Читать книгу Stagestruck - Shelley Peterson - Страница 11

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THE RETURN OF SAMUEL OWENS

HILARY JAMES CONTINUED TO STARE out the kitchen window at the rain. Her reflection stared back. Tall with shoulder-length, light brown hair streaked with blond, Mousie had grown into an attractive, intelligent woman of twenty-two. The show-jumping passion that had taken her and Dancer to the top of that world had been replaced by a love of ancient civilizations, a love that she shared with Sandy Casey, her fiancé. The two planned to join an archeological dig for a year in Belize, and they were practising their Spanish in anticipation.

She was thinking about Abby Malone, the girl she’d first met two years earlier. Abby had been riding bareback, chasing hunting dogs away from her beloved Cody. Such spunk, Hilary thought. She remembered the day of the steeplechase, when Abby competed against some tough riders on her little quarter-horse mare. Mousie admired the younger girl’s uncanny ability with horses; but more than that, she liked her spirit.

Now, Abby was somewhere out there with two horses and her coyote. Mousie thought over the options. The first, and most sensible, would be to wait and hope that they got back okay. And likely they would. Plus, as her mother said, where would she begin to look? They could be anywhere. Should she risk herself and Dancer getting struck by lightning, or mired in mud?

The other option was to saddle up Dancer and go. Doing something, however rash, was easier than standing idle. At least if something awful happened, she could tell herself that she had tried.

Hilary pulled on her rubber riding boots and zipped up her waxed canvas slicker. Pepper hopped around in excitement, thrilled at the prospect of an adventure. “No, Pepper. You stay.” Immediately, the little dog’s ears dropped and she slunk away to her tiny basket in the corner of the kitchen. Hilary threw on her hard hat and hollered, “I’m going to look for Abby, Mom. See you later.”

“Mousie? Did you say something?” Christine’s voice floated up from the basement, where the laundry was in full gear.

Hilary walked to the top of the basement stairs. “I’ll be back soon. I’m going to find Abby.”

“You’re crazy!” The pounding of feet sounded on the stairs. “Where are you going to look? It’s dangerous to be out there on a horse with the lightning!” Christine anxiously wiped her soapy hands on her jeans.

“I can’t just sit and wait. I’ll be careful.”

“How can you be careful of where lightning strikes?”

“Mom, what are the chances? Abby might have a broken leg or something.”

Christine could see that her daughter would not be deterred. “Then don’t take Dancer, he hasn’t been ridden in ages. He’ll be too fresh. Take Henry, he’ll be much calmer in this storm.”

“Mom, I’ve got the cell phone.” Hilary patted her pocket. “I’m taking Dancer. He’ll follow anyway if I take Henry, and then I’ll have two horses to worry about, like Abby.” She put on her riding gloves, turned to the door, and headed out to the barn.

The wind was powerful, and the rain felt like needles prickling her face. If her mother hadn’t been standing at the window worrying, Hilary might have been tempted to turn back.

Dancer stood in the barn out of the rain. His coat was totally dry. Dancer’s barnmate, Henry, was lying down in his stall. A solid bay gelding of Clydesdale and thoroughbred origins, Henry was dreaming happy horse dreams, ears twitching and lower lip flapping. He looked comical, like a talking horse.

Hilary carried her newly cleaned saddle and bridle from the tack room and placed them on the rack in the aisle. “Dancer, don’t look at me like that. I know it’s bad out there, but we’re going to look for Abby and Moonie, your girlfriend, remember her? And your daughter, Moon Dancer.” She laughed at herself, talking to Dancer like he was a person. She’d always done that. Somehow, he’d always seemed more like a person to her than a horse.

With Dancer tacked up and ready to go, Hilary walked into the pelting rain. Dancer tucked his tail between his legs and hunched his back when the strong wind surprised him, but he stood quietly at the mounting block as Hilary hopped on. She put her feet in the stirrups and tightened the girth.

It was good to be up on his back again. It seemed like she’d been there all along, like she’d never gone off to university. She felt his power and his strong personality through the saddle, just like the old days.

Lightning flashed diagonally across the sky and thunder boomed and crashed. Dancer spooked sideways and started to prance.

“Let’s try the woods behind the Caseys’ and travel along the ridge above Saddle Creek. Come on, Dancer, don’t wimp out on me now.”

Fiona Malone paced the kitchen, trying hard not to pour a drink. A small drink to calm her nerves, just a sip. Nobody would know. Couldn’t she be excused, with the worry of Abby out in the storm? The radio was playing “Rubber Ducky” in an effort to make a joke out of the severity of the weather. Fiona took a glass out of the cupboard and threw in some ice cubes. Her husband, Liam, thought he had gotten rid of all the liquor in the house, but Fiona always had something hidden away, just in case. When she’d bought the bottle of gin, she convinced herself that it was only to test her willpower.

