Книга - The Return

The Return
Dinah McCall


As a legacy of hatred erupts in a shattering moment of violence, a dying mother entrusts her newborn daughter to a caring stranger…. Now, twenty-five years later, Katherine Fane has come home to Camarune, Kentucky, to bury the woman who raised her, bringing a blood feud to its searing conclusion.At the cabin in the woods where she was born, Katherine is drawn to the ravaged town and its violent past. But her arrival has not gone unnoticed. A stranger is watching from the woods, a shattered old man is witnessing the impossible, and Sheriff Luke DePriest's only thoughts are to keep Katherine safe from the sleeping past she has unwittingly awoken….









Praise for the novels of

SHARON SALA


“Sala’s characters are vivid and engaging.”

—Publishers Weekly on Cut Throat

“Sala’s latest romantic thriller is a well-written, fast-paced ride.”

—Publishers Weekly on Nine Lives

“Ms. Sala draws you in from the very beginning.”

— Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Butterfly

“Veteran romance writer Sala lives up to her reputation with this well-crafted thriller.”

—Publishers Weekly on Remember Me

“Perfect entertainment for those looking for a suspense novel with emotional intensity.”

—Publishers Weekly on Out of the Dark

“This is Sharon Sala at top form. You’re going to love this touching and memorable book.”

—Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author, on Whippoorwill




The Return

Sharon Sala





www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)




Home is supposed to be a place of comfort, and of safety—and of peace. But for some, that’s not always the case. Home is sometimes a place that you need to escape.

Home is the place that builds our character and the place that tears it down. And sometimes, even in leaving, you will be drawn to it in your dreams.

The yearning that leads us back to our roots is inherent. Because it was the first way of life that we knew, it is the place that shapes our hearts.

The inevitable parting that comes as we each “leave the nest” can be bittersweet or a matter of sanity. Torn between the excitement of life on our own and the pain of leaving loved ones behind, we often hurt those we love best.

Regret can cripple your life, leaving you with nothing on which to focus but the past. It’s only when you find the strength to return and face your errors that the healing begins.

This book is dedicated to the brave ones—the ones who aren’t afraid to go home.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue




1


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.




2


T he campfire was small but hearty, the flames eating hungrily into the deadwood that Jubal had piled into a teepee shape before setting it ablaze. Now, minute bits of burning bark drifted up into the air along with a thin spiral of smoke, marking their place in the woods. The forest was fairly dry for this time of year, but the men had been woodsmen too long to be careless. The ground around the campfire was spacious and barren, and added to that, a heavy dew was falling. Hank passed the jug to his brother John just as one of the dogs sent up a howl that echoed throughout the forest.

“That’s Little Lou!” John cried. “She’s struck trail.”

Charles laughed. “So she did,” he said. “Now pass me the jug.”

Jubal grinned. “Easy on the whiskey, boys. You don’t want to be runnin’ into any trees like Hank did last time.”

Hank frowned. “Damn near put my eye out,” he muttered, as his father and brothers laughed, remembering the chaos that had erupted from the accident.

They sat for a while longer, enjoying the heat from the fire and the warmth of whiskey in their bellies. It was Little Lou’s howl, followed by an answering chorus from the other hounds, that changed their perspective.

Jubal stood abruptly. “Sounds promisin’, boys. Let’s go see what we’ve got.”

Hank reached for his gun as John doused their fire. “Maybe it’s a painter, Pa.”

The mountain term for panther was familiar to them all, and, to a man, they shivered as they followed their father’s lead.

The pack was moving upward. Five minutes into the run, the muscles in Jubal’s legs began to burn, but he refused to acknowledge his pain. This would be his last winter to hunt. Age was doing something that his wife never could. It was slowing him down. But he kept on moving, refusing to show weakness in front of the men whom he’d sired. It wasn’t until Hank suddenly stopped that they all realized the howls of the dogs sounded fainter.

“What the hell?” Charles muttered. “Where did they go?”

Jubal stood with his head cocked to one side, trying to identify the familiarity of the sound. Suddenly he knew.

“They’ve gone underground!” he yelled. “Hell’s fire, boys, they must be in a cave.”

“It is a painter,” Hank cried.

Jubal grinned. “Then let’s go kill us a cat.”

They started off at a jog, still following the faint, but distinct, sounds of the pack.

It was John who first saw the opening.

“There!” he shouted, and they turned, holding their lanterns high and their guns at the ready as they moved inside.

The dogs were everywhere, noses to the ground, running over the makeshift bed, digging in a dimly lit corner. The cacophony of their baying and howls was painful to the ear within the confines of the enclosure.

“What the hell?” Jubal muttered, as he held his lantern high. “This ain’t no animal’s lair.”

John shouted, calling down his dogs. Hank and Charles quickly did the same. The noise trickled down to a series of soft whines and yips, but it was enough that the men could make themselves heard.

“Look here, Pa,” Hank said, pointing toward a satchel of clothes. Surprise colored his expression when he pulled out a woman’s dress. “Well, I’ll be danged. Women’s clothes.”

Jubal’s expression darkened as he poked into the jumble of boxes with the barrel of his gun. Then he looked at Old Blue and Little Lou, who were digging frantically in a darkened area of the cave.

“What the hell are those dogs digging at?” he muttered.

John moved toward them, holding his lantern high, then suddenly cursed and took a step back.

“There’s something buried here,” he yelled, pushing the dogs away from the hole.

They all converged on the place, holding their lanterns and flashlights aloft. Charles knelt for a closer look, then turned away suddenly, gagging.

“Shit,” he muttered, as he staggered to his feet. “There’s something bloody in there.”

Jubal shoved them aside for a closer look. His nose twitched, but his belly stayed steady.

“It ain’t nothing but some innards or somethin’,” he said. “Most likely whoever is stayin’ here just buried the guts of some game.”

“That ain’t like no guts I ever saw,” John said. “There’s some bloody clothes here, too,” he said, and lifted them out with the barrel of his gun. “Hell. It’s another dress.” He dropped it back in the hole with a shudder and moved away, poking through a book that was lying on a block of wood that had obviously been used as a table. Moments later, he spun, his face slack with shock. “Pa! Look here.”

Jubal took the book, read the name inscribed and dropped it into the dirt.

“Fancy Joslin.”

Then he spat, as if the name alone had poisoned his tongue.

Hank and Charles cursed, while John remained silent.

“So this is where she got off to,” Jubal muttered.

“Now, Pa. I don’t imagine no woman has been living in here,” John said, trying to add a bit of sanity to the moment.

“Where the hell else would she be living, then?” Jubal asked. “Frank’s house is gone. Burned to the foundation…remember?”

John looked away. The feud was a bone of contention between father and son, and had been for some time now. John was loyal to his blood, but of the opinion that a feud was something that belonged with the old ways, not the twentieth century.

“Well, wherever she went is no concern of ours,” John said. “Come on, let’s go.”

Jubal turned on his son, and in that moment the hate that burned in his heart was focused on John Blair’s face.

“What do you mean, it’s no concern of ours?”

John held his ground. “Just what I said. It’s over, Pa. Let it and her be.”

Before Jubal could answer, Charles interrupted. “Well, I’ll be damned. Look at this.”

They turned. Charles was holding up a baby blanket and a newborn-size gown.

Jubal cursed, then spat again. His voice was shaking as he yanked the items out of Charles’s hand, then threw them in the dirt and ground them beneath the sole of his boot.

“See there?” he yelled, pointing at John. “That’s what happens when you leave them alone. Females are the worst of the lot. Just when you think you’ve gotten rid of a pest, they’ll breed up another batch.”

He grabbed the dress Hank had found and pushed his way past his sons toward the mouth of the cave.

“Come on,” he yelled. “Bring the dogs!”

John blanched. “Pa! What do you think you’re doing?”

Jubal turned, and the smile on his face chilled John’s heart. “I’m goin’ huntin’, boy!”

“No!” John yelled, then looked to his brothers. “Hank! Charles! Tell him!” he begged. “We don’t wage war on women.”

