Revenge and the Wild

by Michelle Modesto

  Westie reached Henry and climbed into the saddle. Just as she was about to head off, a piercing scream sank its teeth into the back of her neck. The dog cowered, birds scattered from the trees. Westie looked back. If Olive had walked home the way she’d come, the sound would’ve come from the opposite direction. Unless she’d found the bridge and tried to cross. . . .

  “Oh, hell,” Westie said.

  Thirty

  Westie dug her heels into Henry’s sides as they cut through a field, rushing toward the river. When she came to the bridge, she leaped from her saddle and slid down the rough embankment. It was a steady flogging all the way down. She had to dig her machine between the rocks and packed clay to stop her fall before she rolled into the brambles.

  As she feared, the ancient bridge was far more unstable than when she’d last crossed it as a child. It was made of rope and driftwood planks for stepping. Between the sun and storms, the ropes were tendrils of hair.

  “Olive?” Westie shouted when she saw the hole in the middle of the bridge where the planks were broken.

  “Help!” The cry came from downriver.

  Her heart a charging bull in her chest, Westie looked all around until she caught a glimpse of what looked like a white sheet caught on a branch in the middle of the river not far from the bridge.

  She ran as best she could over the rough terrain, but the slick soles of her boots put her in danger of falling. She cursed as she maneuvered the shore, wishing she had worn her hunting garb and moccasins. She’d have made it to Olive by now had she not been weighed down by her dress.

  Olive’s screams became shrieks.

  “Hold on, Olive, I’m coming!”

  Though the girl was a demon with a secret that could destroy Westie, she was a child all the same, and Westie would jump into the river if that was what it took to save her.

  When she was close enough, she saw Olive’s arm crooked around the branch of a pine caught in the rapids. The river was a giant beast that had taken many lives in the time Westie had been in California, and once it had a victim in its clutches, it wasn’t likely to let them go. Olive was but a morsel in its gullet, and she wouldn’t have the strength to hold on for long.

  Wading out into the anger could be the death of them both, but she couldn’t just leave the girl. She had to try.

  Sweat ran into her eyes as Westie pushed through the tangle of blackberry vines along the shore. Some of the thorns were as long as fangs and shredded her skin until her flesh hand was drenched in blood.

  “Hurry, I’m slipping.” Olive coughed as water forced the back of her head forward. Westie knew if the weight of the water didn’t kill the girl, the debris—some of it logs the size of grown men—surely would.

  Westie finessed her way through the water, wedging her feet between rocks for stability and taking hold of boulders with her machine. When she was beside Olive, she reached out.

  “Grab my hand!”

  “I can’t.” Olive swallowed water when she opened her mouth, triggering a coughing fit. “I can’t reach.”

  There were still inches between their fingers as Olive reached out with her free hand, but Westie had nowhere left to go. There were no more boulders between them to grab hold of.

  “Olive, you need to listen to me,” Westie said, her voice rising over the rush of water. “When I tell you to let go of the branch, I need you to do just that, you hear? The water is shallow where you are. Your feet will touch the bottom. As soon as you let go of the branch, I want you to leap for my hand. I’ll catch you. Do you understand?”

  Olive was able to focus long enough to nod her head. Westie nodded too. She leaned farther toward the girl. One good jump and Olive would be in her grasp.

  “Okay, now, look at my eyes,” Westie said. When Olive’s gaze met hers, she saw a scared little girl, not the monster she’d seen in the field with all those dead animals. Westie smiled for reassurance, even though she had little faith in her plan. “Are you ready?” Olive’s fear seemed to ebb at the sight of Westie’s smile. She nodded again.

  Just as Westie was about to tell her to jump, Olive cried, “Look out!”

  Westie glanced back, heart in her throat, mouth opened into a silent scream, as she saw a fallen tree barreling toward her on the water’s surface. There was no time to avoid it; she didn’t even have time to try before the trunk hit her with the force of a steam train.

  Though shallow in most parts, the river swallowed Westie down into its black frothy maw, chewing her up on the rocks below. The light tumbled in front of her eyes as she was washed in the current. Clawing at the endless wall of water, she was sure she’d met her end until something tugged at her skirts and she felt herself being dragged to less abrasive waters. When she was in the calm, she looked up to find the dog, his wet coat showing off every rib. He released her skirt from his mouth and began to bark. Westie hugged the dog to her chest as she struggled to catch her breath.

  And then she remembered Olive.

  The spot where the girl had been was now just a wrinkle on the surface.

  Westie stumbled along the shore, her dress like a sack of rocks weighing her down. The dog, as if knowing exactly what she was looking for, hopped along the shore in a happy display of barks and tail wags, leading her directly to Olive’s body, which had washed to shore and caught in the rocks.

  “No, no, no.” Westie fell to her knees beside the girl. There was no blood, just a few scratches. Westie tried to pump the water from the girl’s lungs like Alistair had once done to her when the weight of her machine had pulled her down to the bottom of a pond they’d been swimming in, but it was no use.

  The girl was gone.

