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“Okay. Let me wash up first.” Although she was in her eighties, Bess still had the kind of energy and zest for life Flint remembered from his youth. She wore her gray hair in a long braid and perched her glasses on the end of her nose to peer over them even though they were bifocals.
It had been a bit of a shock to return and find such big changes in everything else. The house was in better shape than the outbuildings, but not by much. It needed painting as well as several new sections of chimney pipe to safely vent the wood-burning stove. Flint had already suggested they add propane heaters and had had his idea totally rejected, even after offering to pay for the tank and installation.
Still pondering the immense task of fixing the old house, he joined the older couple at the kitchen table. Ira had always been the one to say a prayer of thanks for the food, but since Flint had returned, Bess had begun asking him to do it.
He slid his chair up to the table and noted that Ira was already eating. “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t want to show up with tractor grease under my nails. Did you say grace, Papaw?”
The old man’s rheumy, greenish eyes were focused on the distance and he was eating as if by habit rather than for enjoyment the way he used to.
“He was starving,” Bess said, “so we started without you. Gotta keep my hungry husband happy.”
“No problem.” Flint followed by a quick bow of his head and a soft “Amen.”
“So, did you get the roof nailed down good?”
He met her questioning gaze with one of his own. “Uh-huh. How long has it been since Papaw ran that tractor? It’s a mess. I had to drain the fuel and clean the filters before it would do more than cough a few times. It’s running rough now, but at least it’s running.”
“We haven’t had a lot of need for our own machinery lately,” Bess said. “We hire most things done. That’s sensible at our age.”
Glancing at Ira as she spoke, Flint waited for some sign of agreement. What he got, instead, was a muttered curse, something the confused old man would never have done if he’d been in his right mind.
“I’ll be glad to do whatever I can on my days off,” Flint said, “but you really need more help around here than that.”
“Don’t need nothin’ from nobody,” Ira mumbled gruffly.
Well, at least he’s speaking, Flint thought, wondering how to best keep him engaged. This kind of attitude, let alone peppered with bad language, was not like the man he’d idolized from the moment his great-grandparents took him in and provided a stable home.
“You two have always looked out for others. It’s time we repaid you.”
“If it needs doin’ I’ll take care of it,” Ira insisted. He pushed to his feet, leaning on the edge of the table for support. “Don’t need no interference from you or anybody else.”
Bess reached toward Flint and touched his hand as her husband did his best to storm off despite stiff knees and hips. “Don’t pay him any mind. He’s just achin’ more with winter comin’ on,” she said. “He gets this way when he’s hurting bad.”
“What does his doctor say?”
She chuckled, eyes twinkling. “Not much other than hello when we see him in church. Your papaw hasn’t been to a doctor in a coon’s age.”
“Probably more like an elephant’s age,” Flint countered with a shake of his head. “It’s probably not safe to let him continue to drive, either. What if he gets lost?”
“He won’t. We got that GPS thingie on the new pickup.”
“I saw it under a tarp in the barn. Can’t you do something about getting him to see a doctor?”
“Well, I suppose you and I could try to stuff him in a feed sack and deliver him to the doc that way, but he’d be plenty mad when we let him out.” She sobered. “I’ve done my best to talk him into seeing our family doctor. It’s no use. Ira just gets upset, like now, and storms off. I suspect he’d be in a better mood if he’d take something for his pain, but he won’t touch a pill. Not even aspirin.”
“Because of my mother?”
“And her mother before her.”
Signing, Flint clasped Bess’s thin hand, taking care not to squeeze the distended knuckles. “Just because addiction happens to one person in a family, that doesn’t mean the rest of us are doomed.”
“I know.” Bess’s eyes were misted. “We did our best with our daughter. Even helped her raise your mama. But drugs got ’em both before they were old enough to vote. I think Ira blames himself.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Bess snorted. “Warn me if you ever decide to say that to his face, okay? I wanna be far, far away.”
Far away? Been there, done that, Flint thought, and look what it got me. The loving old couple who kept me from going wrong as a teenager are failing, the farm is in ruin and Maggie has made a new life without me.
Not that it made sense to think the love of his life would have waited for him. Their families had both been dead set against their romance, so what could he expect?
That introspection brought him to ask something else that had been bothering him. “You know just about everybody in town over the age of thirty. Do you think Missy and Sonny Dodd could be dangerous?”
Bess smirked. “Well, Missy might talk a body to death, but otherwise they’re mostly blowin’ smoke.”
“What about Elwood Witherspoon?”
