Bad to the Crone

by Amanda M. Lee

  “I would think, as a progressive church, you would be more open to multiple paths,” I countered.

  “We’re open to different life paths,” Bram conceded. “Faith paths are another story. Still, you haven’t told me how Hal died. I’m confused ... and wondering why you’re here.”

  “I was with a gentleman from town when the body was discovered,” I offered, debating how much information I should share with him. “It was a shocking discovery, especially since I just arrived in Hawthorne Hollow yesterday. I was upset by what happened and simply wanted to make sure I was doing all that could be done.”

  “And what is it you think could be done that is not being done?”

  He sounded rational, as if he was making a point I should’ve realized on my own. I still didn’t trust him.

  “I’m wondering about his family,” I answered truthfully. “As I said, I’m new to the area. I would like to meet with them and express my sympathies on their loss.”

  “Hal had no family,” Bram responded. “He had the church and nothing else. I mean ... he had family at one time. They were no longer a part of his life, though. We were his family.”

  Bram seemed so sure of himself, that I very much doubted the general public found reason to question him. He seemed a benevolent soul, a man who was comfortable in his skin and eager to help those around him. But that was a veneer. Something else lurked beneath the surface, and I was dying to find out what.

  “He had zero family? No children? No wife? No brothers or sisters?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Bram replied. “He never mentioned them. He was completely about the cause.”

  “And what is the cause?”

  “It doesn’t really matter, at least to you,” he answered. “You’re not interested in learning. You might be one day, but for now your heart is closed to the process. I’m not interested in wasting my time.”

  It was a convenient out. “Well, that’s disappointing.” I forced a smile for his benefit. “I really wanted to make sure that Hal’s memory would be preserved. I feel bad for him, dying in the woods the way he did.”

  “Death is always tragic, but that doesn’t mean he’s not in a better place.”

  “You think he’s better off dead?”

  “I don’t believe I said that. I simply said he’s in a better place.”

  “Heaven?”

  “If that’s what he believes in and wishes for.”

  “What do you believe?”

  “That you’re digging for answers you’re not going to get here,” Bram said, slowly getting to his feet. “I don’t expect you to understand our way of life. You’re not open enough to the process. I have a feeling you will open yourself to it eventually. I will continue to pray for you until then.”

  I held his gaze, frustrated. We were at an impasse and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. “Well, thank you for your hospitality.” I slowly got to my feet. “It’s been a real ... pleasure.”

  “I’m sorry you didn’t find what you were looking for.”

  His smug tone made me want to slam my fists into his face. “Yet,” I corrected. “I haven’t gotten what I’m looking for yet. I have plenty of time.”

  “Yes, well, eternity is an endless loop.”

  I pressed my lips together as I moved toward the door, slowing my pace when I decided to ask one more question. “What’s with the dust?”

  “It’s the remnants of our savior,” he replied simply. “It’s supposed to keep the false of heart from darkening our doorstep.”

  “Does it work?”

  “You made it inside.”

  “That wasn’t really an answer.”

  “No? And here I thought it was.” He smirked. “Be careful on your way out. It’s a dangerous time ... especially given what happened to Hal. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you before your time.”

  It sounded like a threat. It was uttered in such an amiable way, though, I knew it would be impossible to convince anyone else that it was anything other than a simple statement.

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” I called out. “I’m like a cat. I have nine lives.” Speaking of cats, the kitten I’d left wrapped warming in a blanket was sticking its head out of my helmet, causing me to sigh. It really was a cute little thing, and apparently it wasn’t going anywhere. “I’m sure I’ll see you around, Father Bram.”

  His smile was indulgent. “I’m sure you will. I look forward to it.”

  Seven

  Gunner was unloading supplies at the cabin when I arrived. He wore a form-fitting black shirt that showed off his impressive arms and his hair pulled back in a loose ponytail that somehow made the bones of his face look as if they’d been carved from marble.

  Not that I notice those things, mind you.

  “I wondered if you forgot the way home,” he called out, grinning and causing me to jerk my eyes away from his biceps. “I was about to send a search party out for you.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s always nice to know that you’re missed.” I moved closer so I could help him lift some two-by-fours from the back of the truck. “Did you get Raisin home okay?”

  He met my gaze and nodded. “Yeah. She’s not happy. In fact, she’s threatening to break into my place and cut my hair in the middle of the night because I stole you away from her. No matter what I said, she refused to listen.”

  “You stole me away from her?” That didn’t make much sense. “She’s not a creepy stalker, is she?”

  He shook his head. “No, but she desperately wants to fit in. It’s not happening at school, so she kind of latched on to us to make up for the emptiness she was feeling. We do our best to accommodate her because she’s not a bad kid, but ... it’s not always easy.”

  I dropped my end of the lumber and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. “You kind of sound like a therapist. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  He barked out a laugh. “Actually, you’re not the first person to say that to me. My father used to say it all the time when my mother went off the rails. I was the only one who could talk her down.”

  “What do you mean? Off the rails how?”

