She led the mare from the stable to the woods. Twigs snapped beneath the horse’s heavy feet, and April stopped to stare through the night toward the house, silhouetted vaguely in the shadows. If Mulhern did awaken, perhaps he would think there was only a possum or raccoon out here.
She moved deeper into the woods. The trees were thick and darkness was absolute. A panicky chill danced up and down her spine as she realized she was taking a chance on getting lost.
No, she thought fiercely. She knew this path. She had to keep going and make that road. Thorns ripped at her trousers, but she jerked ahead. Nothing could stop her, nothing. She had been away from home too long. She had to go back—had to.
It has to be here somewhere, her mind churned anxiously. The rocky, red clay road, just below the bend and out of sight of the house—that was where she would leave the woods. Behind her, the mare snorted, and she jumped, startled, stood still for a moment before moving on.
A soft cry of joy escaped her lips as the moon pointed the way to the road ahead. She quickly mounted the mare, urging her forward, still keeping her to a walking gait.
Was she far enough away? Dear Lord, she prayed so. Nudging the mare with her heels, she took her into a trot. The clip-clopping sound was not too loud, she decided. It was all she could do to restrain herself, for she wanted to move, get as far away from this place as possible. Be calm, she told herself, be calm.
The scream erupted everywhere at once. She was caught in the middle of it as though sucked into a maelstrom of sound. The horse reared up on her hind legs, front legs flailing the air. Something snapped beneath her—a cinch that had not been properly tightened. She dropped the reins and clutched the horse’s mane, knotting her fingers in the silky hair as she fought to hang on, to keep from falling to the ground beneath those wildly thrashing hooves. Her grip began to slip as the mare twisted, heaved, side-dancing in frenzy. April’s fingers were slipping, and then suddenly there was nothing to hold onto anymore, and she was falling to the ground. Instinct commanded her to roll quickly away from those deadly thrashing hooves. Rocks cut through her clothing, into her flesh, scraped the soft skin of her face. Scrubby undergrowth halted her spiraling movement. A moment later, she realized that the horse had turned and was running in panic back to the ranch.
She lay there struggling to breath against the churning choking pain that squeezed her chest. Her gaze turned upward, toward the shadowed trees above, and a silent scream parted her lips. Above, staring down at her like the eyes of satan, were the eyes of a bobcat.
The bobcat’s scream ripped through the night once again.
It was as though an unseen hand had suddenly, silently, drawn back the great curtain of night. A pale grayish pink mist swept across the sky. April could see the snarling yellow-gold cat as he perched upon the limb perhaps only ten feet above where she lay. Every instinct told her to run, but something held her still. She dared not breathe. Slowly, she allowed her constricting lungs to drink of the sweet air.
The cat’s mouth opened once more, displaying shining, ominous teeth. A thin rope of saliva connected pointed fangs. The growling from his throat was deep, gnarling. She watched in horror as he sprang easily, silently, to a limb even lower and closer. With small, stalking steps, his padded paws, claws protruding, moved along the limb until he reached a position directly above her face.
Was her life to end so abruptly and horribly? Was there to be no chance to return home to save her father? Was she to die here, like a wounded bird, as that vicious beast tore open her throat? She was helpless. One leap, and he would be on her. Silent prayers formed in her tortured brain, but she was unable to put words together.
She watched in astonishment as the lithe cat lowered himself to lie down on the branch. His eyes shone with hatred, and he licked his lips, as though enjoying her torment. She was his, and he could take her any time he pleased.
Moments passed. The cat continued to lick his face, but all the while he stared down at her with those glittering yellow teeth. The sky lightened. Now she could see every hair on his body.
Suddenly, in the distance behind her, the sound of thundering hooves filled the air. The cat heard it too and raised up once again, arching his back and howling another heart-stopping screech. He was poised, ready to leap, ears up and alert, his eyes steadily on his prey. Noise meant an intruder. Would it take away his treasure?
