The Return. Dinah McCall

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ it had been taken—an Easter Sunday when he was sixteen years old. She was wearing a pale green dress and standing beside the lilac bush near the back door. Momma had loved that lilac bush. Oddly enough, after her death, it hadn’t come out. Jubal had cursed it, blamed it on the hard winter they’d had, then dug it up and tossed it in the hog pen. With that gesture, his father had destroyed the last remnants of her presence in this house.

      He took the picture from the mantel and put it in his suitcase. As he turned to go, he saw his rifle hanging on the wall above the hall table. He would have little use for such a thing in Memphis, but his grandfather had given it to him for Christmas when he was twelve. He didn’t want to leave it behind. He lifted it down, absently noting it was loaded. With one quick motion, he flipped on the safety, then slung the strap over his shoulder. Moments later, he was in the yard and heading toward the woods. The flashlight bumped the side of his leg as he walked, but it would be a while before he would need it. The moon was bright, and he knew these woods well. In the distance, he could hear the intermittent yips of his brothers’ hounds as they scattered through the trees in search of prey. Somewhere farther along, his father and brothers would set up camp, build themselves a fire, and then trade lies and whiskey until the pack struck a trail. After that, the thrill of the chase would be on. There was a small part of him that regretted the fact that he would never know the camaraderie of such a gathering again, but his love for Fancy was far too strong for the regret to be anything more than fleeting. Fancy was his life. He didn’t need anything more than her—and their child. So he walked, confident of his plans and anxious to feel the brush of Fancy’s breath against his face.

      

      The fire in the cave was little more than glowing embers when Fancy roused. Disoriented, she looked into the darkness above her head and panicked. Almost instantly, the baby at her side wiggled, then gave a soft squeak, and she remembered.

      It was late, so late. Turner should have been here long ago. What could possibly be keeping him? She threw back the blanket and scooted to the edge of the bed before trying to sit. Almost at once, her head began to spin, and she closed her eyes and took a slow deep breath, willing herself to a calm she didn’t feel. With tender movements, she laid the baby in the middle of the cot and then made herself stand, using the back of a chair for a crutch. She needed water and food, and she needed to get to a doctor. God only knew what horrible infections she had exposed herself and her baby to by giving birth in such circumstances.

      With trembling hands, she laid a couple of small sticks on the fire. She wouldn’t build it high enough to cause a large flame, just enough to keep curious wildlife away. Satisfied she had it just right, she moved toward the water jug on a makeshift table.

      The water tasted stale, but she swallowed it just the same, then splashed a couple of handfuls on her face. There were things to be done, like burying the afterbirth and the bloody clothes that she’d been forced to use for cleaning. She didn’t want any wild animals to be led toward them by the scent.

      By the time she’d finished, she was weak and shaking, and the baby was beginning to fuss. After washing her hands once more, she staggered back to the cot, bared her breast to the night and took the baby in her arms. Unaware of her Madonnalike pose, she pushed a nipple into the baby’s tiny mouth. It took several tries, but finally, the baby caught. Fancy’s eyes widened in wonder at the beauty of the tiny mouth working so diligently against her flesh.

      “Turner, I need you,” she whispered. A tear rolled down her cheek.

      Time passed—enough that the baby had gone back to sleep and Fancy was about to do the same. Her head bobbed, lurching sideways like a rubber-necked doll. The movement woke her, and she groaned, then glanced toward the baby and smiled. In spite of everything, the child seemed to be thriving. A little of her panic lifted. Surely this was a sign. Everything was going to be all right.

      It occurred to her then that the child was not named. She and Turner had discussed many names, but almost all for a boy. Somehow, they hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that a Blair would father a girl.

      She traced the tip of her finger along the side of the baby’s cheek and thought of her own mother, who had long since passed away.

      “Catherine,” Fancy whispered, and then repeated the name, familiarizing herself with the feel of the syllables against her tongue. They felt good. They felt right. “Catherine you’ll be,” she said softly, then kissed the side of her baby’s cheek.

      Time passed. The fire ate its way into the sticks she’d put on earlier, until it was time to feed it again. She stretched gingerly, reaching for a small log. Her fingers curled around the rough, dry bark as she lifted it from the pile. Inches away from the flame, she stopped, listening to a sound that struck fear in her heart.

      Hounds!

      Someone was hunting on this side of the mountain.

      She dropped the log back onto the pile, unwilling to add even the smallest bit of fuel to a fire that could give her away. In a panic, she reached for the baby, clasping her close against her breast. The soft in and out of the child’s breath was calming. Fancy took a deep breath, too, reminding herself that this wasn’t the first time since she’d gone into hiding that she’d heard hunters on the mountain. Still, she sat with her eyes wide and fixed upon the mouth of the cave.

      Minutes passed. The baby slept on, unaware of the growing danger, but Fancy couldn’t relax. The hounds sounded closer now. She thought of Jubal Blair. She knew from her years with Turner that the Blairs often hunted on this side of the mountain. What if it was him? What if he found her here alone?

       Turner…Turner…where are you?

      The baby began to squirm, and Fancy groaned with regret, only then realizing she’d been holding her too tightly.

      “Sorry, baby girl, Momma’s sorry,” she whispered, and laid her down on the cot.

      Almost instantly, the baby ceased fussing. Quiet enveloped them. Everything became magnified, from the sound of water dripping far back in the cave, to the intermittent pop of a twig on the fire—increasing her growing fear of being found.

      Finally, she couldn’t sit anymore. Awkwardly, she stood and made her way to the mouth of the cave, stepping out into the darkness and staring down the hillside into the trees. Even in full moonlight, the trees were so thick it was difficult to see more than a few feet ahead, but sound still carried, and she could tell that the dogs were moving in her direction.

      Nervously, she looked around for something to pull in front of the cave, but there was nothing but brush, and a few uprooted bushes wouldn’t throw a pack of hunting dogs off the scent of blood.

      She looked up at the sky, trying to judge the time by the position of the moon, and guessed it was probably near midnight. Accepting that fact pushed her to accept another. What if Turner didn’t come?

      Suddenly one hound’s shrill bugle made her flinch. In that moment she believed her safety had been compromised. She looked back into the cave and then into the trees. What should she do? If she went down the mountain, she would run straight into the hunters. She looked upward toward Pulpit Rock, where she and Turner had secretly married, and as she did, her heart skipped a beat. There was a place up there that no hunters would go—not even Jubal Blair.

      The witch’s house.

      She’d never seen it, but she knew it was there. At one time or another, everyone around Camarune had seen the fires late at night. Stories abounded about human sacrifices made in the light of a full moon, but Fancy didn’t really believe that. To her knowledge, no one СКАЧАТЬ