  “She was a drunk.” Gunner was matter-of-fact as he uttered the words. “She used to start drinking in the morning, adding Kahlua and Bailey’s to her coffee. By lunch she was adding Jack Daniels to her coke.

  “At night she would only drink wine or beer,” he continued. “She explained to anyone who would listen that she couldn’t possibly be an alcoholic because she slowed her pace as the night wore on. Alcoholics drank more as it got later in the night.”

  “That sounds rough.”

  “You grew up in foster homes,” he pointed out. “I’m betting you had it worse.”

  “Not really.” I felt exposed, vulnerable, as I followed him to the truck for shingles. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d talked this much about my past, especially with a near stranger. He made it easy to open up, which was something I couldn’t quite wrap my head around. “Most of the foster homes they show you on television are either filled with angelic do-gooders who want to help or evil sociopaths who want to maim. Neither of those is the norm.”

  “No?” He cocked an eyebrow as he grabbed the shingles from my arms. “I’ve got these. They’re heavy. You grab the ladder and I’ll carry them to the roof.”

  I narrowed my eyes to dangerous slits. “I can carry them. I’m not helpless.”

  “I don’t believe I said you were helpless.”

  “No, but you insinuated.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’re imagining that.”

  “And I’m pretty sure I’m a keen judge of character.” I poked his chest. “I don’t need a knight in shining armor.”

  He held my gaze for what felt like forever and then dropped the shingles so they landed at my feet. Luckily they scattered in a variety of directions before impact, because otherwise he might’ve broken a bone or two. “Fine.” His eyes flashed with annoyance. “Are you ha
ppy?”

  My mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe you just did that.” I hunkered to the ground to gather the shingles. “I mean ... you could’ve broken them.”

  “What do you care? Rooster paid for them.”

  “Yeah, well ... I still would’ve had to run back and pick up more.”

  “Oh, the horror.” He mocked me and hopped on the tailgate to get comfortable as I scrambled to pick up the mess he’d made. “Where is the kitten?”

  “What?” I was flustered. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “The kitten,” he repeated. “Where is it? If you abandoned it, I’m going to be really angry.”

  “Do I look like the sort of person who would abandon a helpless kitten in the middle of town? I mean ... good grief. The kitten is perfectly safe.”

  “Where is it?”

  “You act as if you don’t trust me.”

  “Where is it?” he repeated, annoyance curling his lips into an unattractive sneer. “You don't have it, do you? Where did you leave it?”

  If I was frustrated with him before, I was beyond the point of no return now. “I didn’t ‘leave it’!” Abandoning the shingles, I stomped around him and toward the bike. The saddlebags I used to transport my belongings from Detroit to Hawthorne Hollow were still affixed to the seat, and after rummaging inside, I came out with a worn blanket and the kitten.

  The small ball of fluff looked annoyed at being awakened. He blinked several times in rapid succession and glared at me when I held him up to the light.

  “Not only do I still have the kitten, I picked up food, too.” I carefully placed the animal on the ground so he could look around. “I have soft food ... and dry food ... and chicken broth to soften the dry food ... and some bottles of something that’s supposed to be better for his digestive tract than milk because — believe it or not — milk is bad for cats.” I pulled all the items out of the saddlebag for emphasis as I mentioned them. “So, no, I’m not mistreating the cat!”

  Gunner ran his tongue over his teeth before holding his hands up in mock capitulation. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

  “And I think that you’ve said that very thing to me more than once,” I complained.

  “Yeah, well, I like to repeat myself when I’m being a jerk.” He winked to let me know he was trying, and hopped out of the truck to gather the shingles. “I really do want to help. I know it doesn’t seem like that because ... well, because I’ve been rude on more than one occasion, but I don’t mean it.”

  “No?”

  “No. I think you’re actually a good fit for our outfit ... although the growing pains probably won’t be easy.”

  He was making an effort, so it felt the only fair thing to do was meet him halfway. “I’ll let you help with the roof.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, well, thank you for that.”

  “No, seriously.” I clutched the cat items to my chest. “I’ll let you help and we’ll talk about Hawthorne Hollow and the people in it. I’ll try to understand where you’re coming from, and you can attempt to do the same with me.”

  He stared at me for a long beat. “Okay. I agree to your terms.”

  “Great. First I have to get the kitten set up. I noticed a washing bin out back that looks to be in one piece. I plan to use that for a litter box.”

  “Smart and practical.” His dimple was back when he smiled. “A lovely combination.”

  I rolled my eyes. “This isn’t going to work if you’re constantly snarky.”

  “If you’re going to be snarky, then I have no choice but to match your tone.”

  “Says who?”

  He pointed to the sky.

  “Crows?” I challenged.

  He snickered. “I don’t make the rules, but I do have to follow them. You’re setting the snark tone.”

  Sadly, I had a feeling he was telling the truth. “Fine. I’ll make an effort.”

  “That’s all I ask.”

  “Great.” I strode toward the cabin. “I’ll order pizza in a few hours if we actually manage to get some work done. Dinner will be on me.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  THREE HOURS LATER, WE SAT ON his tailgate and inhaled pizza and soda as we surveyed our hard work.

