Two timelines. One haunted bridge. And a chilling reminder that some evils refuse to stay buried.

When Reese Hayden inherits her late uncle’s home on the banks of the Chunky River, she’s hoping for a fresh start. But the eerie rope hanging from the beams of Stuckey’s Bridge and the strange figure haunting its banks suggest that some histories refuse to stay hidden. As Reese navigates the pain of betrayal and isolation, she discovers the bridge holds more than local legend—it holds power.In 1858, Catherine Porter struggles to find acceptance in a town where her past and present seem to make her invisible. Yet, as unsettling whispers and unexplained disappearances begin to surround Stuckey's Bridge, Catherine is drawn into a confrontation with darkness she never anticipated.Across two timelines, Reese and Catherine face the same chilling evil, one that feeds on isolation and fear. With spiritual battles waging unseen and the bridge at the center of it all, both women must confront the terrifying truth—that some evil is ancient, persistent, and closer than they think.

Prologue

 1892

Twenty miles north of
Meridian, MS.

Stuckey listened to the
ramblings of the stranger who’d invited him to join him for supper and a spot
for his bedroll near the warm fire, while the darkness perched on his
shoulders, willing him to revisit the familiar deed he craved. But he’d vowed
to start a moral path. There must be a reason he escaped justice when the rest
of the Dalton gang fell into the hands of justice. It seemed God had spared him
with another chance, even though he hadn’t given much thought to a higher being
serving any purpose in his life. He figured it wouldn’t be too difficult a task
to settle into a dignified occupation that didn’t involve crime. Maybe he’d
marry and start a family. The idea introduced the foreign concept of moral
stability to his mind, which had embraced anything but. He shivered against the
cold truth that this might not be as easy as he thought.

“The wind is slow
tonight, but she cuts a fierce blow through the breeches all the same. Hot
coffee takes the sting out, especially if you add a bit of assistance—if you
know what I mean.” The stranger winked, showing him a flask of whiskey before
adding it to his tin cup. He took the coffee but declined the whiskey. He never
cared for the way it dulled his senses, though he was happy the man drank
it—his slurred words thickening with every sip. Soon, this fool
would pass out, granting him both peace and quiet. It was the perfect chance to
take everything he had, including that property deed he’d so readily boasted
about moments ago. No, he couldn’t. But the temptation clung to him, thick as
the night air. Here sat an easy victim and his spoils, his for the taking if he
dared to fall just once more.

     “Ne’er caught your name there,” the
stranger said, his eyelids drooping, matching the pace of his speech.

     “I didn’t give it.” He didn’t look up from
his coffee but watched the black liquid swirl amidst the glowing reflection
from the orange embers of fire.

     The fool laughed, swaying as he brought
the tin cup back to his lips. “Fair enough. Ain’t no need for
introductions—whiskey don’t need no names, and neither do we.”

The stranger continued
his ramblings. At least with the drunken slur, the dull speech became more
tolerable. “Been called Red since I was a boy. Ma and Pa died of diphtheria—God
rest their souls—and my only brother died in the war. Friends, too. Never
married. Didn’t have much to my name, but then my cousin up and left me his
place on the Chunky River. Won it in a card game, never even used it. Luckiest
man alive—until he wasn’t. Lost a load of cash in a bad hand right before he
got himself shot trying to win it back. I hadn’t seen him in years, but I
suppose you don’t forget your kin. Yes siree, it was a surprise getting that
letter. Never even heard of no Chunky River, but here I am on account of him.
Shame, really, since he was my only kin  left, I reckon. But I suppose it gave me a
fresh start. Of all places, though—out in the middle of nowhere in Mississippi.
Still, I hear tell Meridian’s an upcoming town these days. Never been to the
area, have you?”

The fire crackled low,
embers pulsing like the dying heartbeat of a thing already condemned. He
tightened his grip on the tin cup, but the warmth could not settle the chill
stirring beneath his skin. This was hunger—not the kind that gnawed at the
belly, but the kind that whispered in the marrow, in the place where violence
lived. It had been too long since he last felt it. Too long since he had let
the hunger win. One last time. One last kill. After all, this man had no one to
care if he lived or died. It would also give him a way to start over. No one in
Meridian knew what Red looked like, so it’d be so easy to assume a new
identity. He’d use the man’s real name on his property deed, though. Red
wouldn’t do for his image. The more he thought about it, the more excited his
senses grew, and begged him to satiate his cravings. He’d better do it before Red
passed out drunk, or he’d miss the light leaving the man’s pupils, and if this
had to be the last time, he wanted to savor each minute. Each glorious second.