Hank shrugged. Charles shook his head. “Pa’s right,” he said. “It ain’t over till it’s over.” Jubal whistled up the dogs, then thrust the dress into their midst.

“Go get her, boys. Go get her.”

Still antsy from being called off the hunt, the dogs took the scent of the dress and then burst out of the cave into the night like bullets out of a gun, with the hunters right behind them.

John ran, too, with his heart in his throat, hoping that they’d been wrong, that it wasn’t Fancy Joslin after all.



Fancy’s legs were numb. She couldn’t feel anything but the child in her arms and the thunder of her heartbeat slapping against her chest. One step, then another, then another, and suddenly she was on her back in the leaves and looking up at the sky.

“No,” she wailed, and curled onto her side, sheltering the child in her arms in the only way that she could. Her heart was hammering against her eardrums, her breath coming in jerks and gasps. If only Turner could have seen their daughter. He would have been so proud.

Suddenly someone was pulling at her shoulders and whispering in her ear. She screamed faintly, thinking they’d found her already, when she realized it was a woman’s voice she was hearing. She rolled over, then looked up, at first seeing only the silhouette of Pulpit Rock above her. And then she focused and sighed. It would seem that she’d found the witch after all.

The woman’s hair was dark and long, braided into a single plait that hung over her shoulder as she knelt at Fancy’s side. Her hands were gentle, her voice soft as she urged Fancy to her feet.

“Get up, girl, get up.”

“I can’t,” Fancy whispered. “Something broke inside me. I’m bleeding.”

The woman’s hands were swift and sure as she made a quick assessment of Fancy’s wounds. The shadows hid her shock at the pool of blood beneath the girl.

“I can help you,” she whispered. “Just try to stand. My cabin isn’t far.”

But Fancy’s world was already diminishing, and moving even an inch was beyond her.

“Don’t let them get my baby,” Fancy begged, and thrust the child into the witch’s arms.

The woman rocked back on her heels, shocked by the choice the young mother had just made.

“I’ll stay. We’ll fight off the dogs together until the hunters get here,” she said. “I can’t leave you.”

Fancy shook her head. “If it’s Jubal Blair, he’ll kill you, too, just to get to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“My name is Fancy Joslin. Turner Blair is my husband and the baby’s father, only Jubal doesn’t know.”

The woman was shocked. Even in her isolation, she’d known of the families’ feud.

“Surely he wouldn’t…”

Fancy grabbed the witch’s arm. “I’m dying, woman, and please God, you’ve got to grant my last request. Save my child from this hell. Take her away from these mountains and love her as you would your own.” Fancy’s voice faded, then caught on a weak sob. “Her name is Catherine, and when it matters, tell her how much her mother loved her.”

The woman bowed her head as she cradled the now crying baby close to her breasts.

“I just can’t leave you here,” the woman cried. “Don’t ask me to do this.”

With her last bit of strength, Fancy grabbed the woman by the wrist and raised herself up on one elbow to stare directly into her eyes.

“Your name, witch…” Fancy gasped. “What is your name?”

The woman hesitated, then touched the side of Fancy’s face in a comforting gesture.

“My name is Annie Fane.”

“Then go, Annie Fane. If you do nothing else on this earth in your time, for God’s sake, save my child.”

The dogs were closer now, too close. By best estimates, less than a quarter of a mile away and closing fast. Fancy stared into the woman’s face until she was satisfied with what she saw; then she dropped back onto the forest floor.

Suddenly the woman stood. Fancy blinked. One moment she was there. The next she was gone. At that point, Fancy shuddered with relief. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered now. She closed her eyes, giving herself up to the inevitable.



Turner was in tears by the time he reached the cave. From the fading sounds ahead, he guessed he was a good five minutes behind. And from the appearance of the interior, he knew that she’d been found. The place was in a shambles, but what frightened him most was the bloody dress on the floor and the fact that everyone was gone. Had they taken Fancy hostage, or had she, by some miracle, escaped ahead of them? And why the blood? Had they killed her already and were trying to hide the body? And the baby—what about the baby? Fear threatened to swallow him whole, but there was no time to panic. His only option was to follow the pack and pray that he got there in time to stop a tragedy before it happened. He dashed out of the cave, saying a prayer as he went.

He ran with his flashlight in one hand and his rifle in the other, dodging low-hanging limbs and jumping over exposed roots that might cause him to fall. Once he thought he saw a light a few hundred yards ahead and yelled out his father’s name, but no one answered. He kept on moving, running until the stitch in his side had spread to his belly, and his lungs were weak and burning, refusing to admit that his legs felt like rubber and his boots felt as if they were made of lead.

Just when he thought he could go no farther, he got a second wind. Desperately, he increased his speed, ignoring the stinging slaps of tree limbs against his face and body, unaware that his clothes were being ripped into shreds by the tentacles of dry limbs and brush. Nothing mattered except Fancy.

It seemed the sound of the dogs and the run would never end when, up ahead, he saw a trio of lights. It was them! Wanting to yell for them to wait, he found he had no breath left to speak. Spurred on by the fact that they were so near, he flipped the safety off the gun and fired, praying that they would hear the shot and stop.



Fancy jerked, coming back to consciousness as a shot rang out. She moaned and opened her eyes, only to realize she could no longer see the stars—only a spreading darkness that was coming closer and closer to where she lay. In the distance, she could hear the flurry of rustling leaves as the hounds traversed the forest floor. Their barking had turned into bays and howls, but it no longer mattered. The darkness was closer than the hounds. Within it would be shelter and salvation. She welcomed it with her last breath.

She never knew when the hounds burst into the clearing and raced toward Pulpit Rock. What they did to her earthbound body no longer mattered. She was soaring toward the light.



As the sound of Turner’s gunshot was still echoing within the trees, he saw a hesitation in the lights and almost cried with relief. But the relief was short-lived. The growls and yips of snarling dogs struck fear in his heart—it was the sound they made as they fell upon their prey. All he could think was, No, Daddy, no.

Seconds later, he ran into the circle of lights, shouting at Jubal Blair like a man gone mad.

“Where is she?” he screamed. “What have you done with Fancy?”

Taken aback by his behavior and appearance, their hesitation in answering was to become their last mistake.

Turner groaned, then pushed past them, following the sound of the pack. Seconds later, he burst out of the trees into the clearing to find himself below Pulpit Rock—the moonlight casting harsh, ugly shadows onto the carnage below it. In the blue-silver glow, he could see a bit of leg and the fabric of a woman’s dress beneath the pack, and he began to come undone, shooting dogs as he ran.

The silence that came after was as horrifying as the hounds had been. With choking sobs, he dragged the carcass of a dog off of her body, then dropped his gun, frantically gathering her up in his arms.

At first the wounds upon her body didn’t register. He kept stroking her arms and her face, begging her to move, to call out his name. But she was too still—too silent. He laid a hand on her stomach, trying to shake her awake. As he did, it hit him that her belly was almost flat. The baby! My God…the baby!

A new fear shafted through him as he looked around the clearing and saw nothing but dogs. The coppery scent of blood was everywhere, but he wouldn’t give in to the truth. Choking back sobs, he laid his cheek against her face, cradling her close.

“Fancy…honey…it’s me, Turner. Wake up now, sweetheart, I’ve come to take you home.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her head rolled to one side, revealing pale, sightless eyes. He exhaled on a moan. Too late. He’d come too late.

A sense of loss washed over him, so profound that it took the breath from his body. At that moment, he didn’t think his next breath would come. Yet when it did, it was a roar of such grief that the echo of it spilled out in the night, then filtered down into the valley below.

It stopped his brothers in their tracks, but not his father.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Jubal yelled, and yanked Turner roughly to his feet. “Have you gone crazy—comin’ in here and killin’ your brothers’ dogs like some madman?”

For once the ugly accusations in his father’s voice passed through his mind without connecting. He picked up his gun, then pointed it directly into his father’s face. The quiet, noncommittal tone in his voice was deadly deceptive.

“You killed her.”

Jubal hid his shock as he struggled to answer. “We didn’t touch her, but even if we had, she’s just a damn Joslin. What the hell would it matter?”