He sprang. April screamed at the same moment she rolled to her stomach and covered her head with her arms. Let it come quickly, she prayed.
And then the shot rang out.
The cat hit the ground just beside her with a dull, heavy thud. She raised her head. Those eyes were still on her, but they were no longer menacing. A clear glaze clouded them, and blood spurted from the opened mouth, staining the sharp fangs. With one great spasm, the cat lay dead.
“April, what in tarnation are you doin’ out here?” She turned her head, her neck painful from lying so long in fear. Mulhern was coming toward her, a smoking rifle in his grasp. “Are you all right?”
He knelt down and helped her sit up. “That mare woke me up when she came running through the yard, and it’s a damn good thing she did,” he said anxiously, his eyes scanning her for some sign of injury. “I saw the harness, saw the saddle draggin’, and I knowed somethin’ was wrong. I grabbed my gun, and when I heard that cat screamin’, I could tell from the sound he had somethin’ trapped.”
He stared at her reproachfully. “You was runnin’ away, weren’t you, April? You had it all planned! Look at you! You ’bout near got yourself killed. Well, I’ll tell you one thing. I’m gonna do just what the boss said to do if you did try somethin’ foolish. I’m gonna lock you in that house, and you ain’t comin’ out again till he gets back.”
He turned to look at the dead cat. “Now that’s a nice one,” he said proudly. “Good shot, too. I ain’t never got one from that far off. On horseback, too. The boss will be plenty proud of me when he hears about this.”
He had turned his back on her. She had to act at once or lose her chance. Springing to her feet, she grabbed his rifle and brought the stock crashing down across his head. With an agonized grunt, he toppled forward onto the clay and lay motionless.
She did not wait to see if she had killed him. She could not allow it to matter. If Hinton had heard the shot, he would be right behind. She grabbed the mare’s reins and swung herself up onto the smooth bare back. Evidently Mulhern had untied the remaining saddle cinch. No matter. She had never ridden bareback before, but by God, there was no time like the present to learn.
Kicking the horse’s flanks hard, digging in her heels, she gripped the reins tightly. Leaning forward, pressing her body down for balance, she rode hard and fast. The sky was light. She could see everything clearly. Now it was all up to her.
When she reached the main road, some twenty minutes later, she immediately crossed over into the dense forest beyond and allowed the horse time to rest. By then she had decided that Hinton was not following. If Mulhern was alive, then Hinton would have to care for him.
April urged the mare back onto the road toward Sylacauga. She could be there easily by midmorning and, with luck, be halfway to Montgomery by late afternoon. A night’s sleep somewhere, and she would be fresh tomorrow morning and ready to give Vanessa the surprise of her life.
Her stomach rumbled with hunger. She had no money with which to buy food. After all her careful planning, she cursed her stupidity for not thinking to bring along something to eat. Thoughts of the corn pones she had fried for herself and the men the night before made her feel even worse. There had been a whole basketful sitting on the table when she left. Even one would quell some of the twinges she was feeling.
Then it dawned on her that, if she had no money, she couldn’t telegraph Uncle James. I’ll find a way, she told herself.
The balding, potbellied man stared at April over the narrow wooden counter. “You gotta be kidding,” he said around a mouthful of tobacco. “What you thi
nk I got going here? You think I give credit?”
April looked down at the floor, hot with embarrassment. “I’m sorry.” She lifted her eyes to meet his once again. “But I must send a message, and I just don’t have any money with me.”
He shifted his wad of tobacco to the other side of his mouth, cocked his head to one side, and grinned. “Lady, I feel sorry for you, but I don’t own this place. I just work here, and if I don’t have the money to turn in for what telegraphs is sent, then I got to come up with it out of my own pocket. And I can’t afford that.”
If she could not get word to Uncle James, then she would have to deal with Vanessa and Zeke and Whit on her own. Of course, she could go to the sheriff and tell him her story. But what if the sheriff refused to get involved? “After all,” he might say, “Vanessa is your father’s daughter and entitled to live in that house, too. I can’t just throw her out.” Then he would brush her aside.