It had to be the last
time.

Stuckey reached inside
his duster jacket and pulled his pistol from its holster. Pausing, he turned it
over in his hands, his finger hovering over the trigger.

“Need to clean that gun,
Mister? I got some bear grease in the wagon, and we can heat some wa—Ahhh!” Red
fell to the ground, clutching his right arm as blood spewed from his shoulder.
Eyes wide, he tried to rise, but screamed again as another bullet ripped his
other shoulder.

“What are you doing to
me?” Red crawled on his back, using his legs to thrust him away from the fire.
His wails hushed the crickets, which only served to heighten the sensation of
power in the act. Nature had to take notice.

He closed his eyes and
breathed in the scent of gunfire and blood, preferring the man’s wails to his
endless chatter. He walked over to his victim, staring down into Red’s
terror-filled eyes.

     “There’s just something about a man’s
behavior just as he knows he’s about to die. Only moments ago, you laughed in
your drunken state, but it only covered your desperation and misery. No one
ever appreciates the service I offer, allowing them to let it out once and for
all, so they can finally acknowledge what they’ve been denying all along. Go
on, scream. You now have an excuse to wail.” He fired again, watching his
victim crumple over his leg as it spilled red life onto the dirt in a trail
that flowed toward the fire in a slow trickle, like ants marching to their
purpose.

“Stop! I’ll do anything!
Take my horse and wagon. My satchel, too.” The man’s face wrinkled in fear and
anguish as he lifted his hands to shield himself from more danger, but the gun
fired again, hitting the other leg, and Red’s breath labored as he spoke
through his pain. “Why? Why would you do this to me? You don’t even know me.”

Stuckey adjusted his hat
on his head, then ran his thumb along the velvet front of the wide brim. “See,
that’s the difference between me and other killers. Their motives are much
simpler than mine. Fear, revenge, power, and greed—all simple motives for
simple men. I could give you a motive, but you aren’t likely to comprehend it.”

“Please. Just tell me
why.”

Red’s raspy voice
thrilled him, and he smiled as he bent down next to the bloody ground, pressing
the pistol against the man’s forehead. Despite the life already draining out of
him, his eyes bulged in fear.

“You’re just like all the
others—thinking if you only knew why this was happening, it’d somehow make it
less painful.”

"Just tell me why.
Why do you want to kill me?"

He sighed, as if the
question was a burden. Then he smiled—because it wasn’t. He leaned in, his
breath warm against the man’s ear.

“Because I crave it.
Because I need it. And because I like it.”

Stuckey brought his gun
up, but hesitated, then slid it back into its holster. His knife was better. It
was intimate. Personal. He had always favored the knife. It gave him time to
linger in the moment, to feel the pulse of life struggle beneath his blade.

     In one quick motion, he retrieved his
weapon of choice. The knife slid deep. Red jolted, his body shuddering against
the blade, his eyes wide—frozen in shock, then in the stillness of death.

The crickets resumed
their song, a fitting encore to his performance. He welcomed their applause,
settling back by the fire. The coffee was nearly cold, but he drained it
anyway, staring into Stuckey’s vacant gaze.

He never forgot the eyes.
Or the smell of red blood. Red’s blood.

Funny how the victim’s
nickname suited his death.

He smiled. His own name
suited him, too, since he preferred the knife. But no one else would call him
Stuckey.

No one alive, anyway.

***

     The large demon, Sonnellion, crossed his arms and smiled with
wicked delight. “You’ll  stay with him,
Belias. Remind him what this feels like and make it impossible for him to live
out his moral intentions. Stupid man. He thinks God spared him, but it was us
who rescued him. He owes Beelzebub for snatching him from the clutches of
justice, and we’re going to make him pay his dues.”

Belias nearly snickered,
his excitement fueled by a lust for authority, especially when the others
glared at him. After being cast aside for so long, this mission belonged to
him. He couldn’t believe it, but he’d make sure he didn’t fail.

What about me?” Verrier
snarled, his envy spewing from his mouth, his breaths ragged with rage at being
overlooked. He sneered, eyes flashing with malice as he turned toward Belias.
“I’m twice the demon you are, yet here you are, licking at Sonnellion’s feet
like some obedient whelp. What makes you worthy of this mission? I’ve broken
more souls in a week than you have in a century. No wonder Sonnellion keeps you
on a leash.”