Turner shifted his aim until the barrel was pointing straight at his father’s belly.

“Fancy was my wife. You set the dogs on my wife.”

His brothers were stunned into silence, but not Jubal. “What the hell did you say?”

Turner took a step forward. Now the barrel of the gun was firmly against his father’s belly.

“Where’s the baby?” he asked, his gaze slowly shifting from Hank, to Charles, to John. “What did you do with my child? Did you feed it to the dogs, too?”

“Jesus Christ,” John whispered, and took a step forward. “We didn’t know, Turner, we didn’t know.”

Turner shifted the barrel of the gun from Jubal to John. His voice was flat, completely devoid of emotion.

“Don’t touch me,” he warned them. “You’re all evil to the core. Now where’s my child?”

Hank was getting scared. They’d crossed a line that not even he could excuse.

“We didn’t know,” he said. “But you can’t blame us…after all, she was a Joslin.”

Turner’s finger twitched as the gun swung sideways. The shock on Hank’s face spread as swiftly as the blood in the middle of his chest. Seconds later, he dropped to the ground without uttering a sound.

Jubal lunged toward Turner. “God almighty!” he roared. “You shot your brother, your own flesh and blood, over a piece of filth.”

Turner fired again, this time at his father. Jubal dropped to the ground, screaming in pain, his kneecap gone.

Within seconds, Charles was taking aim. John held up his hand, begging for the killing to stop, and stepped in front of the bullet meant for Turner.

Turner watched the look of disbelief on John’s face as he fell forward. Instinctively, he caught him, lowering him to the ground as Jubal fired off a round. But Jubal’s bullet hit Charles beneath his right eye. Now he, too, was gone.

Turner rocked back on his heels and stood. His clothes were covered in blood. Fancy’s blood. John’s blood. The smell of death was everywhere. He turned, looking upon the area without registering the sight. He was out of his mind with grief and at the point of turning his gun on himself when it clicked on an empty chamber. He dropped the rifle with a painful grunt.

The pain—the pain.

He wanted it to go away.

Without looking at Fancy, he reached for John’s gun with every intention of using it on himself, when a different sound penetrated the horror in his mind. It was the weak but unmistakable cry of a newborn baby. He spun around, frantically searching the tree line as if he expected the baby to miraculously appear.

“Baby…is that you?”

The sound persisted, faint but clear. His body and his voice were beginning to shake as he took a step forward.

“Don’t cry, baby…. Daddy will find you.”

He dropped the gun and started walking like a man in a trance. He didn’t feel the shot that hit him in the back, but the one that tore through his leg sent him tumbling to the ground. He rolled as he fell, then looked back. Jubal was up on one elbow, with a rifle in his hand.

Turner looked past his father to the woman on the ground. He kept waiting for the pain, but everything felt numb. He looked at Fancy again. It would be so easy to let go.

“Finish the job, old man,” he screamed, shaking his fist in the air.

Hate spilled across Jubal Blair’s face as he raised the rifle, taking shaky aim.

Turner braced himself for the shot that never came.

Instead, the features on Jubal Blair’s face began to melt. The gun fell from his fingers as they curled into a fist. Instead of curses, nothing came from Jubal’s lips except a series of grunts as he fell to the ground with a thump.

Turner dropped backward with a groan. Now pain was spilling through his body with every breath. He turned his head. In the distance, he could see the outline of Fancy’s body.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and closed his eyes, willing himself to die.

Then it came again, the faint but unmistakable cry of a tiny baby, mewling in the night, and he rolled onto his side. Moments later, he began crawling toward the trees—and the sound.

Some time later, a silent figure of a woman slipped out of the woods and knelt beneath the shadow of Pulpit Rock. Her shoulders were shaking, her hands fluttering helplessly. Finally she stood and, with a burst of great strength, lifted Fancy Joslin’s lifeless body into her arms.

Sometime during the night it started to rain. Softly at first, then harder and harder, until the raindrops sounded like bullets against the leaves, splattering upon the bodies of men and dogs alike and washing them clean of blood. Thunder ripped through the heavens, shaking Jubal Blair from the darkness. The raindrops felt like ice against his cheeks, and there were rivulets of water running beneath his body. He tried to scream for help, but nothing came out of his throat. He was alive, but trapped within a body that had already died.

Meanwhile, higher up on the mountain, Annie Fane was frantically packing. She’d buried the young mother beneath a tree in her backyard, then burned her own bloody clothes. It was only a matter of time before the bodies would be found, and she was the only one within hearing distance of the site. Already distrusted by the people of Camarune, she knew someone would be blamed for the deaths. As superstitious as they were, it stood to reason it would be her. So using the light of the moon as a guide, she began to cover her tracks. She planted the bare earth above Fancy’s grave with some of the herbs growing on her porch, then ringed it with a circle of stones. By the time she was through, it was impossible to tell it from her other flower beds.

The baby was crying again, and she hurried into the house, quickly washing her hands, then cuddling it to her chest. Fashioning a diaper from one of her dish towels, she gave the baby a change. The momentary comfort was enough so that after a few minutes of rocking, the baby drifted back to sleep.

Annie gazed longingly at the little cabin that had been her home and salvation, then looked at the baby asleep on her bed. It had been a long time since she’d had a responsibility to anyone other than herself. But she’d made a promise—and Annie Fane was a woman of her word. She ran to a closet and pulled out an old suitcase. It was time to move on.



It was morning before the county sheriff, acting on an anonymous tip, found the bodies beneath Pulpit Rock. Shock reverberated within the community of Camarune as the pastor of the local church raced to Jubal’s home to give young Turner the bad news. But there was no sign of Turner Blair. Only the note that he’d stuck between the salt and pepper shakers telling his father he would be in touch. Another great shock moved through the town when it was discovered that the men had seemingly died at their own hands. Bullets found in the dogs and the bodies matched the guns that they carried. There was an extra gun, but it bore the name of Henry Blair, Jubal’s father, so they assumed that one of the men had been carrying two. It made no sense to the people, and even less to the sheriff, but Jubal wasn’t in any shape to explain. It was also common knowledge that when the sheriff had gone up the mountain to question the witch, he’d found nothing but an abandoned cabin.

Days later, as his sons were laid to rest, Jubal Blair lay motionless in a hospital bed in a nearby town, suffering from the gunshot wound to his leg, as well as the stroke that had struck him dumb. The town grieved, and then grief moved on, leaving only the brothers’ families to suffer the loss. Soon they, too, moved on, unwilling to stay in a place with such memories.

There were those who claimed that the witch had put a curse on the Blairs and that they’d killed each other while under her spell. Then days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, then to years. Only now and then would someone mention the mystery at Pulpit Rock, and when they did, they would follow it with a prayer.

It was part of their past, and that was exactly where they wanted it to stay. And stay it did—until Annie Fane returned.




3


Camarune, Kentucky, present day

N ellie Cauthorn, the preacher’s wife at the Church of the Firstborn, had been saying all day that things didn’t feel right. She’d told Preacher so during breakfast. Then she went to the store to tell her best friend, Lovie Cleese, who owned Camarune’s only grocery. Lovie had heard Nellie’s predictions before and never put much stock in them. But in the midst of cleaning out the produce section, she heard a commotion out in the street, then heard Nellie screeching.

Lovie darted toward the front of the store to see what was wrong. When she got to the window, her heart skipped a beat. A long black hearse from the Lexington Funeral Home had just run over a dog. The dog was past help, and from the looks of the casket just visible inside the hearse, so was the person residing inside.

To Lovie’s dismay, at the sight of the dead dog, Nellie fell to the floor in a faint. By the time Lovie had revived her friend, the dog’s carcass had been removed from the street and the driver of the hearse was reimbursing the owner for the loss of his pet.

Nellie was mumbling something about premonitions and wiping her face with the cloth Lovie pressed in her hand when another vehicle pulled up behind the hearse. The woman getting out of the dusty black Jeep was a stranger. Lovie judged her to be in her mid-twenties, and from the cut of her clothes, probably a city dweller, a bit above average height, and erring on the side of slender. But it was the blue-black hair brushing the tops of her shoulders that made Lovie take a step forward for a closer look. She squinted through the streaks in the windows, absently thinking they needed a wash, and kept staring.