The song ended and the news came on. World news about suffering and war and hunger. Fiona knelt under the sink and felt for the bottle amid the cleaning supplies. Her fingers clutched it, and she pulled it out. Local news about the firemen’s strike and the fundraiser for the animal shelter. She cut open the seal around the mouth of the bottle. An interruption for a news bulletin about wealthy businessman Samuel Owens being released from the mental hospital after being judged sane.

Fiona stared at the bottle. The glass was ready for the clear, numbing liquid. Samuel Owens? Released? The man who tried to kill Dancer? Fiona wondered if Hilary knew. She should be warned.

Quickly, Fiona found the number and dialed. It was answered on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Christine? It’s Fiona Malone.”

“Fiona, how are you? I’m already collecting things for the big garage sale at Someday Farm.”

“I’m not calling to harass you about that, Christine,” said Fiona, smiling briefly. “Yet.”

“Has Abby gotten home?”

“No, not yet. I’m hoping to see her any minute. I’m calling because there’s something on the news. I don’t know if you’ve heard. Samuel Owens has been released from the mental hospital.”

Christine took a deep breath. “When?”

“I don’t know. It was on the radio a minute ago, and I wasn’t paying close attention until I heard his name.”

“Thank you, Fiona. I’ll turn on my radio and listen for more details.”

“I’m sorry to call with such bad news. It’ll be better next time. I promised Hilary that I’d let her know the minute Abby gets home.”

“Well, she went out on Dancer, looking for her.”

“She didn’t!”

“Oh yes, she did. There wasn’t anything I could say to stop her.”

“My God! It’s horrible out there.”

“I know, Fiona, but she’s got the cell phone. If she reports back, I’ll let you know, and if she’s gone too long, we can always call her.”

“Thanks so much.”

“Why don’t you come over and wait here with me?”

Fiona looked at the gin. “Thanks, but I want to be here when Abby gets home.”

“Of course.”

“If she gets home before Hilary calls on her cell, I’ll call you.”

“Good plan.”

Fiona hung up the phone and continued to stare at the gin. Finally she rose from her chair. She untwisted the cap and carried the bottle over to the counter, where the glass of ice stood ready. With a shaking hand she began to pour. As she lifted the glass to her lips, she was suddenly overpowered by self-loathing. What was she doing to herself? And to her family, who had been so supportive of her rehabilitation? Fiona threw the glass into the sink as if it was too hot to hold, smashing it into fragments. She dumped the entire bottle of gin after it, listening to the chugging sound with satisfaction as it emptied.

“Fiona, girl.”

Fiona swung around, startled.

“Well done, my darling. I couldn’t be prouder.” Liam Malone stood at the kitchen door, dripping water onto the mat. His face was tender, and his eyes were moist with tears. Fiona flew across the room into his open arms, ignoring the soaking wet jacket as she clung tightly to him.

Samuel Owens sat at his large mahogany desk and looked out of the big picture window over his hundred acres of rolling land. It was good to be home.

Gazing through the rain-spattered glass, he admired the sweep of the land as it melted into the woods that abutted the Casey property, which gently rose to the horizon. Even in this ghastly weather, the view was majestic.

It was so good to be home. Owens’ hands greedily rubbed the rich leather arms of his favourite chair. He tilted it back and stretched out his legs, resting his slipper-clad feet on the desk.

Just this morning, upon his release, the director of Penetang had subtly inferred that he was one hundred percent sane. As if he had ever been insane. Owens’ large, handsome face creased into a foxy smile. The silly doctor had basically apologized for the inconvenience of his incarceration. He didn’t exactly say it, but Owens could read between the lines. His antennae were always up, and he knew that the doctor’s stern warning to take his pills faithfully was merely rote. He couldn’t really expect a sane man to take mood-altering drugs. The lithium dulled his senses. It reduced his pleasure. Even his taste buds didn’t function in the same way.

Owens had patiently served his time, but now it was over. Things could get back to normal.

Lightning lit up the sky, and for a brief second, the lane through the lower woods was visible. Owens gasped. In that blink of an eye, he imagined that he saw Dancer and Mousie James, riding down the lane through the woods, from the direction of the Caseys’. Just like they’d ridden many times before.

Owens blinked. His forehead beaded with sweat and his pulse raced. He could almost feel his blood pressure rise. He dropped his feet to the floor and peered out the window, squinting. He grabbed his binoculars off the hook and focused them on the lane. No sign of horse or rider. He breathed deeply, calming himself. It had been a long, tiring day.

He turned the binoculars to Wick Farm, and then toward the Casey property. This is what he’d thought about again and again at the hospital. He would own all the land he could see from any window in his house. He would purchase total privacy. It was essential to his happiness. This was his goal, and he was going to achieve it. He’d thought a lot on how to proceed.