Carreau joined in the
protests, just as Belias lunged at Verrier, but Sonnellion blocked his attack
with a sharp flick of his clawed hand.

“It’s always you three,
isn’t it?” Sonnellion said, exhaling in frustration. “While I certainly enjoy
the competition, I can’t tolerate the bickering right now. After these pathetic
humans fought their civil war, I hoped their defeat might destroy any faith
they still held onto, but we see that didn’t happen. More churches are being
built, and a surge of Christianity is spreading the disease even more.” He spat
on the ground as if ridding himself of the foul idea.

Verrier straightened,
still fuming. “Then why not take advantage of our strength here? Why send
Belias while we—”

“Because your time is
better spent elsewhere,” Sonnellion interrupted, his voice as cold as the
abyss. “You and Carreau have other matters to tend to. There are other
strongholds in danger of falling to the enemy, and I won’t risk losing ground
to those wretched light warriors. You are needed elsewhere—go, before I
question your usefulness.”

Carreau sneered, but he
knew better than to challenge the order. Verrier cast Belias a final look of
hatred before he and Carreau disappeared into the shadows. The smaller demons
lagged, hoping to gain a spot in Sonnellion’s favored army.

Sonnellion exhaled and
turned back to Belias. “Now, let’s focus on the mission at hand.”

“What does this murderer
have to do with the church?”

“Belias, surely by now
you know the answer to that question.”

“He will bring fear and
death.”

Sonnellion waved a large,
clawed talon in a flippant turn that matched his eyeroll. “Of course, he’ll
bring fear and death, but tell me why that matters.”

Belias straightened,
hoping to answer correctly. “Because fear and death distract the church.”

“Exactly.” Sonnellion
slapped Belias on the back, forcing the smaller demon onto the ground next to
the dead man, while the smaller demons laughed. He didn’t dare frown at the
humiliation. No matter how much he hated getting shoved down in front of the
other demons, he knew they hated his superiority in this mission even more. He
wanted to ask Sonnellion if another promotion lay in wake of success, but he
learned long ago to let Sonnellion deliver rank at his discretion.

“I’ll leave you to it,
Belias. Summon your devils and assign their tasks at your command. And Belias?”

“Yes, Sonnellion.”

“Don’t fail.” Sonnellion’s
breath swirled in front of Belias in a sulfuric smoke that singed his mouth.

He swallowed hard at the
order, the threat behind it clear. No matter what, he couldn’t fail this
mission. Not if he wanted to avoid torture much like the dead man endured
moments ago. No, worse. Demons couldn’t die, so torture could be eternal if
Beelzebub or Sonnellion decided that’s how long they wanted it to be.

No, this man would kill
again, and Belias would make sure of it.

***

Uriel crouched low on a
tree branch, undetected by the demons, and wept at the sight of the fallen man.
But he wept more at the destruction to come at the other man’s hand, if Lucifer’s
plan unfolded as intended. The murderer’s new moral compass had failed at the
campsite because it wasn’t rooted in repentance but in a different ambition
with the same ego. His addiction to blood easily overpowered his false sense of
morality.

He froze when Sonnellion
turned in his direction, knowing that a lone angel might struggle to fight the
group of demons—especially these stronger warriors as they banded together
around the spirit and strength of the man’s willful evil. He gripped his sword,
ready to fight if he had to, but relaxed when Sonnellion turned his focus back
to the demons under his charge, who squabbled over the mission again. Uriel
released a heavy, quiet sigh, retreating into the shadows, waiting until Sonnellion
left Belias with the murderer. The lone demon observed his new servant and
whispered into the man’s ear. Uriel flinched as the man stared at his latest
victim and smiled.

It might be his latest
victim, but it wouldn’t be his last.

He’d seen smiles like
that before, and smiles like that preceded death and deep sadness. There was
only one way to fight such evil.

Uriel launched into the
sky, eager to be free from the stench of sin and death, but also to gather
others who could help him fight it. He’d need a team of light warriors for this
one. And he’d need a team of prayer warriors, too. He just hoped they could
find them in the town of Meridian, Mississippi.