Who was she? She looked so familiar. But the thought wouldn’t connect.

If only she’d turn her head a little bit to the…

The woman turned, and for the first time, Lovie got a good look at her face.

“Have mercy,” Lovie muttered. “Who is she?”

“What? What is it now?” Nellie cried, gawking around Lovie’s shoulder toward the street.

“That woman,” Lovie said.

“What about her?”

Lovie inhaled sharply. “She looks familiar.”

“Looks like who?” Nellie urged, her curiosity piqued.

“I don’t know…probably no one,” Lovie muttered. “I guess I was mistaken.”

“She’s coming inside!” Nellie said.

Lovie turned.

The bell over the door jangled. The woman was standing in the doorway with a hesitant look upon her face. Her jeans were clean but travel-worn, as were her shirt and jacket.

“Can I help you?” Lovie snapped.

Nellie stared at Lovie as if she’d just lost her mind. Never in her life had she heard Lovie use that tone of voice with a customer.

The young woman tugged at the lapels of her jacket, then took a couple of steps farther, letting the door close behind her.

“I need to hire someone with a truck.”

When Lovie remained silent, Nellie felt it her duty as the pastor’s wife to answer the stranger’s request.

“Maynard Phillips down at the service station has a—”

“Maynard’s probably busy,” Lovie snapped, interrupting Nellie before she could finish.

The young woman’s gaze centered on Lovie’s face, silently acknowledging her rudeness, but she stood her ground.

“Maybe there’s someone else?” she asked.

Lovie shuddered. The way the stranger pursed her lips before speaking seemed familiar, although she knew good and well she’d never seen the woman before.

“Doubt it,” Lovie said. “People are pretty busy around here.”

The woman’s chin jutted mutinously, and for the first time since she’d entered the store, her voice took on an edge.

“Does that come naturally, or do you have to work at it?” she asked.

Lovie frowned. “Work at what?”

“Being rude.”

Nellie gasped. She hated confrontation. Her hands fluttered around her chest like butterflies caught in a cage as she gave Lovie a nervous glance before speaking.

“I’m sure Lovie didn’t mean to be—”

“Is there anything else you’d be needing?” Lovie snapped.

This time, even Nellie was shocked at Lovie’s rudeness. “Lovie! What on earth is wrong with you?”

Lovie didn’t answer. But it wasn’t because she wouldn’t. Truth be told, she didn’t know what was wrong. But every time she looked at that woman’s face, she got a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. And Lovie Cleese hadn’t lived to be seventy-five without paying attention to her instincts.

“Never mind,” the woman said. “I’ll be asking elsewhere. Surely there’s someone in this town who’s interested in making some extra money.”

Nellie took a step forward. A pastor’s pay was far from generous. Maybe Preacher could borrow a truck.

“What was it you were needing hauled?” she asked, ignoring Lovie’s indrawn hiss of disapproval.

The young woman pointed over her shoulder. “My grannie’s casket.”

Nellie’s eyes widened in sympathy. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

All the stiffness of the young woman’s demeanor deflated as her voice softened.

“Thank you,” she said.

Nellie felt better. Condolences were part of her job as a pastor’s wife. She was on firm ground again, but curious. “The hearse is already here. Why can’t the driver take the casket to the cemetery for burial? It’s just at the edge of town.”

The woman’s eyes disappeared behind a sudden pool of tears. Nellie sighed. Had it not been for Lovie, she would have put her arms around the girl and held her close.

“Because Grannie wanted to be buried behind her old home,” the woman said. “I’ve already seen to the grave being dug, but I’ve been told that a hearse won’t be able to traverse the road up the mountain.”

“That’s certainly true,” Nellie said, and then added, “exactly where are you headed?”

The woman began digging through her jacket pockets. “Somewhere up the mountain above a place called Pulpit Rock. I’m sure I have the directions right here.” But when she couldn’t find them, she shrugged. “They’re probably in my car.”

To Nellie’s disbelief, Lovie Cleese actually cursed. Fearing another confrontation, Nellie felt obligated to point out what she felt sure was a misdirection.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Nellie said. “I fear you’ve been misled. There’s nothing up there but the old witch’s cabin.”

The woman jerked as if she’d been slapped. “I didn’t believe her,” she muttered, more to herself than to the two women, then she turned sharply and started toward the door, and as she did, something in the way she moved sent another shudder up Lovie Cleese’s spine. In spite of her fear, curiosity won.

“Wait!”

The woman paused, then turned.

“What’s your name, girl?” Lovie asked.

The woman’s chin tilted, and in that moment, both Nellie and Lovie felt the fire of her glare.

“Catherine Fane.”

Lovie paled. “Even in death,” she muttered cryptically, then sank into a nearby chair.

Nellie gasped. “The witch’s kin!”

Catherine was so angry she was shaking. “You people are a bunch of superstitious fools. If you’d known Annie Fane, you wouldn’t be accusing her of such a thing.” Then she pointed straight at Lovie’s face. “And with or without your help, Annie Fane’s last wishes are going to be fulfilled.”

The door slammed behind her, leaving the two women alone.

“We’re doomed,” Nellie muttered. “The witch has come back to Camarune.”

“Just shut up,” Lovie said. “The woman’s dead.”

“And so is Henry’s dog,” Nellie said. “God only knows who’ll be next. I told you something wasn’t right today. I told you, didn’t I?” she said.

Lovie had more things on her mind than Nellie’s predilection for prophecies. But Nellie wasn’t about to be silenced. Not when she’d just been proven right.

“Yessiree, I knew something bad was going to happen today.”

As if the last few minutes had not been enough to prove her right, a loud crack of thunder rattled the grocery store windows, and then it started to rain.



After a few brief words to the driver of the hearse, Catherine slid behind the wheel of her car and then sat, trying to regain her composure. The last few days had been nothing short of hell. Facing her grandmother’s death had been inevitable. The cancer had been eating at her body for over a year. But the deathbed confession of the woman she loved had destroyed what was left of her world.

She closed her eyes, picturing her grandmother’s face and then remembering the words that had shattered her soul.

She was no relation to Annie Fane. After that, she’d absorbed only bits and pieces of what Annie had been trying to say.

Feuding families.

Forbidden love.

Lies.

Murder.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. Alone. She was so alone. Her past was a lie. No, she thought, not everything she’d been told was a lie. Her parents were dead, after all, just not in the romantic fashion she’d been led to believe. So they hadn’t died in a train crash in each other’s arms. So in reality her grandfather had caused her mother’s death, as well as his own son’s. The urge to scream was overwhelming. Dear God, if all that was true, then what did that make her? What sort of monster’s blood ran through her veins?

A loud crack of thunder made her jump. Seconds later, the heavens opened, diluting her view of the store and the two women staring at her from behind the dusty windows. Well, she thought, wryly, at least one side of the glass was about to come clean.

She started the car, then turned on the windshield wipers before pulling away from the curb. The intensity of her anger was making her sick to her stomach. She needed to cry, but she was afraid if she started, all she would do was throw up. And, she reminded herself, she wasn’t taking the word of anybody who dared to call her grannie a witch. Maybe the man named Maynard would help her, after all.

She found the place easily and parked, noting several large pickup trucks parked about the station. Surely one of these men would be willing to earn a little extra money. Without giving herself time to think, she got out on the run, dashing through the rain to the door.



Luke DePriest was downing the last of his Coke when the door to Maynard’s Gas and Guzzle suddenly flew open and a young woman rushed in. He had a brief glimpse of her face—enough to know she was a stranger—and then she was past him, heading toward the counter and the other three men lounging there. He set the empty Coke can on the windowsill and waited, curious as to her intent.

“I need to hire someone with a truck to carry something up the mountain for me,” she said.

Luke watched all three men come to attention. Extra money was hard to come by in these parts. He took a step closer, curiosity overcoming manners.

