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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.
