Amy stared at her aunt in shock. “Frankie’s here?”
“He always shows up for free food, then disappears into the woods again, although I expect he hangs around a bit longer than most of us think.” Corliss gave her a sharp glance. “Why this interest in Frankie Bodine all of a sudden?”
Amy considered telling her aunt what she and Con had learned that afternoon, but they’d agreed to keep it quiet until they had a chance to talk with Frankie and find out what he knew. She said instead, “Could I ask you just one more question?”
“Shoot, dear heart.”
“Is there any chance Lottie could buy Amberly?”
Corliss gave a bark of laughter. “Where on earth did you get such a notion? Emmett left her a little something, I reckon, but I’m sure she and the girls have gone through most of that by now. Fay’s never been one to hold down a job, you know, and Lottie’s never done anything but keep house.”
Amy said in a hushed tone, “What about Mama’s emerald necklace?”
Something flashed in Corliss’s eyes, something that might have been dread, as if Amy had touched on something Corliss had already thought of herself but tried to deny. She leaned across the table, lowering her voice to match Amy’s. “You always did have a wild imagination, Amber Rochelle, but I think it would be best for everyone concerned if you keep those ravings to yourself.”
* * *
AFTER SHE LEFT Corliss, Amy walked around the picnic area, wondering if Con was somewhere in the crowd. She wanted to talk to him about her and Corliss’s conversation, but she didn’t think he’d come to the barbecue. It didn’t seem like his style.
Catching a glimpse of Jasmine, Amy called out to her. Jasmine glanced over her shoulder, saw Amy, then ducked into the crowd. Amy sighed. Obviously, her sister still harbored deep resentment toward her, but Amy wasn’t going to give up trying. She hurried through the crowd in the direction she’d last seen Jasmine.
Twilight had turned into nightfall. Lightning bugs flitted through the trees, and the rising moon silvered the surface of the river. Amy walked along the water, letting the noise of the crowd and the music fade behind her as she looked for her sister. The putter of a boat engine sounded over the water, then was extinguished, leaving the night almost unnaturally quiet.
A few moments later, Amy decided she’d better head back. Her sister was nowhere in sight, and she didn’t want to get too far from the park. But as she turned to head back, a noise in the trees behind her spooked her, and before she could glimpse over her shoulder, something hit her in the back of the head.
Stars exploded behind her eyes as Amy’s knees collapsed and she fell to the ground. She wasn’t sure how long she clung to consciousness before she sensed someone kneel beside her. A rough, anxious voice whispered, “You done been hurt?”
Amy tried to speak, tried to open her eyes and respond, but her head reeled dizzily, and she squeezed her lids closed, finally letting the darkness close over her. She dreamed that someone was lifting her, carrying her, and then, all she heard, was water lapping against a boat.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHEN AMY CAME TO, her head throbbed and a wave of nausea washed over her. She lay perfectly still for several long minutes, breathing deeply, trying to remember what happened.
And then it all came back in a terrifying rush, and she glanced frantically around, wondering where she was and who had attacked her.
She was lying on an old sofa, and someone had covered her with a blue-and-white patchwork quilt. The tiny room was dimly lit by what looked to be a kerosene lantern, but Amy could make out the details. A cot had been shoved up against one wall and spread with another quilt. An empty rocking chair sat near a wood-burning stove, cold now because of summer.
Just beyond the stove was the kitchen, and Amy could see a sink equipped with an old-fashioned pump. The cabin was crude, but looked spotlessly clean and neat. As she gazed around, a feeling of foreboding stole over her.
She’d been here before! She knew this room. She’d lain on this very couch….
Panic exploded inside her. Ignoring the pain in her head and the nausea in her stomach, Amy swung her feet off the couch, shoving aside the quilt. She had to get out of here! She knew, without a doubt, that she was in very grave danger.
The front door stood open. Moonlight glimmered through the screen door, and as Amy struggled to her feet, a shadow fell across the porch beyond. Floorboards creaked, the screen door squealed in protest as it was drawn back and Frankie Bodine walked into the room.