Maynard Phillips figured since this was his store, it was his right to get first dibs. He braced himself against the counter and offered her a grin.

“Well now, Missy, I’ve got the newest and best truck in these parts. I reckon I can help you out. Exactly what is it you’re needing hauled?”

The woman’s answer startled everyone, including Luke.

“A casket,” she said. “I’m taking my grandmother’s body up the mountain to her home place to be buried, and the hearse can’t make the trip.”

The smile on Maynard’s face slipped a bit, but Luke had to give him credit for maintaining it.

“I can’t say as how I’ve ever hauled me a dead body before,” Maynard said, then peered out the window, his eyes widening as he saw the long black hearse parked down the street. “However, I don’t suppose it’d do no harm.”

Luke saw her shoulders sag with relief.

“That’s wonderful,” she said softly. “I’ll go tell the driver.”

As she started to turn, Luke caught a glimpse of her profile. Raindrops clung to the tips of her eyelashes, shimmering like tears, and her lower lip was on the verge of quivering, too. She looked as if she was running on guts alone, and he wondered how far she’d traveled to get to Camarune.

“Say, Missy,” Maynard called. “I reckon I should ask exactly how far up the mountain you’re needing to go? The roads get slick pretty fast in a rain.”

She paused, and Luke saw her worry her lower lip before answering.

“About a quarter of a mile above a place called Pulpit Rock.”

Maynard frowned. “I think you’ve got your directions confused. There ain’t nothing up there.”

Then one of the other men interrupted. “Just the old witch’s cabin.”

The woman’s posture stiffened, and Luke could tell by the tone of her voice she’d been offended by what they’d said.

“I’m offering one hundred dollars to drive less than four miles. Are you going to help me?”

“Are you saying that’s where you’re going?” Maynard asked.

“Yes.”

Maynard’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall your mention of the deceased’s name.”

This time there was no mistaking the tension in the woman’s shoulders.

“My grandmother, Annie Fane.”

Luke winced. He hadn’t grown up here, but he knew the name, and he knew damned good and well that none of these men would go up that mountain with Annie Fane’s body in the back of their truck.

Maynard took off his cap and swiped a hand through his hair, then jammed it back on his head.

“I’m sorry, Missy, but I can’t help you after all.”

When the young woman’s chin began to quiver, Luke sighed. Damn. He never could stand to see a woman cry.

“I have to get my grandmother’s casket up the mountain to be buried. Are you saying you don’t want the job?”

“Yes, ma’am, I reckon I am,” Maynard said.

Before she could ask any of the other men present, they bolted out the door to their trucks and drove away.

Luke was torn between sympathy for the woman and understanding for the men. Superstition was as much a part of these people as the air they breathed. Although he didn’t believe in such gossip, he’d heard plenty of stories about the witch, and the curse she’d put on Jubal Blair and his sons. He watched the woman, wondering what she would do next.

“Is there anyone in this place you could recommend to me?” she asked.

At that point Luke knew she wasn’t going to quit. A part of him admired her persistence, while the rest of him worried what kind of hornet’s nest she was bound to stir up. With the rash of thievery that had been going on in the mountains above Camarune, he already had more trouble than he cared to cope with, but he had always been a sucker for a woman in need.

“Hey, Maynard, can I borrow your truck for about an hour?”

Maynard looked startled, but not as much as the woman, who pivoted suddenly, unaware there had been another man at the back of the room.

“Well, sure, I reckon so,” Maynard said, and started digging out his keys. “But Pete will be through changing the oil in your Blazer pretty soon.”

“Yeah, I know,” Luke said softly, staring intently at the fear on the young woman’s face. “But the patrol car isn’t long enough to hold a casket.”

Maynard cursed beneath his breath as he handed Luke the keys.

“You wash it out before you bring it back,” he muttered. “I don’t want no death marks on it.”

Luke pointed out the window. “You haven’t washed it since the day you bought it. Thanks to the rain, I can guarantee it’ll come back cleaner than when we started.” Then he tipped his Stetson to the woman. “Ma’am, my name is Luke DePriest, sheriff of Taney County. I’ll be glad to help you.”

He felt her relief as her expression softened. “I’ll pay you after we’re there.”

“No charge, ma’am. Consider it part of my job.”

“My name is Catherine Fane,” she said quietly, then took a shuddering breath. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“No need, and I’m sorry for your loss.” Then he put his hand under her elbow and guided her out the door. Within minutes, the transfer had been made from hearse to truck.

“I’ll follow you,” Catherine said, and started to get in her car.

“I’m not sure you’ll be able to drive all the way up,” Luke warned.

“I’ll take it as far as it will go,” she said. “I’ll need a way to get off the mountain when I’m done.”

For the first time since he’d made the offer, Luke wondered how he would get the casket out of the truck. It had been fairly simple to get it from the hearse to the truck bed. He’d just backed the truck up the open door of the hearse and slid it from one to the other, but there was no way he and this slender young woman could lift it out on their own.

“We’re going to need some help unloading,” he said. “And there’s the grave. What about digging the grave?”

Her gaze was steady, her voice confident. “Help will be waiting.”

His eyes rounded. “Are you sure you know what—”

“Just get me and my grannie there and leave the rest up to me.”

He shook his head at the foolhardiness of it all, gave his cargo one last check to make sure it was safely in place, then crawled into the cab of Maynard’s truck. Moments later, he was on the way out of town with the woman not far behind.

As they passed by the city limit sign, the rain began to lessen, and by the time they were out of sight of Camarune, it had stopped.

The relief Catherine felt was overwhelming, but she was starting to shake. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, and sleep had been scarce this past week. But she’d made her grannie a promise, and she wasn’t about to quit on her now. She’d come this far. She could hold out a little while longer.

And there was another thing—something that had happened to her when she’d seen the man’s face. It had been a true but quiet knowing that he would matter.



“Grannie, do you believe in love at first sight?”

Annie tried not to laugh. It was a pretty serious question from a girl who’d just turned ten.

“Well, now, I suppose that I do,” she said.

Catherine giggled. “Did you know you were in love with Grandpa Billy when you saw him?”

“Lord, no, girl,” Annie said. “But you have to remember that I knew Billy Fane all my life. You don’t fall in love with a boy who puts frogs down your shirt. That comes after he becomes a man.”



Lord, where had that come from? Catherine thought, and then caught herself staring at the breadth of the sheriff’s shoulders in the truck in front of her. Nerves tightened, knotting her belly and bringing tears to her eyes. Oh, Grannie, she thought. I would like to believe in such things as destiny, but I don’t think I do.

It was only after they drove out of town and started up the mountain that she began to take note of her surroundings. The trees over the road were tall and dense, often forming heavy canopies that prevented both rain and sun from getting through. The bare ground that was the road was heavily rutted and in places quite rocky, making her thankful for the durability of her Jeep. The pain between her shoulder blades was moving toward her neck. She took a deep breath, rolling her head to loosen the muscles and hoping it went no farther. She’d had a few migraines before. This wasn’t a day to have one.

The truck ahead slowed down for a pothole. She hit the brakes, waiting while he negotiated the obstacle, and again caught herself focusing on the back of his head and the set of his shoulders. She squinted her eyes, trying to remember what he looked like.

His eyes had been dark, probably brown. And what she’d seen of his hair was thick and short, but she couldn’t remember if it was brown or black. His face was something of a blur, but she had an impression of strong features. What she did remember was his voice. It had been kind. So kind.

Tears spiked, but she blinked them away. She was so tired of crying. But after what Annie had told her, would she ever be able to let go of the pain?

Suddenly, she realized that he’d made it on through. She straightened her shoulders and followed. Gradually, the incline began to steepen. She downshifted once, then again, until she was driving in first gear, bouncing in and out of rock-laden ruts and often just missing being stuck on high center. The forest around her now was so thick it was impossible to see more than a few feet past the trees at the edge of the road. It was daunting to realize how far away from civilization a mere four miles could be. But before she could panic, the truck ahead of her pulled over. She followed suit, wondering if they were already there.

Catherine got out. “What’s wrong?”

Luke was already out and shuffling through the jumble of objects in the truck bed.