Her fingers pressed over her lips, and her eyes widened. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering. My captain mentioned Elwood. Other wardens have come up against him—when they can find him—and they say he’s a real piece of work.”
“I haven’t seen Elwood to speak to for years. Sorry.”
Frowning, Flint studied her expression. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
If she hadn’t been casting worried glances through the door into the living room and looking as if she were about to pass out, Flint might have accepted her statement without reservations. He wasn’t quite through eating but started to rise when she did. “Want me to help you clean up?”
“No, no. I’m used to doin’ kitchen chores. You finish your sandwich, then go back and tinker with that old tractor. In spite of what Ira says, I know this place needs a lot of TLC.”
“Have you ever thought of moving, maybe into assisted living?” Flint ventured.
Bess fumbled a plate and it shattered against the edge of the sink. “Mercy, no. Whatever gave you such a crazy idea?”
“It would make your life much easier. Here. Let me help you clean that up.”
She flapped her hands as if shooing a pesky fly. “No need. I can handle my own kitchen, and your grandpa can take care of this farm, okay?”
“Okay. Sorry I mentioned it.” He bent to kiss her cheek. “If you need me I’ll be in the barn.”
He’d donned a jacket and was easing the back door closed behind him when he heard his great-grandmother gasp. Ira’s raised voice carried. “See? What’d I tell you. He wants our farm. Him and that hussy who’s got him all befuddled again.”
“That’s pure nonsense.”
Flint was torn between a desire to barge in and refute the claim and the knowledge that his best recourse would be to let his actions prove him innocent. He loved those two old people more than anything. Their health was deteriorating. It was natural for them to worry about their future and to want to cling to the past, to try to maintain the same lifestyle they’d enjoyed for so many years.
He eased the door shut all the way. There was a lot to be said for a good old-fashioned rut. At this point in his life Flint felt more like an outsider than ever. He’d been fatherless for as long as he could remember, neglected and then orphaned, and had failed to find direction or purpose in the military. If he hadn’t gotten Bess’s letter begging for his help, he didn’t know where he’d have ended up. Certainly not in Serenity, where past mistakes kept staring him in the face.
That was the crux of his unrest, he decided. There were too many memories, too many disappointments, lurking around every corner. And speaking of lurking, he hadn’t heard a word from the sheriff in days. It was time to check with him for an update and dig deeper into reports of Elwood’s poaching.
Flint palmed his cell phone and stared at it. Phoning Sheriff Allgood was the sensible thing to do. But if he called Maggie he could get her input, as well. Besides, he admitted with a wry smile, he wanted to hear her voice again. To have her personally assure him she was all right.
He punched in the number of the sanctuary. Nobody picked up. He left a brief message on Maggie’s answering machine, promising himself he’d try again later, then went back to work in the barn.
After supper, Flint tried to phone her for the fifth time. Still no answer. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. As far as he knew, Maggie had no hired help, relying on volunteer labor in order to keep costs down. Therefore, she should be home. Even if she’d left the compound to run errands, she was bound to check her answering machine occasionally.
So, now what? He was getting more and more worried. If he failed to reach her soon, he’d have to either contact the sheriff and ask him to send someone to investigate, or make the trip to Maggie’s himself. Alerting law enforcement for nothing wasn’t a good idea. Then again, neither was showing up at her place repeatedly with the excuse of looking for her uncle.
Disgusted, Flint accepted the inevitable. He had to be the one to go have a look-see. If things went well, it might not be necessary to let anyone else know he was even slightly concerned.
He grabbed his jacket and handgun on his way to the door and called to his grandmother, “I have to go out. Be back soon.”
If she replied before the door slammed, Flint didn’t hear. He was loping toward the AGFC truck, and the faster he moved, the more his heart kept pace.
“I’ll feel really stupid if I get there and Maggie’s fine,” he told himself. That warning did nothing to slow him. He’d much rather be thought a fool than find out later that Maggie wasn’t fine.
* * *
Sunset had brought with it a sense of impending winter. Maggie shivered. The air was damp and chilly, the last brown leaves barely clinging to myriad oaks, sycamores and other native floras. Only the cedars remained green.
She’d left Mark in the house with Wolfie while she tended to her evening chores right outside. Given the dropping temperatures, it was necessary to provide extra bedding for her larger patients and perhaps move some of the smaller cages under better cover.
The niggling sense that she was being watched made Maggie’s skin prickle. She kept looking over her shoulder as she worked, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, yet convinced she wasn’t alone.
Pulling off flakes of bedding hay, she piled them on a yard cart. Wind whipped loose stem fragments from the pile and swirled them high. Maggie sneezed once, twice, then drew breath to repeat. With her chin lifted she had a different view of her surroundings and thought she saw something moving in the forest.
