has always pulled through. Old journals describe Andrew as a very handsome chap and say it wasn’t long before he began courting the most eligible lady around, Miss Lorena Van Bueren.”

  “Of the old Van Bueren Bank and Trust?” the lady next to Melanie asked.

  “Her father owned the bank,” John confirmed. “Andrew and Lorena were a great match—the toast of the town—the stuff fairy tales are made of. Everyone loved to watch them stroll hand in hand down the raised wooden sidewalks.”

  Melanie smiled at the enthusiasm in his narration. If she had a story to tell, she’d want him to tell it.

  “However, the day before their wedding, in the spring of 1860, the bank was held up and Lorena’s father was shot.”

  “How awful,” someone murmured.

  John’s brows lifted and his eyes twinkled. “You may think so, but Jacob Van Bueren didn’t die, and as the story goes, Lorena was one of the bank robbers.”

  “She shot her own father?” a gruff sounding man to the left asked over the surprised murmurings of the group.

  “Her partner did,” John corrected. “And this is where the controversy begins. Most of the town swore Andrew Lindeman pulled the trigger.”

  Melanie saw a swift shift in the shadows directly behind John. She blinked, and then stared. The air seemed…thick, somehow. Hazy. And yet anywhere else the mountain air was crystal clear.

  Inexplicably drawn, she took another step closer to the tombstone.

  “Townsfolk on the street saw him run from the bank with Lorena before they made their escape across the bridge.”

  “The river walk bridge?” George asked.

  “That same exact bridge,” John confirmed.

  “What color was his horse?” The question popped out before Melanie even realized she’d opened her mouth. When silence fell and everyone turned to stare, she felt her cheeks burn as red as her hair. “I’m sorry, that’s a stupid question. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  John cleared his throat. “That’s okay. I don’t know if it’s the same one he rode that day, but in the single verified picture we have in the museum of Andrew Lindeman, he’s outside the newspaper office, astride a large black horse.”

  Melanie’s breath caught and her heart hammered in her chest, leaving her off-balance and dizzy. She wished she could sit down. Next to the ink-colored stone by now, she reached out a hand for support. Upon contact with the rough surface of the top of the stone, her fingers were inundated with heat. With a silent gasp, she snatched her hand back. Where it rested deep in the shade, the granite should’ve been cool to the touch, not warm.

  Oblivious to her disquiet, John continued the story. “As they crossed the bridge, Lorena’s horse nearly trampled a woman and her two small children. One of the little girls fell over the railing into the river.”

  Soft exclamations from the older women mirrored Melanie’s dismay.

  “Some say Andrew stopped his horse and dove into the rapids to save the child, others say the sheriff shot him and he fell into the river. Whichever way it happened, he did save the girl before the current carried him away. When they found his body a mile or so downstream, they discovered he’d been shot in the back. The official records, however, state the cause of death as drowning.”

  “Good for the sheriff,” the man to Melanie’s left said decisively.

  “What happened to Lorena?” she asked.

  John grinned as if he held the juiciest piece of the tale. “Well, after Sheriff Tucker shot Andrew, he kept on riding.”

  Surrogate grandma harrumphed with disapproval. “The sheriff didn’t help save the little girl?”

  “No,” John confirmed with a shake of his head. “He rode after Lorena and neither one of them were heard from again.”

  “Was the sheriff in on the robbery?” George asked with enthusiasm.

  “That’s what’s been argued for years. One customer in the bank said Andrew tried to stop Lorena, and that the sheriff is the one who shot her father, but that woman’s version was swept aside by the unarguable testimony of Jacob Van Bueren himself. He swore Lindeman pulled the trigger. Hard to argue that, folks.”

  Melanie couldn’t help but voice her confusion. “But if Andrew Lindeman struck gold, why would he rob the bank? Not to mention he was marrying the banker’s daughter—a lucrative move in that time period.”

  “Van Buren testified Lindeman had made some bad investments and lost everything. He claimed Lorena was going to cancel the wedding, but Lindeman turned her against him and convinced her to rob the bank instead.”

  Melanie felt a small prick of disappointment as she stared at the etchings in the stone. Up until the very end of the story, the romantic in her wanted to believe Andrew Lindeman was the hero. It was such a strong name, and he probably had been tall, dark and handsome, too. But when the chips were down, he was nothing but a thief who’d drawn the wrong card, and only by a twist of fate managed to redeem himself with one last sacrificial act by rescuing the little girl.

  She dropped her gaze from the name on the headstone and saw another rock embedded in the ground. Lichen covered and weathered over time, it was too close to belong to another gravesite. She knelt in the shaded grass, brushing her fingers across the stone’s cold, rough surface while deciphering the worn letters.

  Andrew Lindeman.

  She frowned up at John. “Why are there two?”

  “The townsfolk marked his grave with that first one when they buried him, providing evidence of his death, then they changed the name of the town to Lindeman’s Crossing as a warning to other outlaws. Crime had increased with the height of the gold rush, so they spread the story far and wide that anyone who committed a crime—namely, rob the bank—would cross over as Andrew Lindeman had.”

  The air stirred around John as he spoke. She could see through the haze, but everything behind that small area was distorted, as if she were looking through the bottom of an old Coke bottle. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and she rose to her feet. She cast a quick glance around, but no one else seemed to even notice the odd disturbance.

  “What ever happened to the bank owner?” one of the ladies asked. “He must’ve been broken hearted over his daughter.”

  John nodded. “Historical journals confirm he was. She was his only child and after a few months, he moved back east.”

  “He was in on it.”

  Melanie startled and jerked around toward the sound of the rough, angry voice. No one stood behind her, and yet that’s where the words had come from. She quickly faced the others. They stared back at her like she’d gone crazy.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked.

  “Hear what, dear.”

  “He was in on it.”

  John’s head tilted in consideration. “Jacob Van Bueren? Hmm. You know, I never thought about that possibility before.”

  “No. I mean, someone said those words just a second ago. He was in on it.”

  “Yes, dear, you did.” The surrogate-grandma reached out and patted Melanie’s arm with reassurance. Melanie opened her mouth
, then shut it again, fearing she’d end up talking in circles trying to explain it to them. Besides, how did one explain they were hearing voices?

  The man who’d applauded the sheriff for shooting Andrew in the back crossed his arms over his chest and gave a soft snort. “If the town thought this Lindeman fellow robbed the bank and shot the banker, then why’d they put up this fancy rock for him? The first one I get, but the second don’t make no sense to me.”

  John took up his story again. “As I said earlier, the town marked his grave with the small stone, but historical records show the family of the little girl he rescued from the river had this larger one made sometime after.”

  “Is she buried here, too?” Melanie asked. “Do you know her name?”

  “Vanessa Brisbane. I don’t think—”

  “Brisbane?” Excitement exploded inside Melanie. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, although that was her maiden name, and the family moved away shortly after she married, so I don’t believe any of them are buried here.”

  Her great-great-great-grandmother Vanessa Brisbane had married Edward Kurowski and moved from Lindeman’s Crossing, Colorado to Wisconsin in 1872. Never had she imagined her ancestor played such a pivotal character in this town’s past. And of all the stories passed down through the generations of her family, why had this one been left out?

  Oh how she wished Grandma were still alive. If she had any family left in the world, she’d have been on the phone in a heartbeat. As it was, the town was her last tangible connection to a history her grandmother had taught her to love.

  John concluded the tour and answered any final questions before the group of senior citizens boarded their bus. Melanie stood off to the side and waved goodbye.