Читать книгу The In-Between Hour - Barbara White Claypole - Страница 14

Six

Hannah followed half-buried signposts of time: a wagon wheel and two rusty mule shoes. There was living, breathing history in this forest, history that was tangible, history that endured. Protective spirits.

Saponi Mountain had spoken to her from the first day: You belong here. So much in life was transitory, but not the connection she felt to this piece of land. If she believed in reincarnation—and maybe she did, because her mother had been a psychic healer who taught her to discount nothing—she had lived here before, in another lifetime. And after everything that had happened with her father, well. Leaving wasn’t an option.

Weaving around wild blueberry bushes, Hannah turned into a shaft of dying sunlight, the orange glow of the magical hour her mother had called the gloaming. These days the gloaming descended too quickly into evening. Nothing beat the thrill of hearing coyotes and owls on her land, but nights alone were a bitter reminder that loved ones could leave and never return.

Crispy leaves crackled under her old hiking boots, and Hannah shivered despite the late-afternoon warmth. Dry wind rattled through the leaves of the hardwoods and, for a moment, she thought she heard a car. No, she did. There was a car on her driveway. Rising up on tiptoe, Hannah found a peephole through the sweetgums.

The back of her neck tingled.

Trusting people was her strength and, according to the boys, her weakness. Still, she was a woman without neighbors to hear her scream. She shook her head. How ridiculous, to think like Poppy and second-guess everyone’s motives, when honestly, who ever heard of a serial killer driving a Prius? Pretty pale green one, too.

Daisy whined, and Rosie flopped onto Hannah’s feet, rooting her to the forest floor.

The engine died and a young man got out. His hair said Californian surfer, but his clothes of tonal greens and browns suggested urban chic. Despite his tangle of blond hair, he blended in with the forest. He was slight but not skinny. Well-toned if she had to guess from this distance. He seemed oddly familiar. Was he one of Galen’s friends? Unlikely, since Galen hadn’t brought anyone home in a while. This guy didn’t look much older than either of her sons, but he moved with the stiffness of an old man. Maybe he needed some pokeweed. Always good for arthritic pain.

The stranger stared at her, or rather at the spot where she was standing. No way could he see her through the foliage and the shadows, but she huddled back against a white oak. A wave of light-headedness hit her. Another warning, maybe, that it was time to end the granola-bars-on-the-go diet.

A second man emerged from the car, much taller than the first. With the long, white ponytail and black leather vest, he had to be Native American. His head bobbed in agitation. The younger man moved quickly, circling the older man’s waist with an arm and guiding him back into the car. It was a filial gesture, and yet the two men couldn’t be related. They looked nothing alike.

The air tightened as if sealed in an invisible container, and the squirrels and the birds fell silent. Hannah closed her eyes through another wave of dizziness, her hands digging into the bark of the oak. A door slammed, the car drove off and a crow cawed.

When she opened her eyes, she was alone with the dogs. And in the bough above, there was an owl.