Читать книгу The Return - Dinah McCall - Страница 6

Rural Kentucky, 1973

T he night was cold—the moon full. A faint hint of wood smoke stirred in the air, while tortured shadows lay upon the decaying forest floor like puddles of spilled ink.

On a nearby hill, a cougar slipped between an outcropping of rocks on his way to his lair, dragging his prey as he went. Tomorrow, a farmer would find his best goat had gone missing, while down in the valley below, animals of the dark abounded. The night seemed no different from any other as they scurried about, intent upon the simplistic routine of their existence. Then, without warning, everything stilled.

A raccoon paused at a creek bank, tilting his head toward the forest behind him before dropping the minnow he had been about to eat and shinnying up a nearby tree. A fox, who had been lying outside her burrow letting her kits nurse, suddenly bolted to her feet and hustled them back inside. An owl abruptly took to the air from a nearby tree, moving through the forest on silent wings. On the heels of his flight, a primordial shriek shattered the silence, hanging on the air like mist, then echoing within the valley.

Over a mile away, and on another mountain, a woman up tending to her sick child heard the faint cry and shuddered as she glanced toward the partially opened window. Even though she knew it was most likely a cougar, the similarity between that sound and a woman’s scream was all too eerie—especially at this time of night. She pulled the covers back over her child, then walked to the window and pushed it the rest of the way shut.

Back down in the valley, another cry followed the first, weaker in intensity, but more distinct in sound. There was no mistaking it for that of an animal. It was the cry of a newborn baby, shocked by the abruptness of its entry into the world.

Flames from the campfire burning at the back of the cave flickered weakly, shedding little light on the drama playing out within the cavernous depths. A thin column of smoke spiraled upward, escaping through a small hole in the high domed ceiling, forming a natural chimney. It dissipated without notice in the outside air.

Nineteen-year-old Fancy Joslin lay only a few feet from the fire on a makeshift cot. The last spasms of childbirth had passed, leaving her weak and weary. Cradling her newborn child upon her belly, she cleaned the babe and herself as best she could. She wouldn’t let herself think of the lack of sanitation in which her child had been born. For now it was enough that they had both survived.

A suitcase near the mouth of the cave held all of her worldly goods. It wasn’t what she’d planned to take to her home as a bride, but it would have to do. All of the Joslin heirlooms that should have been hers had burned up over a month ago in the fire that destroyed their home. She couldn’t prove it, any more than her family had been able to prove any of their losses over the past one hundred years, but in her heart, she blamed Jubal Blair.

Uncle Frank was dead because of him. They’d called it an accident, but everyone knew it was just part of the ongoing feud between the Joslins and the Blairs. And, truth be told, over the years, the Joslins had done their fair share of keeping the hate between the two families alive. There were plenty of Blairs resting six feet below the rich Kentucky earth who could attribute their passing to an angry Joslin.

Even in Fancy’s lifetime, she’d heard the men in her family talking about things that they’d done in the name of justice, but there wasn’t anything fair about a feud. It was revenge, pure and simple.

She rolled her baby up into a blanket, then set her jaw. It did no good thinking about the hate that had destroyed her family and, ultimately, her home. As long as Joslins and Blairs still lived on the mountain, it would continue.

And that was the reason she was in hiding. She was the last of the Joslins, but she would not risk her life or her child’s by staying in this place any longer.

With a weary sigh, she lay back on the pillow. In a way, she’d already fallen victim to a Blair. Turner. But not in the way Jubal would have imagined. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t loved Turner Blair. But it was only after she got pregnant that panic set in. This was a secret she wouldn’t be able to hide forever. Turner’s joy in the news had lessened her fears, and when he’d insisted on a moonlight wedding ceremony beneath the overhang of Pulpit Rock, Fancy’s anxiety had lessened even more. The fact that it had been less than proper hadn’t mattered to either of them. In their hearts, they were man and wife.

And they’d made plans to run.

But then Turner’s mother had taken sick. Running away in the midst of her last days had been more than he could do. So they’d waited. And they’d waited. It had taken Esther Blair six months to die, and with each passing month, Fancy Joslin’s condition had become more and more apparent. Her uncle Frank had been shocked and then incensed, demanding each day for her to name the man who’d wronged her. But giving up Turner’s name would have been the end of them both, so she’d remained silent, suffering Uncle Frank’s condemnation instead.