Her hands felt cold and clammy. She moved them to her throat, slowly, and touched the tiny gold locket she had worn for years and treasured so dearly because it had belonged to her mother. Her father had told her it was pure gold and quite valuable. But she had never thought of the monetary value…until now. Quickly she unfastened it and thrust it at the man. “Can you take this as a gesture of faith in my promise to pay you? I will get the money to you, but you can hold this until I do.”
He extended a fleshy hand, and she laid the locket in his open palm. As he turned it over, scrutinizing it carefully, she rushed on, “It was my mother’s. It means more to me than I can say. Surely you can see that I would never give it up for good. All I ask is a few days—a week at the most.”
“Oh, all right,” he said in a bored voice as he stuffed the locket in the pocket of his stained silken vest. He picked up a piece of paper and a pen. “Give me the message and tell me where you want it sent.”
“James Jennings, Hattiesburg, Mississippi,” she told him, gripping the edge of the counter and leaning over to watch him scrawl her words. “Just say, ‘Please come at once. Poppa sick. Many problems. I need you desperately. Love, April.’”
Her voice broke slightly at the last, but the man looked at her with the same bored expression, unmoved. “Is that it?” She nodded. “Okay. I’ll give you a week to get back here with the money, or the locket is mine. Understand?”
“Yes, of course. You don’t have to worry. I’ll be back. You can count on that.”
The sinister chuckle stopped her as she hurried toward the door. “I’ll be worrying that you do show up, lady. This locket is worth somethin’. I wouldn’t mind keeping it.”
“I’ll be back,” she said firmly.
Outside in the dusty street, April felt sick with hunger, but since there was no means of buying food, she decided she would be better off to hurry on her way. There were smells of bacon frying from a restaurant next door to the telegraph office, and the odor made her dizzy.
The mare had drunk her fill from the wooden trough, so she mounted and headed out of town. From time to time, she looked over her shoulder, still worried that she would see Hinton and Mulhern charging toward her. Each time she saw only an empty road behind, a wave of relief washed over her.
It was becoming apparent that she had miscalculated the time it would take to reach Montgomery. She had to allow the mare to walk leisurely because she did not know enough about horses to know how much exertion they could stand—particularly this chunky little mare. The mare was also going to need some hay or corn or something, she thought anxiously. And she herself must eat soon.
Rounding a curve, she saw what lay to the right and reined the mare in so sharply that she reared up. The sight had taken April by surprise—a church, people milling about, the smell of pigs roasting over open pits, frying chicken. It was a picnic, and the smells were too much to bear. She jerked the reins to the right and rode onto the church grounds. A few people glanced up at her curiously as she got off the horse and tied her to a tree.
She dusted off her trousers and stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do next. She knew she looked a sight, and oh lord, she hated to beg. A kind-faced man came walking toward her. The preacher, she thought nervously.
“Bless you, brother, and welcome to Shady Grove Baptist church—” His voice trailed off and his eyes widened as she removed he hat. Her hair tumbled down about her face and shoulders. He smiled quickly. “Excuse me, sister.”
“It’s all right.” She licked her lips nervously and began to twist her hat in her hands. “Look, parson, I’ve never begged before in my life, but I’m on my way home, and I haven’t eaten since yesterday. I smelled your food—”
“Of course.” His smile quickened to a broad grin. He offered his arm and she took it as graciously as though she were making a grand entrance. “You just come with me. The lambs in my flock are always ready to open their hearts—and their picnic baskets—to a child of the Lord. Just come with me.”
The others were as friendly as their preacher, and while she received a few curious stares, no one asked any questions. She was given a generous portion of roast pig, along with baked sweet potatoes, corn on the cob, green peas, and hot biscuits dripping with butter. While the crispy, bubbly dish of apple pie was tempting, April declined.
“Then you’ll take a basket with you,” a woman smiled kindly. “You might get hungry again before you reach your destination.”