A Welcomed Stranger

Stuckey, 1893

     He just might like this new town. Meridian
pulsed with activity, its streets surging with merchants calling their wares,
horses kicking up dust as their hooves thudded against the packed earth, and
the ceaseless churn of progress. Newcomers poured into the hotels before
staking their claims and building their homes. He sent a thanks to the poor ole
sucker he killed to get the established little property on the river, with a cabin,
well, outhouse, and barn already built on a swell above the riverbank. While
modest, it included the proper amenities, and he could be comfortable living
near Meridian, along the riverbank not far from town. He walked through the
grass outside the cabin, listening to the sounds of solitude. The river below
murmured in the evening air, swollen from recent rains, carrying with it the
scent of damp earth and decay. Whoever built the structures on the property
wisely chose the top of the slope for the foundations. If the water ever
crested, it would take a deluge to reach his doorstep or his livestock. Who
would ever think of looking for a member of the Dalton gang in the middle of
Mississippi? And with so many transient people coming and going, he could blend
in without stirring curiosity or too many questions. He’d learned over the
years that people liked things to make sense. A man like him? He’d never make
sense to them. So, he’d get them to trust him on their terms, even if it meant
pretending. He hated pretending.

 He pulled the property deed from his pocket
and looked at the first and last name written in legal terms. He spoke the name
aloud, slow and deliberate, letting it settle on his tongue. Over and over,
until it felt natural. Until it belonged to him.

He imagined the faces of
his old gang and laughed. They would never believe it. They had always thought
he was the wild one, the unpredictable one. The one who took things too far.
But he was the one still standing, wasn’t he? The rope would take them soon
enough. They’d swing in the wind, and he’d be here, warm and comfortable in his
new home.

“Who’s crazy now?” His
laughter filled the empty house, bouncing off the walls. He kicked open the
trunk the previous owner left behind, digging through its contents. A few
moth-eaten shirts, a pair of boots with a worn sole. Useless. But that was
fine. He knew how to get what he needed. And he would.

Dragging a chair closer
to the fire, he stretched out, staring into the dancing flames. A gentleman.
That’s what they’d see. A well-dressed, respectable man—maybe even a
businessman with a trade, someone who earned his place among them. He’d tip his
hat, shake hands, flash that easy smile. They’d never suspect the truth.

Never suspect what he
was.

What he would always be.

But first—he needed
money. He could steal what he wanted. After all, the Dalton gang had taught him
well. But theft never truly satisfied him. Stealing made a man weak. It forced
him into shadows, made him hide, scurry like a rat with stolen crumbs. That
wasn’t him. That had never been him.

Hiding his identity,
masking his nature—it irked something deep in him. The bold spirit within him
screamed for position, for recognition. For power.

His gaze flicked back to
the trunk, the flickering firelight casting jagged shadows across its lid. He’d
passed a lone traveler along the river earlier, no more than a few miles from
here. No one would miss him.

One more victim. One last
kill.

After all, a fresh start requires
more than a new home. It required capital. Travelers carried cash. Travelers
disappeared all the time.

Stealing was necessary.

Killing was the reward.

Just one more time.
That’s all.

***

     Catherine Porter stepped into White’s
General Store, hoping to find white sugar. She really wanted to bake a pie for
Sunday after church, but the store hadn’t had sugar in days.

“Miss Porter, how can I
help you today?” Mr. White stood behind the counter, his crisp white apron tied
neatly around his waist, a white hat pulled low over his pale forehead. He was
rolling out a fine, white fabric, his pasty fingers smoothing it with
precision, as if wrinkles were an offense he wouldn’t tolerate.

The irony wasn’t lost on
her. Mr. White with all the white things. She worked hard to suppress a giggle
as she asked, “Do you have any white sugar?”

The words had barely left
her lips before the absurdity struck her. Mr. White. White sugar. The apron,
the hat, the fabric. The thought tumbled out in a laugh before she could stop
it.

His hand stilled. A
single blink. Then, ever so carefully, he lifted a brow. “Would you like to
share what’s humorous, Miss Porter?”

Her mirth shrank under
his gaze. “No, Mr. White. I’m just being silly.”

She forced her mouth into
a straight line. No, he probably wouldn’t find it funny at all.

  “We just got sugar in yesterday.” Mr. White
untied the cloth cover from the barrel and scooped the sugar with careful
precision. He leveled it off with a steady hand, not a grain out of place,
before pouring it into a crisp paper sack and folding the top into neat,
symmetrical creases. “Anything else? If you need flour, you’ll have to wait. We
just can’t seem to keep flour and sugar in stock these days. Getting lots of
new settlers in the area. Hard to believe I’ve been here only two months, but
I’m no longer a newcomer, thanks to all the newcomers pouring in every week.
The railroad sure has caused a boom for this town.”