“There’s a tree down in the road. Surely Maynard has a…oh, good…here it is.”

Catherine stepped backward, her eyes widening as he hauled a chain saw over the rim of the truck bed.

“What are you going to do?”

He paused, giving her a slow, curious look, then pointed past the truck with his chin.

“Move the tree, ma’am,” he said.

Catherine nodded. As he started to walk away, she hesitated, then spoke.

“Call me Catherine.”

He stopped then turned, giving her the full force of a dark, silent stare. Then he smiled, and she caught a quick flash of white teeth and what looked like a small dimple to the right of his mouth.

“Catherine it is.”

She clasped her hands in front of her stomach to keep them from shaking as he disappeared around the front of the truck.

Grannie, do you believe in love at first sight?

Ignoring her flight of fancy, she stood out of the way, watching as he bent to the task. Moments later, the chain saw roared to life. She leaned against the hood of the Jeep and thrust her hands through her hair, massaging the muscles at the back of her neck. After a bit, the pressure eased. Curious now, she surveyed the area, trying to picture her grandmother traipsing about these woods gathering her herbs.

To her right, a large projection of rock was visible above the tops of the trees, and in the same moment she saw it, she knew it had to be Pulpit Rock. The skin at the back of her neck suddenly crawled. She needed to see—to stand in the place where it had all ended.

But how?

She couldn’t just walk away without telling the sheriff where she was going, yet she needed to do this alone. She stood for a moment, trying to decide what to do, then tilted her chin and headed toward Luke DePriest.

The chain saw vibrated the length of Luke’s arms as the saw blade ate through the wood. The tree was large and would have to be cut in several pieces for him to be able to move it aside. The roots were gnarled and dry. The tree had been here for some time.

The piece he was cutting off suddenly dropped to one side. He grunted with satisfaction and was setting the chain saw aside when Catherine Fane walked into his line of vision.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

She pointed toward Pulpit Rock. “I’m going over there to take a look.”

He frowned. The idea of her wandering off in any direction bothered him, never mind that she was pointing toward Pulpit Rock.

“If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes, I’ll go with you,” he said, then wondered at the way her expression blanked.

“No. This is something I’d rather do alone.” Without waiting for him to agree, she walked away.

Luke watched her go, taking careful note of her direction—just in case. The last thing he needed was to have to instigate a search party, especially up here, and especially for her. He doubted if he could round up a half dozen people who would be willing to set foot on this side of the mountain to look for the lost granddaughter of Annie Fane.

Then he remembered what he’d been doing and turned back to the tree. The quicker he got it out of the road, the quicker he could deliver her to the cabin.



The trees were alive with sounds, from the insistent squawk of a blue jay to the chatter of squirrels as they leaped through the leafy branches, using them like a highway as they moved from tree to tree. On another day, this would have been charming, but everything inside her was in knots. Even now, she could hear the echo of her grandmother’s shaky voice, relating the events that had led to her being orphaned.

A couple of minutes passed as she continued to move toward the looming promontory. The closer she got, the denser the trees became. Tension knotted in her belly, and her legs began to shake. Less sunlight filtered through the canopy, which in turn meant less undergrowth beneath the trees. In places she could see bare rock showing through the earth, and the forest was silent, absent of life.

Suddenly she was standing in the clearing and looking up, trying to imagine what freak of nature had created this natural pulpit. It stretched out from the face of the mountain, as if defying gravity, to overlook a spacious meadow. The natural resonance of sound must be amazing in this place. Then her gaze fell to the shadow below the rock, to the place where Grannie had seen her mother die. Sorrow moved through her like a wave.

She walked closer, needing to see—to touch—to be in the place where her parents had died, and as she did, she saw that what she’d taken for shadow was actually barren ground. She knelt, fingering the thick, dark earth and then stood, letting it filter through her fingers, and wondered why nothing grew in earth this rich.

Then she spun, suddenly aware of faint whispers, but there was no one there. In spite of the heat, she shivered as she searched the area for signs of life, but it was as empty as her heart. In the distance, she could see leaves moving in the tops of the trees, and convinced herself that was the source of the sounds. Yet as she turned away, a powerful urge to run overwhelmed her. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but there was a miasma here that had no earthly roots.

“Cath…rine.”

The faint sound of someone calling her name made her jump. She spun, subconsciously expecting to see the specter of Fancy Joslin, but when the sheriff walked out of the trees instead, she silently scolded herself for the fantasy.

“I’m here,” she called back, and as she started toward him, she realized she was glad to see him.

He met her at the edge of the clearing.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “I’ve been calling you for several minutes.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I suppose I was lost in thought.”

He hesitated, then touched her shoulder. “Do you know about this place?”

She hesitated, unwilling to reveal her identity to anyone. “Just what my grannie told me,” she said. “Something about some people dying up here because of a feud.” Then she turned, pointing toward the pulpit. “Isn’t that odd?”

He looked in the direction in which she was pointing, trying to decide what she meant. “Isn’t what odd?”

“That bare spot beneath the pulpit. It’s not rocky like some of the other places up here, and yet nothing grows.”

Luke sighed. What he was going to tell her would only add to the legend, yet the truth of it was there for the world to see.

“It didn’t used to be,” he said. “Story goes that after they carried away all of the bodies, the grass began to die. Supposedly, nothing has taken root there for almost thirty years.”

Catherine blanched as she spun around, looking at the place with new meaning. Unwilling for him to see how the news had upset her, she took a deep breath and turned, and for the first time since she’d walked into the woods, realized that her grandmother’s casket had been left unattended.

“We should be going. I apologize for the delay. Please lead the way. I’ll be right behind you.”

A short while later they were back at the truck. Relieved that her grandmother’s casket was still intact, she ran her fingers along the fine finish on the cherry-wood casket.

“Sorry, Grannie. I didn’t mean to leave you alone.”

“I’m the one who should apologize,” Luke said. “I didn’t think.”

Catherine shrugged. “We can both take the blame.” Then she looked—really looked—at him, appreciating the quiet grace of the man, as well as his strength. It wasn’t until she focused on his face that she found herself caught in a dark, silent gaze.

“You okay?” he asked.

Brown. His eyes are brown, just like his hair. Then she nodded. “Yes.”

He glanced at his watch. It was just after two-thirty. “You want to ride the rest of the way with me?” he asked.

The urge to do so was great, but she didn’t want to think of being isolated without convenient means of getting off the mountain.

“How much farther?”

“About a quarter of a mile.”

“I can make it.”

He didn’t bother to hide his admiration. “You’re not a quitter, are you, Catherine Fane?”

“I am the way my grandmother raised me.”

“I’m thinking she did a fine job,” he said quietly, then settled his Stetson a little more firmly on his head. “Let’s go. If you get into trouble, just honk.”

Then he got into the truck, leaving Catherine to scramble back to her vehicle, as well. Minutes later, they were in motion.

Annie Fane’s journey was almost over.




4


L uke wasn’t a believer in the supernatural, yet when he came out of a sharp curve and saw a small, two-story cabin at the end of the road, the hair on the backs of his arms suddenly rose. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen in these hills. Fashioned more in the style of a miniature Swiss chalet, it reminded him of a cuckoo clock his aunty had owned. It looked as if the owner had just left for the day, instead of the twenty-odd years he knew she’d been gone. To add to the aura of timelessness, four men seemingly materialized from the deep shadows of the porch and came down the steps to meet them as he parked.

They were tall and spare, with solemn expressions. He didn’t know whether it was in deference to the occasion, or if it was their normal manner. Their faces were shaded by matching weather-stained hats with wide, shapeless brims and their clothes were simple—faded denims and cotton. Catherine pulled up beside him and killed the engine. He glanced over, curious as to what her reaction would be. She looked relieved. It would seem she’d been expecting them.

Still, when she emerged from her Jeep, he got out and moved to her side, approaching the men with caution. Mountain people didn’t like strangers, so even if they knew Catherine, they were going to be wary of him. As they neared the porch, something began to dawn on Luke. He’d been sheriff of Taney County for more than eight years and knew everyone in the area—and these men were strangers to him, too. He thought of the thefts that had been going on up here for years. It would be too easy to believe that in a random act of kindness to Catherine Fane, he’d found the people he’d been trying to catch. But his musing ended when the eldest of the men suddenly took off his hat and reached for Catherine’s hand.

