The Deep Wood (Sunshine Walkingstick Book 2)

by Celia Roman

  The man looked up and met my gaze across the parking area. A funny queasiness clenched around my stomach and that odd sense of familiarity prickled under my skin. Where did I know him from?

  I curled my fingers around the door handle and squeezed tight. “I don’t know.”

  “Cherokee?”

  “I don’t know,” I repeated, and that was the unvarnished truth. My daddy was the only other Cherokee I knowed. His family turned their backs on him when he eloped with my mama. Seems his mama was more interested in preserving the purity of her blood than seeing her son happy. I never met her nor any of his other kin, and was dang happy for it.

  Riley cupped a warm palm over my thigh. “Want me to come in with you?”

  I eyed the stranger sitting so calm on my porch, like a statue waiting for God to whisper breath into him. “No,” I said after considering it careful like. “I’ll be ok.”

  “Sunny.” Riley sighed and shook his head, and took his hand back, leaving my thigh too cold in its absence. “Call if you need me. I’m working out this way all afternoon.”

  “I know,” I said softly, and leaned across the seats and pressed a tender kiss to his cheek. “Don’t forget supper.”

  “How could I?” he teased, a hint of laughter in his voice. “You’re making meatloaf.”

  I cut a side-eyed glance at him. “You’re the only man I know what likes meatloaf.”

  He flashed a grin at me. “Your meatloaf puts everybody else’s to shame, baby.”

  “I’m gonna tell your mama you said that.”

  His laughter followed me outta the truck. I slammed the door on it, let memory preserve it in my mind for the hard times sure to come, and walked slowly toward the porch.

  The man stood just as slow and stared down at me from a great height. “Sunshine?”

  I stopped a few feet from the porch steps and squinted up at him against the blue, blue sky haloing his head. “Yessir.”

  “I’m Johnny Walkingstick,” he said, and his voice crackled like dry leaves underfoot. “Your grandfather.”

  And just like that, ever thing good crumbled away from me, leaving me with the lonely ache of a near-orphan what’d longed too hard for somebody to love her.

  Chapter Five

  I glanced away from the man claiming to be my daddy’s daddy, and unbidden, my hands curled into fists at my side.

  “You favor your mother.”

  I snapped my gaze back to him, too ready to cut him to bits with anger sharpened words. His face held a touch of sadness I knowed all too well, tempering my gut reaction to his unexpected appearance.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “To know you.” He stepped gingerly down each tread and jerked to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. “Your eyes are blue.”

  That weren’t none of his beeswax. I bit my tongue, refusing to blurt that out. Johnny Walkingstick might’ve abandoned my daddy, his son, but he was still an elder and a guest, and as such, was owed the courtesy of the politest response I could muster.

  “How’d you get here?” I asked.

  “Walked.”

  I nearly swore under my breath. If he walked, chances was good he was gonna need a ride outta here, and I was the only soul around to do the carrying. “You couldn’ta walked all the way from Snowbird territory.”

  “Didn’t have to.” His chest rose and fell under a heavy sigh. “Can I come in? These old bones don’t much like the changing seasons.”

  “No,” I said flatly. Courtesy only went so far and mine was running out quick like. “State your piece and go. I got business to attend.”

  “This is family, Sunshine.”

  I spat resentment onto the ground. “Not mine.”

  “Your blood and mine,” he said slow and real careful like, “are the same.”

  “Only one quarter of it, way I figure,” I retorted. “Anything else?”

  His gaze went a little vacant, like he was seeing something somewhere ‘sides here, and cold shivered through me though not a single breeze stirred the warm afternoon. First time I seen a look like that, Old Mother’d sat herself down across from me and warned me about Teus in that roundabout way of hers. Hadn’t figured it out ‘til events sorted themselves, which was just like a seer. Why couldn’t they speak plain so folks understood ‘em?

  But the old man didn’t speak on prophecy or a foreshadowing. He simply rested them rheumy eyes on me and spoke in his low, raspy voice. “I loved your father, same as you. He’d want us to know each other.”