Though she protested, the good people of Shady Grove Baptist Church would not take no for an answer. They even showed her a grazing place for her mare. She left them carrying a bag of food that would see her through the rest of her journey. “I don’t know how to thank you all,” she murmured, tears in her eyes.
“Just help another stranger along the way,” the preacher smiled and waved. “Pass along the good work of the Lord.”
“And pray for our soldiers,” the woman who had packed the basket called to her. “Pray they defeat the Yankees and save our homeland.”
April promised she would and moved the mare on down the road, feeling a gratitude she had never felt before.
At dusk, she found a deserted barn set back from the road and shrouded with thick vines and weeds. The door hung from rotted hinges, leaving the opening a black and yawning mouth for the green monster that framed it. Poking her head inside, she leaped back, startled at the sound of something unseen scurrying in the dark. All of a sudden the hard ground below her feet seemed a more welcome bed than that black pit.
After a restless night, she continued on her way. She had never been so tired. Every muscle ached from the long hours of riding.
By midafternoon, familiar sights told her she was close to home. She began to pace the weary horse slower, not wanting to get too close to Pinehurst before dark.
At dusk, she reached the stream that ran through the woods far behind her home. After unsaddling the horse and making sure she was secured out of sight, April crouched behind a tree to watch for signs of movement near the plantation.
The field hands had already finished the day’s plowing. Wisps of smoke rose above the trees surrounding the slave cottages, telling her that the workers were inside, preparing their evening meal.
She waited until total darkness covered the land, then made her way slowly toward the house. It was her plan to find out as much as possible, then find a place to hide out until Uncle James arrived. Perhaps she could go to Alton’s family. When they heard her story, they would take her in. She really ought to have gone there first, but curiosity about Pinehurst was eating away at her.
She came to the very edge of the woods. Nothing lay between her and the front of the house except the rolling green lawn. The house looked quiet. Deathly quiet. There was a light in her father’s room, and in the study. The rest of the mansion was dark.
Taking a deep breath, she ran across the lawn, moving as fast as she could. When she reached the side of the house, she crouched down once more and waited. There were no sounds. One quick look, she promised herself, one quic
k look to make sure Poppa was all right, and she would leave and hurry to the Moseleys’ farm. But she had to know about Poppa.
Slowly, stealthily, she made her way up the wide marble steps to the sweeping porch. Pressing her back against the white wood side, she inched along till she reached the parlor window. Slowly she turned to peer through the glass and felt an ominous chill when she saw Vanessa sitting behind their father’s oak desk, looking at the papers spread before her.
Vanessa looked quite at home, and April was briefly surprised to see that she wore a rather formal gown of pale mauve, the sleeves and collar edged in delicate lace. Vanessa had never cared for ruffles and frills, preferring plain dresses if she were forced to wear dresses, but being happiest in breeches and shirts.
A bitter flash moved through April as she caught sight of Zeke Hartley sitting opposite her sister. His booted feet were propped on the edge of the desk, and he held a long cheroot between his teeth. His fingers tapped on the sides of a brandy glass. He, too, looked quite at home, she thought angrily.
Their conversation could not be heard, and April decided she had seen enough. What she wanted desperately to know now was how her father was. She turned and left the porch, slipping around to the rear door, praying all the while that she would not run into anyone. All she wanted was a quick peek in her father’s room and then she would be on her way to the Moseleys.
She tiptoed up the dark back stairs, making her way from memory. She reached the second floor and wrinkled her nose at the musty odor. How many of the servants had run away? Probably many, for Vanessa was often cruel to the Negroes.
A thin shaft of light shone through the crack between her father’s door and the floor. She placed her trembling hand on the knob and turned it ever so slowly. Then she opened the door just far enough to see inside. Her father lay in his bed, eyes closed. She watched the rise and fall of his chest. He appeared to be all right.
Then she scanned his face. Even in sleep, much misery and heartache were etched there. She blinked back the furious tears.
Passion's Fury Page 14