     “I noticed that. It’s good to have a
bustling community, though, don’t you think? My pa says the south needs all the
help it can get since the war tore our part of the country apart. We ought to
be grateful the railroad is doing so much to boost our failed economy.”

     “Indeed, although the war is long past,
and some might say its impact is overstated,” Mr. White said, his eyes piercing
hers with a steady gaze.

   “I wouldn’t say that, Mr. White. The war
left a mark that hasn’t yet faded from the south’s memory.”

     “Well, since you weren’t even born then,
and I was just a chap, I guess all is well for us. Oh, that new man Sanderson
is headed over here. Believe his first name is …let’s see…Matthew. That’s
right. Goes by Matt. Matt Sanderson. Interesting fellow.” Mr. White stared
behind her. She turned around and saw a handsome man coming through the
storefront door. He immediately assessed her figure with his eyes as men
typically did. Funny, but she didn’t feel repulsed by it this time.

     “Mr. Sanderson, this is Miss Catherine
Porter. Miss Porter, this is Mr. Matthew Sanderson.”

“It’s Matt. You can call
me Matt, ma’am.” He tipped his hat to her, flashing a bright smile.

     She couldn’t help but notice how his brown
hair and brown eyes complemented his tan face. “It’s a pleasure, I’m sure, Mr.
Sand…uh…Matt, and you should come meet my father. He’s at the livery. Our horse
threw his shoe on the way to town.”

     “Yes, Mr. Porter runs the post office,”
Mr. White said. “Thanks to him, I can send out orders quickly and receive
shipments from my suppliers without delay. He keeps everything in order, which
is more than I can say for some postmasters. And his lovely daughter Catherine
here is now a frequent customer, too, so it’s a nice set up for me, I suppose.”

     Matt glanced at Mr. White but ignored his
statement and looked down at her again. “Why don’t you let me purchase my dry
goods here, then I’ll escort you over to your father at the livery?”

     She blushed. “That would be kind. Thank
you.”

     Mr. Sanderson purchased a shovel and some
coffee before taking her arm with his free hand. As they walked over to the
livery across the street, Catherine stopped, then gasped. “Why, Mr. Sanderson,
you’re bleeding!”

He looked down at the
bloodstains visible on his pants leg. “Blast!” At her gasp, he looked up and
appeared sheepish. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Forgive my slip of the tongue. I’d hate
to offend a lady like you. Please accept my sincere apologies.”

She peered at his leg,
frowning. “Yes, that’s fine, but Mr. Sa-Matt, what on earth did you do to
yourself? Do you need to see Dr. Vaughn?”

“Oh, no need. I’m afraid
my dressings came off sometime during my walk here. I’ve been cutting some wood
for a project on my land, and I must admit I acted without caution, so the saw
blade nicked the front of my leg. It’ll heal nicely, though, since I already
applied a poultice.”

“Well, alright, if you’re
sure.” He put his hand on the small of her back when they crossed the street.

Horses pulling wagons
clomped on the dusty road, while chatter, shouts, and whistles sounded all
around the vicinity. Shoes on the sidewalks echoed louder than the horses in
the streets, and she bristled at the noise.

“Not a city girl, eh?” He
spoke at her side, and she flushed under his watchful gaze.

“I wouldn’t say that,
exactly. I just prefer calmer streets, although I’m glad for the bustling
activity. It’s good for Meridian to have so much commerce added to the area.”

“Oh, I agree, but I’m not
sure you did a moment ago.”

“Don’t be silly; I
couldn’t be more thrilled for our town.”

His expression changed,
but then he smiled. “Maybe you are, at that.”

“What about you, Matt? Do
you like busy towns?”

“I like towns with
interesting people, busy or not, and I find this one isn’t lacking.” They
reached the planked sidewalk, and he turned her to face him, with his hands on
the sides of her arms. “Before I meet your father, might I know if you’re
courting anyone?”

Heat flooded her face,
and she wished she hadn’t left her fan at home. “Why, no, not at the moment,
but…”

“Forgive me, Catherine, I
know it’s too soon, but can you do me a favor?”

“A favor?” She squinted,
wondering what this handsome man might propose, and hoping he wouldn’t be
inappropriate. She found him almost irresistible, and it’d be a shame if she
couldn’t get to know him better, under the appropriate measures, of course, despite
the inappropriate ways he looked at her since he’d met her in White’s store.