Amy’s heart flailed against her chest. She shrank back against the couch, terror clawing at her backbone. As if in protection, she grasped the quilt, pulling it over her like a shield.
“What do you want with me?”
He stood gazing down at her, his expression masked by the bill of his cap and the shadows flickering in the room. He wore denim overalls and a worn plaid shirt rolled up at the cuffs. His forearms looked massive. Powerful. Had he been the one to hit her earlier? He must have been. Who else could it have been?
Without answering her, he lumbered to the kitchen, his work boots rumbling on the bare wood floor. Amy thought about making a dash for the door, but she remembered how quickly he could move. He’d be on her before she could reach the porch.
Trying to think rationally, she gazed around for a weapon. A shotgun hung on a rack near the door. Even if she could manage to get it down before Frankie saw her, she didn’t think she’d know how to use it. She might have better luck with the iron poker behind the stove—
Frankie came back into the room, carrying a mason jar of what looked to be iced tea in one hand and a white envelope in the other. When he shoved the jar at Amy, she shook her head.
“It won’t hurt you none.” His drawl was thick and crude. “Drink it.”
He thrust it at her again, and this time Amy accepted it. While he stood staring down at her, she took a tentative sip. It was very sweet and very good. The cool liquid soothed the rawness of her throat. She took another drink, then handed him back the glass. “Thank you.”
He nodded, took the tea from her, then handed her the envelope. Amy stared down at it in the gloom. She could see writing on the face, but she couldn’t make it out.
Frankie, sensing her dilemma, retrieved the kerosene lamp from a tiny drop-leaf table and brought it over to the sofa. For the first time, Amy saw his face clearly, and her breath caught in her throat. He looked very much like his sister. He had the same soft gray eyes, the same gentle expression. He didn’t look at all dangerous. Only his size was intimidating.
Amy glanced back down at the envelope. Her name was written across the front in Nona’s neat, precise penmanship.
Her heart skipped a beat. “When did Nona give this to you?” she asked urgently. When he merely stared down at her, she said, “I mean Winona.”
He shrugged, then turned and, taking the shotgun down off the wall, walked back out to the porch. His footsteps clattered on the steps, but Amy didn’t think he’d gone far.
With trembling fingers, she tore open the envelope and removed the pages inside, controlling her desperate urge to scan through them. Instead, she forced herself to sit back against the shabby couch and begin at the top of the letter, reading slowly, digesting Nona’s every word.
Dear Amy,
The fact that you are in possession of this letter can only mean you’ve somehow discovered who you really are and have managed to find your way home. But after I tell you what happened all those years ago, I pray you’ll leave that place again and never, ever return.
It all began that hot summer night. I’d arrived from Houston that morning to visit my brother, but as usual, Frankie couldn’t sit still inside. He had to be out on the river. I’d given him a new flashlight when I first got there, and he was just like a kid with a new toy. He couldn’t wait to try it out.
After he left, I went on to bed. I knew he sometimes stayed on the water for hours, but just after midnight, I heard him hol
lering up from the woods. I knew by the sound of his voice something was wrong, and then he came bursting into the house, with you unconscious in in his arms. He’d carried you all the way up from the river.
You were the most pitiful little thing I’d ever seen. Your hair and clothing were soaked, and you were bleeding from a cut on your forehead.
As I tended to the wound and tried to figure out what other injuries you might have suffered, Frankie told me what had happened.
Someone tried to kill you that night, Amy.
The words blurred before Amy’s eyes. She had to read the line twice, then once again to comprehend the full meaning. Someone had tried to kill her!
My God. Oh, my God.
Her heart pounded inside her as she looked up at the door. Frankie was still outside.
Trembling all over, Amy glanced back down at the letter, forcing herself to continue.
Someone tried to kill you that night, Amy.