  Bitter tears sprang into my eyes. I blinked ‘em back, cursed low when one streaked down my cheek anyhow. “You got no call to speak for the dead, old man.”

  “The dead speak for themselves, Sunshine, some louder than others.”

  He shook his head and shambled past me, and I turned to watch him walk away. “Don’t come back,” I called after him, and he raised a hand without looking back, like it was the only farewell he could offer.

  “Watch out for yourself, Sunshine,” he said, so low I shoulda never heard him. “Watch the deep wood.”

  An awful dread snaked down my spine. I put my back to him and fixed unseeing eyes on the slowly fading hex signs Old Mother’d painted on the trailer’s door. The old man’s words weren’t nothing to me. I watched the deep wood ever day, had since Henry died. That weren’t liable to change so long as monsters roamed the hills searching for the blood of innocent and sinful alike.

  I waited ‘til the old man’s footsteps faded to silence before going inside, then went straight to the cussing jar and dropped in a like amount of quarters, one for ever curse I thought about expelling during Johnny’s visit. Seeing as how he was my grampa, disowned or not, thinking was the same as saying.

  But the whole thing twisted my panties in a wad from start to finish. What right did Johnny Walkingstick have to come calling now, some two and a half decades after turning his back on his only son? What right did he have trying to wiggle his way into my life when he coulda been there all along like a grampa was supposed to be?

  Irritation morphed into a knot of hurt anger wrapped around the swift, irregular thump of my heart. I popped my fist into the desk, hard. The wood plank top jiggled under the blow, bouncing pencils and paperclips into the air.

  Dang that old man. Dang him right to the devil. Shoulda chased him off soon as he uttered his name.

  I dropped into my desk chair and sprawled out, arms and legs akimbo. Frustration ate through my blood, ratcheting the lump of anger in my chest tighter and higher. Johnny Walkingstick had some nerve. He shoulda never come here, begging my favor. He shoulda just let well enough alone. I was ok now, weren’t I? Henry was gone, true, and God rest him wherever he lay, but I had Fame and Trey and Gentry, and Missy and Riley, and a host of friends to call my own. Sure, Mama was in jail, but she was still my mama and she still looked after me, best she could. I didn’t need no long lost relatives showing up unannounced on my stoop, didn’t need them or their pity or their stupid warnings about a danger already familiar.

  Dang ol’ deep wood.

  The thought sliced right through my high dudgeon, chilling it with the suddenness of a hailstorm on a hot summer’s day. The deep wood. Human eyes. A painter acting out of character, and all that on top of the day-to-day monsters lurking in the shadows.

  Monsters what hadn’t been so active of late as they was a coupla weeks back.

  Johnny Walkingstick was right. The deep wood weren’t no place to underestimate. It was my job to clear it out, make it safe again, for Henry who died before he had much of a chance to live, and for myself, too. His death was my fault. I still had a lot of atoning to do for that terrible lapse in judgment.

  I scraped shaky hands over my face and into my hair, smoothed it down best I could, then shoved myself outta the chair. Folks needed my help, a better way to spend the day than stewing and feeling sorry for myself. No time like the present, was there?

  Ten minutes later, I was out the door and headed toward
Jazz and BobbiJean’s in Daddy’s IROC. The radio was silent, a fit accompaniment for the frazzled nerves the old man left in his wake. By the time I arrived, I was calm enough to breathe deep of the autumn air and appreciate the musty leaf aroma mingling with fresh water and warm sunshine.

  Jazz come to the back fence and waved at me. “You gonna sit in that car all day?”

  I grinned and got out of the IROC, and laughed out loud when I finally figured out what was painted over ever square inch of his coveralls. “I thought you got portraying men’s unmentionables outta your system ‘long about high school.”

  He winked a deep set eye. “Some stuff never goes outta style, Sunny girl. Come on back. We been hit again.”

  I sighed and shook my head, and skirted a fresh stacked pile of scrap metal. “What’s this? Reinforcement for the fence?”

  “I wish. Don’t matter what I do. A hen or more disappears ever night. Won’t have none left by the wedding day, this keeps up.”