He would give the beautiful divorcée, Helena Casey, a call. In the next few days, he’d drive over for a little visit.

He rang the silver bell for his manservant. It was time for a Chivas, his first in five long years. Owens dangled his arm over the wastebasket and deliberately dropped the full bottle of lithium. It landed in the empty brass container with a satisfying clunk.

Hilary and Dancer were thoroughly soaked, but not cold. They were moving quickly. They’d run along the road and cut cross-country toward the trail. When they got to the point where the paths crossed, they headed south. First they checked the fields north of the Caseys’ where her stepfather, Rory, had pastured his prize Herefords. The fields were empty now. Rory had sold the beef cows after his divorce from Helena.

They had galloped past the Casey mansion, where Helena continued to live. The lights were on in the sitting room, but the rest of the house was dark. Hilary imagined Helena sitting elegantly in the pink Queen Anne chair, wearing a tastefully expensive couturier ensemble. She’d be sipping her drink and clinking her ice cubes as she harboured resentments toward Hilary for being engaged to her son, and toward Christine James for marrying her ex-husband.

Hilary had never understood how such a cold mother could produce a son as warm and understanding as Sandy. And Rosalyn, Sandy’s sister, was growing into an engaging young woman. She was fourteen now, and when Mousie had seen her last Christmas, she could hardly believe how the chubby, insecure little girl had changed into a confident, bubbly teenager.

On they ran, through the fields behind the mansion and into Samuel Owens’ woods. Hilary noted the exact spot where Dancer had been stabbed. The memory was fresh, even five years later. Suddenly a surge of raw fear shot through her body. She felt that someone was watching her. Her eyes darted toward Owens’ house at the top of the hill. The lights were on, and she detected a slight movement in the large window.

Was Owens home? Not possible, she thought. He’d be locked up for years to come. It was likely a servant. A flash of lightning lit up the woods, momentarily blinding her. The following thunder rattled the trees, scaring Dancer and sending him lunging forward. “Okay, Dancer. Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

They sped through the woods and over the fields, up the rise and past the craggy bluffs with the river below. Hilary slowed Dancer as they started into the woods, trotting him through the trees as trunks groaned and branches bent and swayed with the storm.

“A forest isn’t always the safest place in a storm, but neither are the open fields,” Hilary said aloud to Dancer. She was trying to keep them both calm by talking. “A branch can break off and kill you in the woods, and lightning can strike when you’re the tallest thing around. Right-y-o. I think I’ll shut up before I scare myself to death.”

Once out of the woods and onto the Wick Farm fields, the ground became treacherous with mud. Hilary slowed Dancer to a trot, and looked around for signs of Abby. The rain continued to pour down, obscuring any possibility of tracks.

“I wonder what we thought we’d accomplish, Dancer,” said Hilary to the steaming stallion. “We might as well go back and count ourselves lucky to get home safely.”

Dancer stopped dead. His ears pricked up and his head raised sharply and swung to the right. Hilary felt tension travel throughout his body.

“Steady, boy.” Dancer spun to the right and stopped again. Abruptly he whinnied loudly and deeply. He listened. A far-off echoing whinny caught Mousie by surprise.

It came from the old Wick barn. Hilary knew that no animals had been there for years. She heard another whinny, followed by a higher-pitched call. There was definitely more than one horse over there.

Excited, Hilary strained her eyes, trying to see what Dancer saw across the dark field. Ears alert, Dancer trotted hard through the thick muck toward the abandoned barn, heading directly to the nearby shed.

Hilary could now make out the heads of two horses looking over the Dutch door. The one on the left was definitely Moon Dancer, with her looks so strikingly like Dancer’s. And that was Moonlight Sonata, for sure, with her fine, dark head and beautiful, dreamy eyes.

“Good work, Dancer!” She praised him as she slid to the slippery ground. “Bloodhounds have nothing on you.” Hilary led Dancer through the gate up to the Dutch doors. The horses sniffed and blew their introductions.

“Abby?” called Hilary loudly. No answer. She could see that the horses were dry and untacked. A saddle and a bridle were neatly propped up and a saddle pad was hung to dry. A riding cap and windbreaker confirmed that Abby had arrived with the horses, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Hilary walked Dancer into the shed, out of the pelting rain and raging wind. At the rear were two narrow stalls where horses could stand. She backed Dancer into one and closed him in securely. He could watch the action but be separate from the mares. She didn’t want any trouble while she searched for Abby.

Hilary looked outside through the rain, wondering where to begin. A light was on in the barn. She hadn’t seen it when she arrived. As she looked more closely, she saw why. Black-out drapes covered all the windows except the one beside the door.