  Westie’s hand shook. She wanted to bolt from the scene and go back to where things made sense. Only she wasn’t sure where that place was anymore. She crouched beside the Sacramento River, feeling hot even though the river water was nothing more than melted snow flowing down Shasta Mountain. Thin saliva filled the space under her tongue, and she tasted the salt of sickness. She washed the bloody scratches on her hand and squeezed it into a fist to stop the shaking.

  She had to do something, tell someone, but if she went to Alistair or Nigel, they wouldn’t believe it had been an accident. She’d have to keep it a secret. But that didn’t sit right either. There were plenty of secrets in her closet, but this one was too big to keep inside, for as she’d learned when she was young, guilt had teeth, and it ate folks up if they didn’t know how to tame it.

  She bundled her knees to her chest and cried a good long time. When the last of her tears were shed, she got up and walked back toward her horse, back toward Rogue City.

  Westie had snuck into the house and changed out of her wet clothes without Nigel or Alistair noticing. She stood at the top of the stairs, with the dog she’d rescued nuzzling against her leg. He had to be touching her, as if she were a dream that he feared would flitter away. A search party had been organized, reminding her of the morning after Isabelle disappeared. It had been only four hours since she’d knelt beside Olive at the river. The sun hadn’t even set, but after what had happened to Isabelle, people were on edge and not taking any chances.

  When Nigel passed below, he stopped and looked up at her. Déjà vu, they called it in France. Her heart began to race. He came to the top of the stairs and looked at the dog, an eyebrow raised with questions.

  “I rescued him,” she said. He only nodded. The tension between them was unmistakable. They were both quiet for a moment. She couldn’t take it any longer, so she asked, “What’s happening?” because that was what someone innocent would say.

  “Olivia Fairfield is missing.”

  A proper lady would have said, That’s awful, or What can I do to help? She didn’t have it in her. Nigel wouldn’t have believed the act anyway.

  Her feet fidgeted beneath her skirt as Nigel watched her. She felt as though her face were a scripture of all her sins.

  “I’ll bring news when I find out more,” he said as if
she’d asked, then turned on his heels and left.

  Westie’s knees bobbed. She waited, worrying about the search. Hours later the party was back. She rushed onto the catwalk to see. Dirt-smeared men beat their hats against their legs, raising clouds of dust. They lumbered around, exhausted and possibly saddened by the search. It was obvious by their gloomy expressions that the girl had been found.

  Alistair walked in, looked up at her, and nodded, then retreated to the great room. It hurt her that he hadn’t come to see her since the fight, but that was the least of her problems. Nigel was the last to come through the door. He marched up the stairs. Westie’s stomach roiled with anticipation.

  “What happened?” she asked. “Did you find her?”

  He wiped at his stubble. It was the longest she’d ever seen his beard. “Yes, she drowned in the river.”

  Westie’s hand went to her mouth, which she hoped gave a look of shock instead of the lack of it.

  “How did it happen?”

  “I’ll tell you more about it later, but first let’s sit. I need to talk to you.”

  Fear curled in Westie’s stomach as she wondered if word had already gotten back to him about the robbery and the missing bottle of Brave Maker.

  Nigel led her down the catwalk to the library. It had been her favorite place to play when she was young. She used to run through that room as a child, squealing war cries with her sword in hand while Nigel hobbled after her yelling, “Good God, Westie, no running with blades!”

  The memory warmed her for a moment before she remembered why they were there.

  They sat down on a bench beneath a shelf of books. It took Nigel a while to speak. He kept starting and stopping. Finally he dedicated himself to words that sounded rehearsed.

  “Westie, I’m very sorry for the things I said to you this morning.” She didn’t care about that. She was more concerned about what had happened during the search, but she let him continue. “I mean, I’m upset that you went behind my back and stole the Fairfields’ gold without confiding in me first, but I’m not upset that you took it. You at least tried to do something. You were right. I should’ve done more, and now Isabelle is dead. I won’t make the same mistake twice. The Fairfields will get what’s coming to them. Whatever it takes, whatever schemes there are to come up with, we’ll find a way.”

  She sat up straight, his words taking some of the edge off her frazzled nerves. “You really mean that?”

  “Yes, I really mean that. But we will do it quietly. Don’t make any decisions that might draw attention to yourself.”

  Oh, right, she thought, like breaking into the general store and stealing booze, or a girl dying while in her care.

  “There’s something else I need to say,” he continued, looking down at his boots. “You stood at the table clutching the doll you shared with your late brother, and all I could think about were the creatures and Emma, and how you taking that money had ruined everything. I didn’t stop to consider that you have had to face the killers of your family every day since they arrived in town—you even danced with them at the ball. If it were me, I most certainly would have killed them by now. You’ve been strong and I’ve been terribly insensitive. Can you ever forgive me?”

  Westie’s throat tightened. She picked at a loose thread on her skirt. “It’s nothing. Let’s just forget about it.”

  “Very well,” he said, looking relieved.

  After an uncomfortable silence, Westie asked, “When’s the funeral?”

  “After the investigation.”

  Westie dropped her hands, and her eyes and mouth opened in astonished O shapes. “What investigation?”