And then came the fire. After that, she’d been certain that Turner would come and take her away. He’d come, all right, but not as she’d expected. He’d hidden her in this cave, asking her to trust him for a few days. He had some money coming to him from a job he’d just finished and they would need it when they left. Telling him no was impossible, which was most of the reason she was in the shape she was in. So, two months from delivery, she hid. But the days had turned into weeks, and now it was too late.

Weak and aching from the trauma of the birth, Fancy raised up on one elbow, looking at her baby through a blur of angry tears, then fell back onto the makeshift cot, clutching the child against her belly. Damn Jubal Blair. She and Turner should have been in Memphis by now.

The baby’s weak cry stopped her thoughts. She raised herself up again in sudden panic. But the baby had stopped crying and her eyes were fixed upon the dancing shadows of the dwindling fire. Fancy stroked the tiny head and the cap of thick black hair, marveling at the sheer perfection of her and Turner’s love. Her sweet Kentucky drawl broke the silence in the cave.

“You listen to me, baby girl. Your daddy and I are going to get you out of here. I swear on my life that you will not be raised in this hate.”

The baby turned toward the sound of her mother’s voice, as she must have done many times within the womb. Fancy’s heart contracted with a sweet ache she wouldn’t have believed. With shaking hands, she traced the shape of the baby’s face and knew the power of a mother’s love. And, in that moment, she also knew a great shame. She closed her eyes against tears, wondering how she’d come to this—married in secret, hiding in an abandoned cave like some animal, instead of living in a home like normal people.

And therein lay her problem. Normalcy had no place in her life—not as long as she stayed in Camarune.

Something moved beyond the shadow of the firelight. She clutched the baby in fright, staring fearfully into the shadows. Suddenly a small possum waddled past on its way toward the mouth of the cave. She dropped back onto the pillow with a shudder and clasped the baby close to her breasts.

“My God, little girl, what have we done to you?”

Then she rolled the baby more tightly into the blanket and snuggled her close. With a pain-racked sigh, she stretched out upon the cot.

“I need to rest,” she said, more to herself than to the baby. “Daddy will come, and then we’ll get you out of this awful place.”

The dark and absence of sound within the cave where mother and baby lay must have been reminiscent of the womb that the baby had just exited. With hardly more than a squeak, the tiny girl turned toward the steady beat of her mother’s heart and slept.

Turner’s suitcase was under his bed. His money was in his pocket. On a normal day, Jubal Blair wouldn’t have been anywhere close to the house, but for some reason, today had been different. Turner felt less than the man he should have been for not standing up to his father. But he’d been raised too many years under the looming shadow of Jubal’s wrath to break free from it so easily now. To make matters worse, he was worried sick about Fancy. Keeping her hidden in the cave like an animal shamed him. God had decreed that man should protect the woman who was his wife. He should feed her and care for her. Stand by her side in the day and lie by her side in the night. But Turner didn’t just have a wife to consider. There was the feud.

He’d been raised on hate. Hate for anyone with the name Joslin. Only the first time he’d seen Fancy Joslin, he’d fallen in love. As he remembered, she’d been nine years old to his eleven. Even then, they’d known to keep their friendship to themselves. By the time Fancy was sixteen, Turner had known she was the woman for him. But sneaking the occasional meeting in the woods was dangerous. Their love had stayed true, but their meetings had been sporadic. Until Fancy told him about the baby.

Anger at their situation had spurred him to a daring he might never have achieved otherwise. One night, long after midnight had come and gone, they met on the mountain beneath the overhang of Pulpit Rock and pledged their lives and love. After that, leaving was a foregone conclusion.

He shivered with excitement, thinking about their child. By this time next month, they would have a whole new life. He imagined himself bathing her, watching her learn to walk and talk, hearing her laughter, protecting her as he would protect her mother.

A raucous shout startled him, and he quickly moved to the window. It was his brother John. John’s hounds were in the back of the truck. That explained why Jubal had stayed close to the house today. They were going to run the dogs.

He turned, staring nervously at his bed and picturing the packed suitcase hidden beneath, then smoothed sweaty palms down the front of his jeans. Coon hunts were nothing new. Just a part of family tradition in the mountains. And it wasn’t so much the kill that Jubal Blair craved as it was the camaraderie of the event.

Turner’s belly drew tight as he glanced out the window again. Another delay in getting to Fancy. Then a new thought occurred. Maybe he wouldn’t go on the damned hunt. He would make some excuse and when they were gone, he would slip away, get Fancy, and they would be off this mountain before sunup.