  He opened the gate for me and stood back while I entered. The chicken coop drew my eye right away. How could it not? The wire what’d been so tidy and neat on my last visit was mangled and folded back on itself like angel’s wings along a demon’s back. A handful of laying hens scratched dirt in the garden proper, clucking at the earth as they feasted on worms and grubs and no telling what else.

  “Any sign of what’s doing it?” I asked.

  “Nary a one.” Jazz yanked a tattered hanky outta his back coverall pocket and swiped it across his nose. “BobbiJean heard a scream last night, long about two in the morning. Woke her up, then she heard the chickens in an uproar and rolled over and woke me up. Found the coop like that, all tore up, so I got my shotgun and kept watch ‘til the sun rose good.”

  “How many was gone?”

  “Just two this time.”

  “Two’s enough, ain’t it?”

  I sighed and walked closer, planting booted feet where they’d do the least damage. Like before, human footprints mucked up any potential sign of animal tracks. I searched anyhow and combed over the churned up ground twice before I was satisfied nothing was there.

  “Find anything?” Jazz asked.

  A hint of hope tinged his baritone voice. I glanced away, hating like the devil to have to crush it. My gaze passed right over a depression in the grass outside the fence. I zeroed in on it, edged closer, and bent down. The area was big, say the size of a really large dog. Blood sprayed across the dying verge, like it’d been slung.

  I sat back on my haunches and considered the scene. Something snuck under the fence and broke into the coop, caught one of the chickens and brung it here, then shook it to death while its teeth sunk deep into the chicken’s throat.

  Something big, or maybe two smaller somethings.

  Warwoman was a far piece from the Kildares, though. Surely Ol’ Blue and Lady wouldn’ta wandered that far afield.

  “What is it, Sunny girl?” Jazz asked, and I waved a hand at him, shushing him without turning ‘round. Billy Kildare’s dog was missing. Weren’t like a coon dog to chase after chickens, far as I knowed, but a desperate dog was the same as any animal. Food was food, if it was hungry enough, and with two mouths to feed, assuming Ol’ Blue run off with the neighbor’s pooch, them chickens was a mighty tempting treat.

  I slapped my palms against my thighs and stood, then scouted to the creek and around the banks. Feathers was still stuck in the tree bark on the opposite side. This time, I remembered to bring dry shoes, socks, and a towel. Without a second thought, I bent down, untied my boots, and toed ‘em off, then shucked my socks and tucked ‘em into the boots. I unfastened the scabbard holding Daddy’s hunting knife to my ankle, stuck it down with the socks, and rolled my jeans up to mid-calf.

  They was probably gonna get wet anyhow, but I reckoned I should at least make the minimal effort to keep ‘em dry. Weren’t nothing like walking around in soggy jeans on a crisp autumn day to vex a body good.

  As an afterthought, I tugged the knife outta its scabbard and clasped its bone hilt in my fist, then gingerly crept down the bank to the water’s edge through thick grown weeds. My feet sank into cold mud, and I grimaced. Sometimes, this job weren’t all it was cracked up to be.

  But cold mud weren’t cold water. The creek was narrow, no more’n five feet at its widest, and clear under the dappled shade of the trees standing sentinel along the edges. I sucked in a sharp breath, stepped right into the swift flowing water, and yelped. The water was frigid as ice. I slipped and slid fast as I could across slick rocks buried under its surface, but my skin was still numb by the time I leapt onto the opposite bank and scrambled up the steep, muddy slope to the dry grass beyond.

  Danged if I weren’t gonna double my fee for this job. Three dozen fresh-laid eggs orta do the trick, assuming I caught whatever was eating the chickens before they all got et.

  I wedged the feathers outta the bark, stepped into the sunlight streaming down on the neighbor’s back yard, and slowly twirled ‘em between my fingers. No blood, but that weren’t unusual. Probably got caught as the culprit leapt outta the stream, the same way I done. I released the feathers into a light breeze and looked around. The yard was tidy and neat, a scant day past being raked clean of leaves, which was just too bad. Mighta been some clues hid in autumn’s debris what coulda pointed me in the right direction.