“I’d like to ask that you
not court anyone else.”

At her shocked
expression, he held up a hand and continued, “I know, it’s quite forward of me,
especially since I only met you moments ago, but I’d like time to get
acquainted with you and your father, and when enough time has passed, I’d like
to ask him to court you, if you’re willing.”

She tried to still her
thumping heart because she wondered if he could hear it inside her chest,
pounding as if it wanted to jump out. “I think that’s an acceptable
proposition, granted my father is okay with it.”

“Okay with what?” Her pa,
tall and broad-shouldered, with gray appearing at his temples, appeared before
them, eyeing her new friend with interest and a measure of suspicion. His
guarded assessment didn’t surprise his daughter, who often tolerated his protectiveness
since she knew the motive behind it.

“Pa, I’d like you to meet
Mr. Matthew Sanderson. He’s new in town, and he walked me over from Mr. White’s
store.”

Matt stuck out his hand.
“It’s Matt, sir. Nice to meet you. How’s your horse’s hoof?”

Her pa shook Matt’s hand
and visibly relaxed. If a man cared for horses, her pa considered them a decent
human being, even if his interest in his daughter might not be welcomed yet.

“She’ll be fine. Blythe
is fixing her up now, so she’ll be good as new. What do you do for your
livelihood, Matt?”

“I’m not sure yet, but
I’m just settling in, so I’ll get my bearings soon enough. Thinking about
hunting and selling some game, maybe. Are there any merchants who need fresh
game? Fish, deer, rabbit, maybe some frogs for frog legs and such?”

Catherine grimaced but
the two men didn’t notice. How could anyone eat frog legs? She’d tried them
once as a child, and the idea of what sat on her plate churned her gut, so she
didn’t even take a bite. Years later, she tried them again, since her pa cooked
them, and she figured she should see why so many considered them a delicacy of
sorts, but once she did take a bite she proceeded to vomit right after
swallowing.

“You might check with a
few folks, but your best option is to set up shop yourself and get the word
out.”

“I thought about that,
but I’m not sure I want a storefront just yet.”

“Don’t need one. Just
hang your hat where folks can see it, or even know about it, and you’ll get
business soon enough. Treat people fair around here, and you’ll be alright. Are
you a good hunter or fisherman?”

“I’m good enough.”

Her pa nodded in
satisfaction. “Wouldn’t work otherwise. You’ll need to supply the demand, and
with so many moving into the area right now, you’ll have plenty of demand soon
enough. Some folks ain’t got time to hunt or fish, since most are working with
the railroad or a business. Some stores do sell wild game, but it’s not
regular, and they often run out. I hear tell there’s a gent opening a
restaurant, so you might want to check with him, too. Name’s Crane, and he’s
staying at the hotel with his wife and children.”

     “Looks like I got a possibility, then,
don’t I? I’d better see to my settling, since I still have much to do. It’s
nice to meet you, sir.”

Her pa and Matt shook
hands, and then he turned to her, tipping his hat. His eyes seemed to say
something just for her, and for a moment, it frightened her, until he smiled
and the corners of his eyes crinkled and his brown pupils dilated. She smiled
back, allowing him to take her hand and kiss the top. Shivers crawled up her
arm from his lips and she dropped her gaze in shyness as her pa watched. No one
had ever kissed her hand before. She wouldn’t have let them try, anyway, so why
now? When Matt walked away from them, her pa didn’t speak but looked at her
with amusement shining in his eyes.

“What is it, Pa?”

“You’ve never let anyone
kiss the top of your hand before, Cat.”

When he used her
nickname, she knew he teased her. “Pa, it’s just a polite gesture of manners,
and most men around here wouldn’t know such manners if God smacked ‘em in the
face with them.”

“Catherine…”

“Oh, alright, I admit he
fascinates me, and maybe some of these men have manners, but…”

“But?”

“It didn’t mean anything.
I’m just being polite to the newcomer.”

“You know what I think,
Cat?”

“You’re going to tell me
anyway, aren’t you, Pa?”

“Yes, I am. I think
you’re like my mare in there. You keep throwing a shoe when you need it most.”

“Pa, you’re not making
any sense.”

“What about Zeke?”

“What about him?”

“I know he’d kiss your
hand if you’d let him.”

“I hardly know him, Pa.”

“Didn’t you just meet Mr.
Sanderson?”

She huffed. “It’s not the
same thing.”

“Why not?”