“You’d be Annie’s girl,” he said, without question or hesitation.

“Call me Catherine,” she said. “And you’re Abram Hollis?”

“At your service, Miss Fane. These are my boys, Jefferson, Dancy and Cleveland.” Then he turned to the boys. “Boys, this here is your cousin Annie’s granddaughter.”

The “boys” were all thirty-something in age and well over six feet.

Catherine smiled to herself at the term. Their gentle manners and soft words went a long way in washing away the hurt from the earlier incidents in Camarune.

“Grannie used to read me your letters, so I feel like I already know you. I just wish we could be meeting under different circumstances.”

“No one ever said life was fair,” Abram said. “Annie lived a long life. It’s time she came home to be with Billy.”

Belatedly, Catherine remembered the sheriff.

“I’m sorry. I forgot my manners. Abram, this is Sheriff Luke DePriest. He volunteered to help me get my…” Transient pain moved across her features as she corrected herself. “Helped me get the casket here. And, I might add, he was the only person who was willing to help.”

Her fingers brushed the fabric of Luke’s shirt as she directed his attention to the older man. “Sheriff, this is Abram Hollis. He and my grandmother were cousins, and they’ve worked together for as long as I can remember.”

Luke’s eye widened. Working? At what? As a fence for stolen goods? But undue curiosity was a breech of mountain etiquette. Instead of questions, he touched the edge of his hat in recognition of the introduction. The men nodded back, but they, too, remained silent.

Catherine sighed. Grannie had warned her that mountain people would be reserved, but she hadn’t expected mute. Then she saw the shovels leaning against the porch—a painful reminder of why she’d come. She looked at Abram.

“The grave…?”

“Right next to Billy, where Annie wanted it to be.”

Refusing to cry, Catherine set her jaw and looked away, letting herself take in the simple beauty of the place and imagining a young Annie Fane traversing these mountains, wrapped in the solitude she’d so badly needed after losing her young husband in the Second World War.

Oh, Grannie, you gave up so very much for me. Then she glanced toward the truck. It was time to lay Annie to rest.

“May we begin?” she asked.

Abram motioned to his sons. Immediately, they moved toward the casket. Luke felt like the odd man out as they lowered the tailgate of the truck. Impulsively, he touched Catherine’s shoulder.

“Miss Fane?”

She looked up, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“I’d be honored to help,” he said, pointing toward the casket the men were about to lift out.

She hesitated, but only briefly. “I think Grannie would like that.”

Luke stepped into place between Abram and Dancy as they pulled the casket from the truck. He’d served as a pallbearer more than once in his life, but never in such humble surroundings.

A few moments later, they began to walk, moving toward some unseen destination behind the cabin, with Catherine leading the way. When they passed a tall oak, a small brown bird dropped from a limb above their heads, landing on a nearby bush, as if vying for a seat to watch the passing procession.

Although it had been muggy down in Camarune, the air was cooler up here. The ground was rocky and almost grassless in the front, but as they passed the side of the cabin, the ground cover changed from sparse to ankle-high grass mixed with wildflowers and plants he didn’t recognize. The fact that it had a cultivated look surprised him. If Annie Fane had been gone all these many years, who’d been taking care of her home? Within seconds of his thought, Catherine made a remark that gave him an answer.

“You’ve done a fine job taking care of Grannie’s home.”

“She was kin,” Abram said. “She would have done the same for me.”

Luke frowned but kept silent. Another bit of information to add to the pot, but one thing kept bothering him. If this place was so special to Annie Fane, why had she left it?

And then they stopped, bending in unison as the casket was lowered to the ground. The pile of fresh earth and the pit beside it were harsh reminders of why they’d come. He looked up in time to see Catherine reach for a nearby tree to steady herself. The urge to hold her was strong, but without asking, he knew she would not welcome it.

He took a deep breath, feeling a sense of reverence for what was about to occur. The men gathered a series of ropes with which to lower the casket into the grave, and then time seemed to stand still. Later he would remember it in a series of brief images.

The scent of freshly dug earth as a shovelful of dirt hit the top of Annie’s casket.

The soft sound of Catherine’s sobs.

The trill of a robin’s call from somewhere high.

The perfect unison with which the Hollis men worked as they fulfilled their kinswoman’s last request.

The sonorous tone of Abram Hollis’s voice piercing the silence as he recited the Twenty-third Psalm.

The wilting blooms from the bouquet of wildflowers that Catherine laid upon the grave.

And then it was over. The fresh pile of dirt lay like a wound upon the landscape. With time, it would settle, and the ivy that lay over Billy Fane’s grave would blanket his Annie’s, as well.

Catherine stood staring down at the grave. It was done. She looked up, her eyes brimming with tears.

“There aren’t enough words to thank you men for what you’ve done for me today.”

The Hollis men took off their hats in unison, slight flushes coloring their faces as Abram nodded.

“Like I said before, she would have done the same for me.” Then he reset his hat, shifting it slightly from side to side until it fell into some invisible slot. “If you’re of a mind to stay on for a while, you’re welcome to stay with us over in Crocker. It’s in the next county, but I’d be happy to draw you a map.”

“Thank you, but no,” Catherine said. “I’ll only be here for a few days until I can go through Grannie’s things.”

Luke had remained silent through most of the proceedings, but the thought of her staying up here alone bothered him.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” he said abruptly.

Catherine turned. Her voice took on a sharp, angry edge. “Why? Because the people of Camarune might not like it?”

He flushed. “No, ma’am. That’s not what I meant at all. There has been a rash of thefts in the area, and this place is too isolated to be safe for a woman alone.”

“No one is going to bother the witch’s cabin or anyone in it, remember?”

The sarcastic tone of her voice was impossible to miss, but before Luke could respond, Abram Hollis intervened.

“She’ll be safe,” he said shortly. “Me and mine will see to it.”

“I don’t need baby-sitters,” Catherine said, including the Hollis men in her answer. “And just so you understand, city living is far more dangerous than this place is, and I’ve been taking care of myself there just fine. I appreciate your concerns, but I’m staying, and that’s that.”

Abram accepted her decision far better than Luke. Once again, he touched Catherine’s arm as he had when they met.

“As you know, we’ve been staying in the house a couple of times a year during hunting season, so it’s not too run-down. But me and the boys touched the place up a bit while we were waiting for you, and my Polly sent you some supper. And I had the power turned on in the cabin, so the necessary is working.”

Catherine’s smile was bittersweet. The necessary, meaning the bathroom, was a word Grannie had used all her life. Now she knew where it came from.

“Again, Abram Hollis, I thank you.”

He nodded. “We’ll be going now. Boys, go get your sacks. We’ve got a ways to go before dark.”

The three men headed toward the front of the house, returning moments later with large, bulging gunnysacks thrown over their shoulders.

Again Luke thought of the thefts, and even though it might be bad manners to ask, he had a duty he couldn’t ignore.

“What’s in the sacks?” Beside him, he heard Catherine take a deep breath.

Abram Hollis turned, fixing him with a cool, blank stare.

“That would be our harvest.”

Luke’s thoughts slipped right into illegal drugs as his hand moved toward the pistol he wore on his hip.

“What kind of harvest would that be?”

Abram stiffened as his sons stopped in mid-step. It was Catherine’s intervention that eased the moment.

“Abram, I’m sure the sheriff isn’t interested in poaching on your territory.”

Luke frowned. “Poaching?”

Catherine sighed. This had all been too easy. She should have expected something like this.

“Grannie was a herbalist,” she said softly. “Not a witch. Abram has been harvesting Grannie’s crops and sharing in the profits for as long as I can remember.”

“What kind of crops?” Luke asked, still thinking along the lines of illegal drugs.

Abram took one of the sacks and dropped it at the sheriff’s feet. The top fell open, revealing a jumble of brown, tangled roots. Luke knelt, lifting one out into the light.