“Of course I did,” she muttered. “Achoo! Stuff out there blows around just like my hay.” Which was not entirely true. Any lightweight vegetation would still be soggy from the recent rain. Her stored hay, on the other hand, was dry and more easily disturbed.
Most of the outdoor pens were adjacent to the house, while the smallest cages found protection in the barn. Maggie was passing a window that was low enough to let her peek in to check on Mark, so she paused. He and the dog were playing catch. That wasn’t an approved activity for inside, but they were quiet and happy. As long as the boy remembered to keep his tosses low, she wasn’t going to interfere.
A deep, distant howl stood the hairs on Maggie’s neck on end. She whirled, facing the direction of the sound just in time to hear an answering echo about twenty degrees east of the first. Listening intently, she held her breath. Higher-pitched yips joined the elongated cries that were so intense, so primal, they infiltrated her most basic senses. Adults and pups. Only not coyotes. What was a wolf pack doing in the Ozarks?
Instinct made Maggie spin back around. For an instant she forgot she’d been watching her son, so when she came practically nose-to-nose with Wolfie on the other side of the glass, she almost screamed.
The dog pawed at the window, panting until it was steamy. “You hear them, too, don’t you?” His ears perked. He cocked his head. “Take it easy. It’s okay, boy.”
The howls seemed to be getting closer. Maggie cast around for a defensive weapon. The only thing handy was a pitchfork. She reached for the handle. Stumbled over a wheel of the yard cart. Felt herself falling.
She missed catching hold of anything to break her fall and went down hard. In the midst of her useless flailing, she finally did scream.
Glass cracked and broke above her. Maggie covered her head with her arms, letting her jacket take most of the punishment from the falling shards.
There had been no shots this time. She was certain of it. So what...?
Something landed beside her with a soft thud and she knew instantly what had happened. This was the second time Wolfie had breached a closed window. The first time had been when Mark was a toddler and there had been a stray dog in the yard.
Maggie levered herself up just in time to see her enormous dog bound over the cart and disappear into the thick forest. “Wolfie! No!
“Wolfie, come.” She started to get to her feet. Looked down at her hands. And saw blood.
SIX (#ulink_0d8a540c-c4c6-52fb-89f7-e189a40feb32)
The first thing Flint noticed as he slowly pulled into Maggie’s driveway was her. She was pacing the porch and looked beside herself. Her eyes were wide, her hair flyaway. When she ran straight to him instead of holding her ground, he knew something was terribly wrong. “Why didn’t you answer your phone? Did you leave it in the house again?”
She latched on to the sleeve of his jacket as soon as he stepped out of the truck. “You have to help me.”
“Okay. What’s wrong?”
Gesturing wildly, she indicated the woods at the edge of the compound. “Wolves. I heard them.”
“Did they approach? Menace you in any way?”
“No, but—”
“Then go back in the house. I’ll check your pens.”
“It’s not that.”
As her grip tightened, Flint glanced down. Was that a trace of blood on the cuff of her jacket? His breath caught. “Are you hurt?”
“No. Not me, Wolfie. He crashed through a window and ran off. If the pack spots him, they’ll kill him. He won’t be able to fight them all.”
Flint took a step forward. “Okay. I’ll radio a report and board up your window while we wait for more help.”
The noise she made was half exasperation, half anger. As soon as he was through contacting his partner, she said, “I nailed a board over the window myself. I called the sheriff, too, but he said there was nothing he could do about a runaway dog.”
“Why didn’t you call Game and Fish?”
When Maggie rolled her eyes, he had his answer.
“I get it. You’d rather have your dog die than ask me for anything.”
“No! I never said that. I left a message on the answering machine at your office.”
Flint was penitent. “Right. It’s Saturday. Sorry.” He eyed the porch. “Why don’t we go wait inside?”
Her “No!” was so forceful he stepped back, hands raised as if he were being robbed at gunpoint. “Okay, okay. I’ll look around out here and listen for more howling after I call and ask somebody to bring me an ATV.” He studied her. “Will that do?”
“I guess it’ll have to.”
They stepped off the porch together. He’d dealt with plenty of anxious people in the course of his duties, but Maggie’s case was extreme. Maybe if he could distract her she’d be more tractable. “Is your kid at your mother’s today?”
She stopped in her tracks. “No. Why?”
“Because that’s where he was when you had that wreck,” Flint said.
“Only because we were being shot at when he got out of school,” she countered. “I take good care of him.”