But what to tell Jubal Blair was another problem. What could he say that would get him out of the hunt? He saw his father shaking John’s hand and then helping him get the dogs out of the truck bed. The hounds were antsy and swarmed around the men’s legs like blowflies on a dung heap. Turner watched his father turn toward the house and thought to himself that if he lived to be one hundred, he would never be the force his father was. The man radiated power, from the thick shock of gray hair, to his broad, weathered stature.

“Turner, your brother is here!”

Turner winced at the underlying demand in his father’s voice. Jubal still treated him like a boy. Why didn’t his father realize he was a grown man, too? Turner sighed. He’d lived through many nights like the one that was being set up. Before long, his other two brothers, Hank and Charles, would surely arrive. Hank with Old Blue, and Charles with his Little Lou. All three brothers swore their hounds were the best, and each time they were together, it was a battle of whose dog struck trail first, rather than the thrill of a hunt. Turner knew that Jubal liked the underlying discord. It fed the anger that lived in his heart.

“Turner! Damn it, boy, I’m talkin’ to you!” Jubal yelled again.

Turner sighed. He was twenty-one years old. His daddy shouldn’t be talking to him like that anymore. Even as he was thinking it, he caught himself moving quickly through the small frame house as he headed for the door.

“There you are, boy!” Jubal said. “Get these dogs some water.” Then he patted John on the back. “Come on inside, son. I’ve got a little something in the cupboard you might like to taste.”

Turner’s sense of injustice grew. His daddy never offered him a drink of whiskey. As he headed for the well house to get a pan to water the dogs, he kept telling himself that he would never treat a child of his own the way Jubal treated him.

Before he was through, his other two brothers had arrived with their dogs. The congregation of four-legged hunters began baying and howling at each other in what could only be described as a welcome. Turner sighed. Even they had a bond. His brothers smiled at him and waved as they walked on into the house, but they didn’t stop to talk. Turner’s indignation grew. What the hell do they think I am, hired help?

He slammed the pan of water down on the ground, then scooted it toward the dogs with the toe of his boot. His forehead was furrowed, his posture stiff, as he stalked into the house. But his anger soon changed to fear as he overheard the conversation in progress.

“…about the fire.”

Turner froze. The only fire on the mountain had been the one in which Frank Joslin had died.

“Yeah,” Jubal growled. “There ain’t nothing they can prove. The chimney was cracked. The house caught on fire. Case closed.”

One of Turner’s brothers laughed. The sound was harsh and ugly. How could men rejoice in another man’s death? He listened as another round of whiskey was poured into glasses.

“Here’s to the Blairs. Right’s on our side, and it’s over. God is good,” Jubal growled.

Turner listened as the light clink of glasses drifted into the hall where he was standing. His belly clenched. God couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the hate that had entrapped them all.

“Well now, Pa, it ain’t exactly over,” Charles said. “Don’t forget, there’s still a Joslin somewhere on the mountain.”

“Hell, Charles, she’s only a woman. Women don’t count,” Hank added.

Jubal’s words came out of his throat in a growl. “That’s where you’re wrong, boys. Women are the worst. They’re the breeders.”

“I heard tell she ain’t been seen since the cabin burned,” John added. “Maybe she’s gone.”

“And maybe she’s not,” Jubal said. “All I can say is, if I see her…”

The implied threat was left hanging as the men downed the rest of their drinks, while Turner’s fear for Fancy increased. This was worse than he’d imagined. He had to get her out of these mountains tonight. He straightened his shoulders and jutted his chin forward in a manner not unlike that of the old man himself, then strode into the room.

“The dogs are watered.”

Jubal turned and lifted a glass in Turner’s direction. “Help yourself, boy. I reckon you’re way past old enough.”

Turner’s heart twisted. The first time his father had offered him a step into the family circle, and he was going to have to refuse it.

“Not in the mood for drink,” he said shortly. “I’m going down into Camarune shortly. Is there anything you’d be needing?”

Jubal frowned.

“We’re goin’ huntin’, boy!”

“That’s fine by me,” Turner said. “But I got other things to do.”

Jubal’s frown deepened. “Like what?”

Turner’s gut knotted, but he thought of Fancy and stood firm.

“Daddy, I’m twenty-one years old. I don’t suppose I need your permission to go into town.”

John laughed and slapped his little brother on the back.

“He’s right, Daddy. Besides, Turner never did have the stomach for blood.”

Any other time, the jeer would have cut Turner to the quick, but not this evening.