  “The mayor seems to think the drowning looks suspicious. The girl was far from where she typically played. It’s possible she was lured to the river, though personally I think she was playing on the old bridge and fell in. More children have fallen into that river than I care to count. But the mayor is a stubborn man. Can you believe he looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Folks in this town seem to have it out for the Fairfields,’ as if I killed the child? It’s madness around here. Someone even broke into the general store while people were in church!”

  Westie’s guts felt full of acid. If the mayor was investigating Olive’s death, that meant he’d be out there looking for clues, and it wasn’t like she’d taken the time to clean up after herself. There was no telling what messes she could’ve left behind that would lead the mayor right to her doorstep.

  “What’s missing from the store?” she said in a tremulous voice.

  “I don’t know. The shopkeeper is going through his inventory. I’m sure I’ll hear more in the morning.”

  Westie’s thoughts spun in circles. She’d left the bottle of Brave Maker somewhere at the scene but couldn’t remember where.

  She reached over, gave Nigel’s hand a squeeze, and stood. “I promise I won’t do anything stupid till you figure out how to go over the mayor’s head.”

  He smiled. “Good. Where are you off to?”

  “I’ve got a few things I need to take care of.”

  Westie spent most of the night combing the forest for the bottle of whiskey and any other evidence she might have left behind. Retracing her steps, she hoped her new dog would be of some use. As the hours passed, it turned out Lucky—the name she’d given him—was not the retriever she’d hoped for. If the bottle was out there, someone would’ve found it by then, and in the morning after the shopkeeper finished cataloging his inventory and found only a bottle of Brave Maker missing, she’d wake to someone pounding on the door and the angry voices of a lynch mob.

  She shook out her hands, trying to calm herself. If she left town, it would only make her look guilty. She had to stay and face whatever was coming to her. They couldn’t convict her on a bottle of stolen whiskey just because it was her favorite brand.

  What little sleep she got that night was plagued by nightmares. She dreamed that the mayor and the Fairfields had come to the house and banged at the door in the early hours of the morning, and that when she opened the door, a firing squad waited behind them, ready to send her to her maker.

  The next morning she couldn’t shake the nausea that the nightmare had left her with. She tried to ignore it by nursing the bloody, matted mess that was her new pup back to health. She fed him chunks of Jezebel’s meat mixture. Jezebel came sniffing around when she smelled her food. Westie would’ve been more concerned about the dog and the chupacabra’s first encounter had Nigel not stuffed Jezebel so full of raw meat, she was as plump as Myrtle Grey.

  Westie scrubbed the dog in the tub. When she heard someone pounding on the door downstairs, her back stiffened. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for escape. They’d come for her. She thought about fleeing out the window and shimmying down the lattice on the side of the house. Then she thought again how guilty that would make her look, and so she decided to stay and deny having anything to do with Olive’s death.

  But what if they saw the manzanita tree, and the evidence of the dog? They’d find her bathing him and know she’d been at the scene.

  She heard footsteps making their way upstairs. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the tub. When the door to the washroom opened, she tried to remove any traces of guilt from her face.

  She looked up to meet her accusers. But it wasn’t the mayor, or the Fairfields, or a firing squad.

  “Costin?”

  He leaned against the door, clad in black as usual, his glistening black hair falling over his shoulders. He wore a bowler hat with his lace shroud tucked into the brim.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, not sure whether to feel relieved or suspicious.

  He pushed off the door, gliding toward her. “The door was unlocked. I tried knocking, but no one answered.”

  Westie glared at Jezebel, who’d been too infatuated with the dog to notice the intruder.

  Costin looked at the dog. “I see you’ve picked up Nigel’s affinity for strays.”

&
nbsp; “He was hurt.”

  “I see that.”

  Westie didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she scrubbed the dog even though he was clean.

  “What happened to your hand?” he asked.

  The edges of the cuts caused by the bramble thorns had wrinkled from being in the water. They were deep and would probably need stitches. “I was helping in the garden.”

  He nodded but didn’t look convinced.

  Costin knelt beside the tub, his skin as white as curd next to hers. He grabbed the bucket of fresh water to rinse the suds from the dog’s back. The dog instantly took to the vampire despite him being a predator, and wagged his tail, splashing Westie.

  “Would you like to know what I was doing last night?” he asked.

  “Not particularly.”

  He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I was hired by the mayor to find evidence of foul play in the death of Olivia Fairfield.”

  Westie sucked in a breath. “Well,” she said with a tremor in her voice she couldn’t help, “don’t leave me in suspense. Did you find anything?”

  Costin looked like he was trying not to smile.

  “What happened in the woods, Westie, with that little girl?” he asked.

  She stopped breathing, mouth going dry.

  “Can’t say I know what you mean. I was at the docks yesterday morning.”

  “You know, the Native Americans get all the credit for their tracking abilities, but I’m an excellent hunter myself. I see things clumsy men wouldn’t notice. That’s why the mayor asked for my help. I’m good at reading people too, and you, my love, are hiding something.”

  Westie pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. Twin tears raced down her cheeks.