Frankie’s boat was tied off underneath the bridge when someone threw you into the water, then drove off. Frankie dived into the water and found you. There was no way it could have been an accident or suicide, like your mama, because a weight had been tied to your ankle. Frankie said the rope came undone real easy-like, as if maybe whoever had tied it had only wanted the knot to hold long enough for you to drown.
He managed to get you out of the water and into his boat, and he brought you back here to me. He was scared to death, bless his heart, and so was I. We were both worried Frankie would get blamed for what happened. I know that must sound strange, but your daddy already had it in for Frankie. He’d sent him to the state home once before for something Frankie didn’t do.
Frankie never touched that girl, but Judge Tremain didn’t believe him or me. There was no reason to think he’d believe us this time, especially with his own daugther. And Frankie was an adult. He would have gone to prison this time. He could never have survived that.
You can’t imagine the terrible dilemma I faced, Amy. You were unconscious when Frankie first brought you home. I knew I should get you to a doctor, but he would have reported your injuries to the sheriff. How could I take a chance on Frankie getting sent away again for something he didn’t do? I was all he had. The only person on this earth who cared what happened to him. He was always like a sweet, innocent child. I had to protect him.
I told myself you’d be okay. The cut wasn’t deep, and I couldn’t find anything else wrong with you. I knew you’d come around in a little while, and then you could tell your story to the sheriff. Frankie would be in the clear, and whoever had tried to kill you could be arrested.
But when you did come to a few minutes later, you didn’t remember anything. Not even your own name. I thought it was temporary at first, brought on by the shock of everything that had happened. figured you’d remember in time, but until then, I couldn’t risk having you found at Frankie’s. I didn’t know what else to do but take you back home to Houston with me. That way, no one would connect your disappearance with Frankie.
You slept most of the way, but when you roused a couple of times, I told you I was a friend, taking you to get help. You were pretty out of it, so you believed me, and there was no one around to tell you any different.
When we got to Houston, I took you to the hospital where I worked, and had a doctor friend of mine run some tests on you. I sat by your bedside and talked to you, tried to soothe your panic without telling you anything that might lead you back here. I couldn’t let you come back until you could clear Frankie.
But days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and you never got your memory back. After a while, I had to tell you something. I couldn’t let you linger in that terrible limbo.
So when the therapist I took you to see couldn’t help you, I began making up a past for you. Once I had committed myself, and Frankie, to that terrible deception, there was no turning back. If he wasn’t a suspect before, he most certainly would be after what I did. So I had to keep you away from Magnolia Bend—at any cost.
I convinced myself it was for the best that you never remembered. If the person who tried to kill you continued to think you were dead, then you’d be safe. You could lead a full, healthy life, and no one ever had to know that Amber Tremain was still alive. You and Frankie were both protected this way, and that’s all that mattered to me. Because by this time, I’d come to think of you as the daughter I could never have. I began to pray your memory never returned….
The letter went on for several more pages, Nona explaining herself, begging Amy to forgive her and praying that Amy and Frankie would remain safe once the whole truth came out.
Her hands shaking, her insides trembling with everything she’d learned, Amy folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. She sat for a moment, her mind reeling. It was almost too much to comprehend, and yet it made a strange, perfect kind of sense. Someone had tried to kill her that night, and Nona had taken her away to protect her. And to protect Frankie.
Or had she? Could Amy trust the letter? Nona had lied to her about her past. What if she was lying to her about the events of that night? What if Nona was still trying to protect Frankie?
As quietly as she could, Amy rose to her feet. She slipped the letter into her dress pocket as she crossed the floor on tiptoes, glancing through the kitchen doorway. It was barely larger than a closet, with a two-burner stove, one sink and an old, rusted icebox. There was no back door.
She moved to the screen door, peering out. Frankie was nowhere in sight, but Amy still doubted that he’d gone far.
Pushing open the screen, she stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was several feet off the ground. The house sat on stilts, and she could see piles of mussel shells gleaming in the moonlight. So that was how Frankie made his living, she thought fleetingly.
