Page 6 of Horsemen and Hot Chocolate

Echoes of pounding hooves swam around her confused thoughts. She debated whether she had gone mad or slipped into a strange dream. But as she watched him disappear into the darkness of night, her fingers brushed against her wrist and the elbow he’d steadied moments before—the truth of what happened finally settled in her mind.

He had saved her, and somehow, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something protective about his touch.

Perhaps the Headless Horseman wasn’t the frightening legend Sleepy Hollow believed—maybe he was something much stranger.

Chapter four

The crimson and golden leaves rustled in the trees as Katrina placed the bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums on her brother’s grave. Although his body was not beneath the ground, it was all she had left of him.

Katrina wiped the frost from the imprinted name, Johannes Van Tassel, and traced over his birth year, September 3, 1760. The epitaph below read: “Beloved son and brother, who bravely gave his life for his country. Rest in eternal peace under God’s watchful eye.”

Katrina’s fingers trembled as she hovered over each letter. After All Hallows’ Eve, she had come here to honor her brother’s death, as many did to visit the graves of their loved ones on All Saints’ Day. Mother and Father had placed their flowers on Johannes’s grave before letting her grieve in solitude. One of their maids watched her from afar to keep her company.

Frost coated the hard ground, the wind biting her nose, but heat clenched her throat. Gingerly, she knelt upon the icy grass, her cardinal wool skirt fanning around her as she bowed her head. The familiar sting of regret burned through her chest.

“I thought we’d have more time,” she whispered to the empty grave. “Time to repair the damage I’d done.”

But the passing time had only left her haunted with too many questions. Were his last moments filled with fear? Did he think of home? Had he passed on, thinking she hated him?

A hot tear carved down her cheek. She’d been a girl of eleven years, too young to understand the horrors of war but old enough to know her words could cut him like a knife. The hurt on his face when she had said them still plagued her worst nightmares.

A sudden gust of wind scattered some petals from the chrysanthemums into the graveyard. Katrina followed their path behind the church and toward the bridge where she had met the ghostly apparition of the Headless Horseman mere hours ago. She shivered.

The trees swayed, and the leaves stirred in the breeze. An array of oranges, yellows, and reds filled her vision as she stared at the forest beyond the bridge. She wondered if the Headless Horseman lingered in the shadows, watching her even now.

The memory of the Horseman’s gloved hand wrapped around her wrist in a powerful grip left her mind spinning.

She hadn’t slept after their encounter. After she returned home, safe under her covers, she stared up at her bed canopy for hours, wondering why a ghost had saved her from a watery grave.

If the legends were true, why would an evil spirit rescue her? And if he had been a Hessian soldier fighting for the British, why would he help a woman from the colonies who opposed him? Wasn’t the point of his curse to seek vengeance upon the land for those who did this to him?

Her heart quickened with trepidation and curiosity as the petals danced under the bridge, where she stood face-to-face with the living legend—something deep within her stirred—a burning desire to uncover the mysteries surrounding the Headless Horseman. There must be a reason why he saved her.

She slowly rose, tucked the errant blonde curls from her face, and brushed the dirt from her cream petticoat. Another brisk wind swept through her double-breasted coat dress. The rational part of her mind begged her to leave the spirit alone and never think of him again, but her heart whispered otherwise.

Perhaps the Horseman would know how to lead her to where her brother had fallen if he had perished there, too.

It was a terrible, mad idea, but she reasoned she had no other choice. The roads were dangerous to travel alone as a woman, and no one—not her mother, father, or Brom—would take her to White Plains. If there was a chance to visit Johannes before she was forced to marry, it was this one.

Turning to her brother’s grave, she kissed the tips of her gloved fingers and pressed them to the top of his headstone. She vowed she would find her brother’s true resting place and perhaps… finally find peace within her heart.

The pale moonlight glowed like an eerie lantern, lighting her path as trees stretched before her like greedy claws. Soggy leaves squelched beneath her leather boots, and the bitter wind stole through her shivering frame.

Katrina glanced one last time at the Van Tassel estate, her eyes drawn to the darkened windows where her parents slept. If Father were to discover her alone at this time of night, she wouldn’t be able to excuse her actions. She couldn’t imagine the trouble she would be in, but she adjusted her hood and turned her sights on the road ahead.

Sticking to the shadows, she hurried along the dirt path past the fields of buckwheat and corn. The contents within her pockets sloshed with each step, the canteens still warm against her thigh. Soon, she came up to rows of pumpkins on her left before the fork in the road. The path to the right would lead her to the schoolhouse, and the left would take her to the church. Pivoting left, her heart raced beneath her ribcage as she walked under the trees. Long branches bowed like an arc above her head, thwarting any light from piercing through.

Darkness chased her steps, and her breath quickened. The trees creaked and shuddered beneath the wind. For one terrifying moment, she considered turning around and running back home. A headless ghost haunted these roads; what else could lurk in the forest?

Yet, she had come this far. She would never forgive herself if she gave up so easily.

Katrina inhaled a shaky breath. However, her relief was short-lived. Something was stirring beyond her sight. Sharp clomps reverberated across the empty road, though she could not spy any horse approaching. The sound grew louder and louder, echoing in her ears, seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once.

Katrina withheld a gasp, keeping a hand on her heart to steady its frantic beating, when a towering black horse emerged from the shadows. Red eyes glinted against the moonlight, and puffs of white, ghostly air snorted from the horse’s muzzle. The reins rattled as the beast slowed to a stop before her. Katrina’s fingernails dug into the kerchief tucked into her neckline, and her voice lost as she stared at the imposing figure on the mighty horse.

A tattered black cape draped over broad shoulders and a dark wool coat. Her eyes traveled up to a cravat decorating a throat, and further up, an eerie emptiness filled the space where his head should have been. Katrina swallowed, her eyes wide and unblinking at the specter.

Then, a soft, warm glow attracted her to the pumpkin in the ghost’s hand. A jagged mouth, triangular eyes, and a nose were carved into the orange surface. Within, a golden light grew from an unknown source.