At first glance it looked something like a sweet potato, but then he picked up another, then another, and the humanlike shapes of miniature arms and legs began to dawn.

Ginseng.

The crop was worth big money on the Asian markets, even in the raw.

He dropped the roots back in the sack and then stood and offered his hand to Abram Hollis.

“Sorry,” he said. “But in my line of work, a man can’t overlook the obvious.”

Abram hesitated, then shook Luke’s hand. “No offense taken,” he said shortly.

Within minutes, they were gone.

Now Luke and Catherine were alone, and from the expression on her face, she was impatiently waiting for him to take his leave, too.

“Is there anything I can carry into the cabin for you?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, I suppose so,” she said. “I have a couple of boxes of groceries and my suitcase.”

“Just show me where you want them,” he said, and let her lead the way.

As they entered the cabin, once again he was struck by the fairy-tale quality of the place. It consisted of only two large rooms. One up. One down. But the inventiveness of the builder was evident. Minute nooks and crannies were filled with everything from jars of dried herbs to stacks and stacks of books. There wasn’t an inch of wasted space. The furniture was sturdy, but simple, and the quiet hum of an old refrigerator was the only sound within the room.

Although Catherine was grateful for his help, she was anxious for him to leave. This was the place where Grannie had lived. She wanted to explore it in private.

“Just put the stuff down anywhere,” she said quietly, then walked to the door, holding it ajar for him to exit so that there would be no misunderstanding as to her intent.

Luke did as she asked, then turned, hesitating beside the table.

“I wish you’d reconsider and—”

“Thank you again for all you’ve done for me today.”

Luke frowned. He was being dismissed, and there was little he could do. She was a grown woman, and it wasn’t against the law to be a fool.

“You’re welcome, but if you don’t mind, I’ll stop in sometime tomorrow and make sure you’re all right.”

An expression of relief came and went on Catherine’s face so quickly that Luke thought he’d imagined it.

“There’s really no need,” she said, holding the door back a little further.

He settled his Stetson a little more firmly. “On the contrary, Miss Fane. There is a need. Mine. I won’t rest easy tonight, thinking of you up here by yourself. At least do me the favor of shoving a chair underneath the damned doorknob before you go to bed.”

Then he was gone, moving across the porch and then the yard in long, angry strides. He got into the borrowed truck, backed up and then drove away without looking back. Catherine had the feeling that he was angrier with himself for leaving her there than at her for insisting on staying.

Then she forgot about the kindness of strangers as she turned around, for the first time letting herself into what was left of Annie Fane’s world.



Catherine stared into the fire that she’d built in the fireplace, watching the voracious appetite of the flames as they consumed the dry logs that had been left on the hearth. Even though the night wasn’t all that cool, the fire lent a fake cheeriness to the room. But cheer was lacking in Catherine’s heart. Here, in the place where Annie had begun her life with the man she’d loved, Catherine had expected to find peace. Instead, she felt empty. The legacy of Annie’s love had not been enough to assuage the horror of Catherine’s birth.

A log suddenly rolled against the back of the firewall, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside, a wind had come up, whining and moaning through the trees and shifting the walls in the old cabin just enough to give an occasional creak. But she wasn’t afraid of the dark, or of what lay beyond these walls. It was what festered inside her heart that she feared the most. The rage she felt at an entire community who’d let a senseless feud play on was making her sick. And the fact that they’d ignored it while shunning Annie was an evil too preposterous to accept. On her deathbed, her grandmother had warned her about their prejudice, but she hadn’t believed—not until she’d seen their faces and heard the accusations and whispers.

Witch.

The notion was so absurd that it was all she could do not to scream. How could ignorance such as this still exist? They were in the twenty-first century, and these people chose to accept an eye for an eye as justice, and believed in curses and spells?

In the midst of her musing, something thudded out on the porch, then rattled across the old wooden planks.

Catherine jumped to her feet, pivoting sharply to face the door, too late remembering Luke’s final warning. With racing heart, she grabbed a chair from beside the kitchen table and shoved it up under the doorknob, jamming it so tightly that she inadvertently pinched her finger.

At the moment of pain, sanity returned.

“Lord,” she muttered, then she took a deep breath, silently berating her panic.

She listened again. The sound was gone. All she could hear was the wind. She made herself calm. More than likely it had been something blowing across the porch. There wasn’t anything—or anyone—out there.

To prove to herself she was right, she kicked the chair away from the doorknob and yanked the door open wide, striding out onto the porch to face the night. Immediately, strands of hair whipped across her face and into her eyes, clouding her vision with stinging tears.

“There’s no one out here but me,” she muttered, then took a deep breath and walked to the edge of the porch. “There’s no one out here but me,” she said louder, letting the wind rip the words out of her throat.

She looked up at the sky. Straggly clouds scudded across the face of a quarter moon, leaving wispy bits of themselves behind as they flew. Something took flight from a nearby tree, cutting briefly across the periphery of her vision. For the first time in her life she was, quite literally, alone. No neighbors down the block. No cars. No lights. No telephones. No sounds of civilization except the sound of her own voice. Her fingers curled into fists as she gazed into the blackness of the tree line. Again she spoke, and this time, it came out in a defiant shout.

“There’s no one out here but me!”

She waited, challenging the darkness for an answer that never came. Shaken in both body and spirit, she spun around and strode into the cabin, slamming the door shut behind her.

A short while later, she climbed the stairs to the loft. When she reached the top, she took a last look down at the big room below, then at the meager lock and the chair beneath the doorknob. Hating herself for being afraid, she crawled into bed, certain she would never be able to close her eyes. Within minutes, she was asleep.



Less than a hundred yards from the house, the hunter crouched among the trees, his expression wary. Someone was in the cabin. It couldn’t be the ghosts that he’d seen there before, because ghosts didn’t need lights. And whoever was in there had not only turned on the power, but had also built a fire. Even though the wind was blowing in the opposite direction, there were brief moments when he could smell the smoke.

Curiosity was a powerful emotion, and the urge to move closer was upon him. But years of solitude and caution kept him hidden from sight. As he continued to watch, the door to the cabin was suddenly flung open. Instinctively, he shrank back into the trees, although he knew it was impossible for her to see him from where he was standing. Her slender form was nothing but a silhouette as the light from within spilled out around her.

When she started to speak, he stared into the darkness, believing that she was talking to someone out in the yard. But the longer he stood, the more certain he became that she was talking to herself, which made him relax. He’d been talking to himself for years.

At first he caught only a word or two of what she was saying, but when she shouted, “There is no one out here but me,” he froze. Even though he didn’t want to know her, at that moment, he knew how she felt.

The wind began to rise, wailing through the trees in a high, mournful sound. His stance became motionless. He tilted his head to listen, as he had done so many times before. Would this be the time? Would his search finally come to an end? His breathing became shallow, his pulse all but nonexistent, as he willed himself to an unnatural quiet.

There! He heard it again—the high-pitched cry of a newborn child. His eyes narrowed, his jaw setting as he disappeared into the night.



Luke tossed aside the latest file on the thefts and then stood up from his desk, stretching wearily as he strode to the window to look outside. Moths and other night bugs made kamikaze runs at the streetlight outside his office as he stared into the dark. But his mind wasn’t on what lay before him. Instead, he kept thinking of the thief, who, like a pack rat, stole one thing, only to leave another in its place. Added to that were the oddities of what he stole—anything from foodstuffs to a pair of overalls drying on a clothesline, as well as odds and ends of small tools. If memory served, the thief had once taken a handsaw rather than the more expensive chainsaw hanging beside it, and left a hand-carved bowl in its place. Another time he’d obviously watched a farmer cutting firewood, waited until the man went inside to eat a meal, then took the ax he’d left in the stump, leaving behind a small, wooden stool. Dogs never barked a warning of his arrival, and to date, no one had even gathered a glimpse of his face. Rumors were starting to spread that it was a ghost. Only Luke knew better. Ghosts had no need of earthly things, and ghosts didn’t wear shoes, especially shoes with a notch in one heel.





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