  I scouted up and down the creek bank on this side for a good piece in either direction and found not a trace of whatever carried the chickens off. No hindrance on this side in the way of fences and whatnot. Likely, if the chickens wasn’t eat right off, and it didn’t look to me like they was, the culprit woulda trotted right on through the neighbor’s yard and into the deep wood beyond.

  I eyed the forest’s edge for a long while, contemplating options, and squinted near the sun for good measure. It was halfway down the sky, well past its midday zenith and far too close to the mountain tops for my peace of mind. Best thing to do was to come back early one morning, park in the neighbor’s drive, with their permission, and scout my way through the woods along whatever animal or other trails cut through there.

  Decision made, I retraced my steps, held my breath through the icy creek, and retrieved my boots and sundries from the creek bank.

  Jazz was leaning against the fence waiting for me. “Now Sunny girl, me and BobbiJean hired you to look after the chickens, not take a bath in the creek.”

  I shot him a sour glance and otherwise ignored his wisecracking hide. “I’m gonna come back in a day or two and search the woods.”

  “Well, damn,” he said, and stood up. “I hoped you’d figure out what was doing this so we could catch it and be done.”

  Billy Kildare’s coon dog sprung to mind. I knuckled my forehead, remembered the knife in my hand, and stuck it back in its scabbard. “I got some ideas, but it’s early yet. Meantime, you might wanna use that scrap metal to reinforce your coop.”

  “Jesus, Sunny,” Jazz breathed, and I grinned and invited myself in for a hot cup of tea and a round of fresh gossip.

  I took the roundabout way home and stopped by David’s to run the idea of a fall party by him. His car was gone and the house was locked up tight. I checked all the doors and what windows I could, doing my neighborly part in case he forgot to secure something, but they was all closed tight as a drum. Even the boathouse had a deadbolt on its doors.

  Why hadn’t he said something to me about leaving town when we was out riding the other day?

  I shook off my worry and vowed to call him in a few days, just to check in and make sure he was ok. I had a sneaky suspicion he weren’t, but what could I do about it from here when he done disappeared without a word to the wise?

  I scrounged around in the IROC for a slip of scratch paper and a pen, jotted a note letting him know I dropped by looking for him, and stuck it in the space between the door and the doorjamb, right where he’d be sure to see it first thing. I left feeling like I hadn’t done near enough where he was concerned, and knowing I could
n’ta done no more’n I had.

  Chapter Six

  Two weeks passed quick as lightning. The day after my last visit, I drove over to Jazz and BobbiJean’s neighbor’s house and scouted the woods. Couldn’t find hide nor hair of them chickens, nor young Billy’s coon dog, neither one. No trace of nothing, as a matter of fact, including sign of other animals or another possible culprit in the chickens’ disappearances.

  Things quieted down after that. I checked in with BobbiJean ever coupla days, but the coop was silent as a church mouse in the dead of night and intact when the sun rose ever morn.

  Business dried up somewhat, new cases anyhow. I kept snooping around old Aunt Sadie’s house and made a right good effort to find the missing dogs, including another scouting trip into the deep wood.

  Nothing.

  In the load of downtime I was blessed with, I finished studying the accounting textbook, started reading up on creating a business plan, and scrubbed the trailer from top to bottom and stem to stern in between.

  Riley’s work was still going strong, but ever spare minute he had, seemed like, he was underfoot with some new scheme or other. We drove up to Cade’s Cove in Eastern Tennessee after church one Sunday and got caught in the leaf traffic.

  It was real pleasant. Only once was I tempted to roll down the window and holler at some tourist for stopping in the middle of the road to take a dadgum picture of a leaf. Riley near about done it for me the second time a car in front of us slowed down and veered off the road without using a turn signal.

  Another time, we hit the flea market in Rabun Gap and challenged each other to find the tackiest item there. He beat my buried treasure, a hand-painted Hawaiian shirt replete with multiple Elvises in miniature, with his find, a crocheted sleeve for a dachshund what bore a striking resemblance to a woman’s privates.