“Because Zeke is odd.
He’s only been here three weeks, and he acts like he owns the town, strutting
around like a king looking for his throne.”

“There’s nothing wrong
with a bit of confidence, Catherine.”

“A bit?”

“Like I said, throwing
shoes. You like Zeke, maybe more than you admire Matt, but you’re not ready to
admit it just yet, are you? Yep, throwing shoes.”

“If you weren’t my pa,
I’d throw a shoe at you.” She picked up the bottom of her afternoon dress,
where the skirt almost caught the bottom of her heels, and huffed as she
stomped ahead of him, his laughter following her down the planked sidewalk. 

An Unexpected Visitor

Reese, Present Day

Lauderdale County, MS.

Reese Hayden slammed the
framed photo onto the hardwood floor, satisfaction curling through her chest as
the glass shattered. The photo slipped free, revealing the glossy lie of his
smile—the one she had believed for too many years. In that frozen moment, with
his arm slung around her, the betrayal had already begun.

She ground her heel
against the frame, glass crunching beneath her weight, distorting the perfect
couple they had once pretended to be.

"That felt
good," she murmured to the empty house.

Silence. It would take
time to adjust to that.

Her new home, left to her
by her uncle, wasn’t anything special—outdated, in need of repairs—but it was
hers. Not Dylan’s. And for that reason alone, she loved it.

Her ex-husband was hours
away now, in Springfield, Missouri. With her. Reese had needed a clean break,
far from the home they once shared, where she had spent too many nights crying
into a pillow, knowing he was just a few blocks over in another woman’s bed. At
least here, she wouldn’t run the risk of seeing them together. Once had been
enough.

She picked up another
frame—her wedding photo—and lined it up next to the broken one. This time, she
used a hammer.

For the next ten minutes,
she destroyed every picture where his face appeared, relishing the splintering
glass, the sharp crack of wood, the finality of it.

"Even better,"
she whispered.

Sliding the wedding ring
off her finger, she studied it in the dim light. It had claimed her hand for
over a decade, just as he had claimed her heart.

"Better sell
it," she muttered. "Gonna need every penny to fix this place
up."

She tossed the ring onto
the counter and grabbed a broom to sweep up the remains of their life together.
Under the sink, she shoved the broken frames into the garbage. The cabinet door
popped open again, sagging on its loose hinge. She sighed, adding it to the
long list of repairs.

Stepping onto the back
deck, she inhaled the warm, humid air. The wooden railing needed a pressure
wash, but it was solid. She’d make this place a home—eventually. Below, the
river whispered against the rocks, the steady rush soothing the frayed edges of
her nerves. She couldn't wait to set up some chairs out here, maybe a hammock.

A loud splash shattered
the quiet.

Reese flinched, gripping
the railing. The sound was deep, like something heavy had been dropped into the
water. A fish. It had to be, right? But no ripples followed. No lingering
disturbance, just the steady pulse of the river. She strained to see past the
reflection of the porch light, her breath hitching as shadows rippled across
the surface.

She exhaled a small laugh
at her own nerves, but as her eyes drifted toward the bridge, her pulse ticked
up again.

A rope swung from the beams,
swaying gently.

Had that been there
before?

She squinted, trying to
make out the details in the fading light. The way it swayed felt… off. The
frayed end suggested it had been cut. But how long ago? She hadn’t noticed it
earlier, but maybe she just wasn’t paying attention.

Still, something about it
itched in the back of her mind, like trying to recall a memory she couldn’t
quite grasp.

The air felt heavier now,
thick and damp against her skin. The usual nighttime chorus of crickets and
frogs had gone silent. She hadn’t noticed the quiet until now, and somehow,
that was worse. Only the river remained, murmuring its way down the bank.

A sharp gust of wind
pushed against her, making the rope twist sharply.

She swallowed hard. Move.
Go inside.

But she didn’t. The rope
stilled.

A knock at the front door
sent a jolt through her, and she jumped.

"Reese, you really
need to chill,” she muttered, stepping over unpacked boxes as she went to
answer it.

She swung open the door
to find a woman fighting against the leash of an enormous black dog. The thing
panted and yanked, its paws scraping against the porch as if it had somewhere
better to be.

The woman herself was
small—no taller than five foot two—with the kind of wiry frame that looked
deceptively fragile. But there was nothing delicate about the way she yanked
back on the leash with practiced determination. Short, spiky midnight-black
hair poked in every direction, as if she had run her fingers through it one too
many times. Square-framed glasses perched on her nose, slightly crooked, like
she had forgotten they were there.

