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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.”