She walked down the steps, almost expecting him to materialize at any moment. Her feet crunched against bits of shell as she took a few steps into the yard. The house had been built years ago in a small clearing surrounded on all sides by woods. There was no road that Amy could detect, but a series of footpaths led back into the trees. She had no idea which way to go.
As she stood contemplating her predicament, a shot rang out, shattering tree bark not ten feet from her. Another shot followed and, gasping in terror, Amy rushed into the woods in front of her. She raced through the trees and underbrush, unmindful of the limbs tearing at her hair, unaware of anything but the hard thumping of her heart.
Someone had shot at her, tried to kill her. Had it been Frankie? He had a shotgun, and he’d brought her to this isolated cabin. Amy wanted to believe Nona’s letter, but how could she? Nona had lied to her about so many things, and she’d always tried to protect her brother.
After several minutes of blind panic, reason caught up with her, and she stopped to gaze around. She had no idea where she was, but she could glimpse a light through the trees. The tiny glimmer drew her toward a clearing, and as Amy stared at the back of the house, she realized she’d gone in a circle, had run straight back to Frankie’s cabin, straight back into the arms of her would-be killer.
Terror mushroomed inside her. She stood helplessly looking around, not knowing which way to go in the darkened woods.
And as she stood there, the sound of hard, labored breathing came to her. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Slowly Amy turned.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HE LAY ON HIS BACK, not more than five feet from where she stood. In the moonlight, Amy could see the dark stain on the bib of his overalls, the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. He put out a hand toward her, and Amy’s own hand flew to her mouth, suppressing a scream.
She realized with dawning horror that Frankie had been shot. He hadn’t been shooting at her. Someone had shot him.
Everything in Nona’s letter was true, then. Frankie had saved Amy’s life that night. He’d probably saved it again tonight.
She fell to her knees beside him and took his huge hand in hers. “Frank
ie? Can you hear me?” she whispered urgently.
His eyes fluttered open, but Amy wasn’t sure if he could see her or not. She squeezed his hand. “Who shot you?”
He struggled to speak, but nothing came out.
“You brought me here to protect me, didn’t you?” Whoever had attacked her at the park was undoubtedly the same person who had shot Frankie. Who had tried to kill her nine years ago. The irony was, Amy couldn’t remember his identity and Frankie couldn’t tell her.
“We have to get you to a doctor,” Amy whispered. But there was no way she could lift him, and she had nothing with which to staunch the flow of blood. Her only recourse was to head to Frankie’s house, find something inside with which she could bind his wounds.
As if sensing her intention, he clutched her hand, pulling her toward him. Amy put her ear close to his lips, her heart pounding all the while. At first she couldn’t make out what he was saying, but then, his voice grew stronger, as if he’d summoned every last ounce of his strength. “Get out of here! Run!”
Then Amy heard it, too. The crunch of underbrush nearby. If she ran for Frankie’s house, she would be exposed in the clearing. She would be shot in the back, and she and Frankie would both die here in these woods.
The footsteps came crashing through the underbrush. The only thing Amy could do was lead the killer away from Frankie. If he was found alive—
She spun away from Frankie and plowed through the woods, ignoring the vines and brambles that tore at her arms and legs and face, and the mosquitoes that swarmed like a cloud around her head the deeper she ran into the woods.
The ground became increasingly wet, the footing more treacherous. A ground mist hovered over the area, hiding the muck that sucked at her feet and oozed over the straps of her sandals. With a new sense of terror, Amy realized she’d entered a bog of some sort, the kind Jasmine had warned her about. The kind where water moccasins and bobcats lived.
The insects were even more torturous here, and as Amy lifted her hand to swat a mosquito on the back of her neck, she heard the telltale sound of a twig snapping. A flock of blackbirds, disturbed from their twilight roosts, soared into the air, twittering frantically as they circled overhead, then disappeared into the gathering gloom.
Her Secret Past Page 14