"You got an anchor
in there, honey?" she huffed. "‘Cause Cash here sure could use
one."

"Cash?"

"As in Johnny,"
the woman said with a grin. "Man in black. Lab in black. Seemed to fit.
Besides, Cash loves the music."

Before Reese could
respond, the woman untied the leash and waltzed right past her into the house.

Reese blinked. Well,
that’s new. "Uh—can he get loose?"

"Nah." The
woman waved a dismissive hand. "And if he does, he’ll come back. The
secret is bacon. Feed a dog bacon, and they’ll be yours forever. Good rule for
men, too."

Reese didn’t bother
mentioning that she’d fed her ex plenty of bacon, and he still ran straight
into someone else’s arms.

Instead, she peered at
her guest. "Do you live around here?"

The woman clucked her
tongue. "Right. Introductions. Folks are always telling me I need to do
better at that. I live down the road a ways. Brick house on the hill with the
fuchsia flowers up the drive. Name’s Adeline, but I won’t thank you for calling
me that. Just call me Addie."

"Nice to meet
you," Reese said slowly. "I’d offer you something, but I haven’t been
to the store yet."

Addie shrugged.
"Better make sure you stock up on tea. And I mean real tea. None of that
raspberry or peach-flavored nonsense. And don’t get me started on coffee, with
all the lattes and such. But I guess the younger crowd likes them, even
here." She surveyed the room. "Where’s your furniture?"

"It hasn’t arrived
yet. I ordered all new pieces. Should be here in a couple of days."

Addie lifted an eyebrow
but didn’t comment. She slid open the glass door to the deck and stepped
outside.

"This place has
always had the best view of the river," she mused. "Too bad Art
didn’t keep up the house all those years. You got someone to see to repairs?
Are you married?"

“No, I’m-.” Reese
hesitated. "How come you haven’t asked who I am?"

"No need. I know who
you are. Art’s only relative, niece, maybe?” At Reese’s nod, she continued. “He
told me once he had a relative that he’d leave the house to once he passed. I
just put two and two together."

Reese’s chest tightened
at the mention of her uncle, the one she never really knew—and still didn’t
know why.

“So you’re not married?”

Reese had heard about Southerners
asking personal questions, but this was a bit much. “No, I’m not.” Reese stared
at her, daring her to ask more than she wanted to answer.

The spunky woman stared
back, unwavering in her pursuit of information.

Reese found herself
explaining. “I’m divorced.”

“Oh? Is that why you have
some broken picture frames on the floor?”

 She thought she’d cleaned it all up. “Yep, but
I’d rather not talk about that.”

     “Fair enough.” She looked out the window
again, staring at the bridge below.

"I guess you know
all about Stuckey."

"Who?"

Addie turned, giving her
a sharp look. "Land sakes, child. How can you move to this river without
knowing about the legend of Stuckey?"

Reese frowned.
"Should I?"

Addie didn’t answer right
away. Then she gave a slow, eerie smile.

"Well. If you don’t
know, you will soon enough. He makes it a point to meet anyone who dares to
live on the river."

She laughed, but Reese
didn’t think it was a joke.

She shivered.

"Come over to the
house for supper," Addie said. "Cooked up a mess of ham hocks and
beans, cornbread, and, of course, sweet tea. It’s usually just Cash and me, but
my grandson’s joining us tonight. He’s been staying with me this summer. A little
gruff these days, but he’s harmless.”

After meeting Addie,
Reese could only imagine what the grandson might be like.

"I really need to
unpack—"

     "Unpacking can wait, girl. You need
to eat. And you don’t have groceries." Addie gave her a pointed look.
"See you at seven."

     Then, without another word, she stepped
off the porch and untied Cash, leaving Reese standing there, stunned. So that
was southern hospitality.

     Outside, the bridge creaked.

     Reese turned toward the glass doors,
peering into the dusk, where light merged with darkness in the shadow of the
trees. She couldn’t see the rope anymore, but she imagined it, swaying over the
water like one of the pendulums in Uncle Art’s old wall clocks.

It was a warm spring
night, but her arms prickled with cold.

     Maybe she should get a dog. Not one like
Cash, though. One that Cash would be afraid of.

     She shut the door, but the uneasy feeling
didn’t leave. Even as she turned back to her boxes, she couldn’t shake the
sensation that someone watched her from the bridge.

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