  The roof was patched. We’d spent twenty minutes at the start arguing about who would go where, but once we agreed that two chiefs made for a bad tribe we finally managed to get in the flow of things. The finished product was actually fairly impressive.

  “You know your way around a hammer,” Gunner noted, his mouth full of pizza. If he hadn’t just spent hours sweating and toiling on my roof for no profit other than pepperoni and cheese I would’ve found his penchant for talking with his mouth full fairly disgusting.

  Well, most likely. Even talking with his mouth full of food he was ridiculously attractive. I hated that about him.

  “I told you, one of my foster fathers was handy. He taught me a lot of things, including how to affix shingles and fix drywall.”

  “The only thing my father can do with a hammer is beat things.”

  I stilled, uncomfortable. “You mean like ... .”

  It took him a moment to grasp what I was insinuating. “God, no!” His eyes flashed. “My father doesn’t mistreat me ... at least not that way.”

  That was a relief, but only marginally. After getting a gander at Gunner’s interaction with his father, I had certain suspicions. I was glad to see that the worst of them were off. “He doesn’t speak very nicely to you,” I noted.

  “He’s ... troubled ... by my life choices.”

  I picked a mushroom from my pizza slice and popped it in my mouth. “Are you gay?”

  “What? No!” His face flushed with color.

  “If you are, there’s nothing wrong with it. I get it.”

  “Oh, geez!” He shook his head. “I’m not gay. Those aren’t the life choices I’m talking about.”

  “Oh.” Realization dawned. “You mean Spells Angels.”

  He nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean. My father doesn’t understand why I would choose to live the life we’ve dedicated ourselves to. I’m guessing at least that part of things is easier for you because you don’t have parents to disappoint.”

  Instead of making me feel better, the statement was like a sharp jab to the heart. “I think some things are worth the tradeoff.”

  He blew out an extended breath. “That came out wrong.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  He chuckled, the sound low and throaty. “I think it’s you. For some reason, you bring it out in me. This rudeness I’m not used to, I mean.”

  “Believe it or not, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” I noted, accessing one of the few “bad” memories that could still make me laugh. “One of the foster homes I visited as a teenager — it was a very brief stay — anyway, the woman in the home was very religious and she swore I was the devil sent to lead her astray. She took to locking me in the bedroom at night and surrounding the door with crucifixes.”

  His pizza forgotten, Gunner briefly ran his hand down my arm. “I’m sorry.”

  “I was there less than a week.” He couldn’t understand how the timeframe played into things but I did. Truly, the memory was barely a blip. I told the story now because I found it funny. “I think she picked up on the witch in me, although I can’t be sure. I was fourteen at the time, confused. I could feel the power building. It was ... weird. I definitely think she felt it, too. She couldn’t get me out of her house fast enough.”

  Gunner swore under his breath. “How many foster homes were you in?”

  “Twenty or so. They kept trying to find me a permanent home even though I was convinced it would never happen. I was fine in the group home. Still, every few months they would trot me out to another set of prospective parents. Every few weeks after that they would send me back.”

  “That is horrible.” He looked legitimately distressed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? You didn’t send m
e back to the group home.”

  “No, but ... I used to think what happened with my mother was the worst thing ever. I was wrong. At least I had a home and wasn’t being dragged all over the countryside.”

  “You also had a father,” I reminded him. “He doesn’t seem like the easiest guy to get along with, but I’m guessing he cares.”

  “He cares,” Gunner agreed. “Sometimes I think he cares too much. It might’ve been better for me if I had a brother, but as the only son, I was his focus. For years he tried to pretend that things were fine with my mother. Then there was an incident and he couldn’t pretend any longer. That made things worse.”

  I wasn’t sure I should infringe on his privacy — I hated when people asked invasive questions of me — but I couldn’t stop myself. “What happened to your mother? Did she ... die?”

  He shook his head, taking me by surprise. “She’s in a sanitarium,” he replied, his voice cracking. “It’s about an hour from here. She was placed there on an involuntary hold after she tried to burn the house down with me locked inside when I was eleven. My father managed to get me out ... and go back for her.

  “He has scars on his back from what happened. Part of the roof collapsed,” he continued, adopting a far-off expression. “He saved her, though. He never left me alone with her again, and she was locked away pretty quickly. He made sure she could never get out.”

  I was horrified. “I’m sorry. That’s terrible. Do you ever see her?”

  “No. I haven’t seen her since I was a teenager. My father tried to make me visit her right up until I was eighteen, even though I fought every effort. I simply refused after that. That’s part of the reason we fight.”

  “Surely he can’t blame you for not wanting to be around her,” I countered. “I mean ... that’s not fair to you. She tried to kill you.”

  “He says she was out of her mind and I shouldn’t hold a grudge. I think I’m well within my rights to hold a grudge.”

  I had to agree with him. “Well, that sucks.” I offered up a rueful smile. “I think it’s interesting that you won’t see your mother and yet you’ve dedicated your life to helping people with the Spells Angels. It’s awesome that you recognize the need and want to give of yourself.”