“You’re right, John. I don’t savor killin’ just for the sake of the sport.”

Jubal snorted beneath his breath. He was more than a little surprised by his youngest son’s refusal and didn’t know whether to push the issue or not. But the whiskey was warm in his belly, and his other sons were more than willing to pick up the slack.

“Good enough,” Jubal said, and set down his glass. “It’ll be dark in less than an hour, and I’m hankerin’ to hear Little Lou’s bugle.”

Turner exhaled softly as the men filed out of the house, leaving him alone. He bolted toward his room and dragged his suitcase from under the bed. Now all he had to do was wait until they were gone. He felt better than he had in months.

But time passed, and Turner’s father and brothers had yet to leave. He kept glancing at the clock and then out the window, wondering when they would leave. Nightfall had long since come and gone, and they were still outside, laughing and talking. The dogs were wired, knowing that a hunt was imminent. They kept weaving themselves and their leashes into knots. Turner’s gut was in a knot of its own, thinking of Fancy, alone in that damned cave. Then he took a deep breath, making himself relax. This time tomorrow they would be in Memphis, and she would be safe in his arms and sleeping between clean white sheets.

He looked around his room, conscious of the comfort of his bed and the warmth within the walls. Then he thought of where she was and felt shame. As a man, he should have been able to stand up to Jubal and tell him what was in his heart, but his fear for them both kept him silent.

He paced within the room, growing more anxious by the minute, until, suddenly, the sounds outside began to fade. He ran to the window. The bobbing lights of the lanterns and flashlights the men were carrying were disappearing in the trees.

With a great sigh of relief, he grabbed his suitcase and a flashlight, started out the door, then stopped. He couldn’t just up and disappear without telling his father something. Knowing Jubal Blair, he would take it in his head to come and find him unless he gave him a reason not to. He needed to leave Jubal a note.

Turner kept it brief. No need volunteering any information that his father didn’t need to know—just that he was leaving to work in Memphis and he would be in touch. He propped the note in the center of the kitchen table between the salt and pepper shakers and then paused on his way out the door, giving the old house one last look.

He’d been born here, and except for a very few times, had spent every night of his life under this roof. But it hadn’t been a home for more years than he could count, especially after his mother had died. He glanced toward the fireplace to the picture of his mother on the mantel. He remembered vividly the day 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 in the whole of this mountain had ever gone missing, so if the witch was making sacrifices, it was more likely animal than human.

The hounds bugled again. She shuddered. Her decision was made. She darted back inside the cave, returning moments later with the baby wrapped warm against the night, and started up the mountain toward the shadow of Pulpit Rock.

She was wearing her last clean dress, an old blue denim, and had pulled a shawl around her shoulders, wrapping herself and the baby within. Despite her pain and weakness, she would rather face a witch than the likes of Jubal Blair.

She moved through the trees like a small blue ghost, her movements stiff and awkward. The pain in her belly and the one between her legs was great, but they were nothing compared to her fear. Tree limbs grabbed at her hair and clothing, but she continued constantly upward. Brush often caught in her clothing, leaving tiny tears in the fabric and stinging scratches on her face. The baby was starting to squirm. Fancy knew she must be hungry. But there was no time to stop.

A short while later, the hounds set up a terrible howl. It was then she knew they’d found the cave. If it was only hunters, they would be curious, but little else. But if it was Jubal…

Unwilling to contemplate the consequences, she increased her pace, but it was taking a toll. The muscles in her body began to spasm, and each step she took was more torturous than the last. Just when she thought things couldn’t get worse, something popped inside her belly. She paused, gasping for breath, then moaned as something warm began running down the insides of her legs.

In a panic, she tried to get a fix on her location. To her relief, the silhouette of Pulpit Rock was just ahead, jutting out over the landscape like the point of an anvil. It wasn’t much farther. Fancy gritted her teeth and kept walking, but the pain and weakness were winning. Her head was beginning to swim, and there was a constant buzzing in her ears. Faintly she could hear the baby starting to cry, and she wanted to cry with her, but sound carried on the mountain. After the blood in the cave, the dogs would be crazy. Even if the hunters were innocent in their pursuit, they would be too far behind their own dogs to stop the carnage she knew would ensue.

A long, loud bugle from one of the dogs suddenly sounded in the night. Fancy groaned. She knew, as well as she knew her own name, what that meant. The hounds had struck trail. They were on the move again. And they were coming after her.

“God help me,” she whispered, and started to run.