What the Moon Saw

by D. L. Koontz

  Yet, she had been Elisa Macay, Morning Meadow, Broken Arrow’s wife, Libby Shaw, and Libby Grey. The question was, who did she want to be?

  In one more of those momentous, turning-point moments, while staring at the moon the night before, she had instantly answered her own question, and the awareness and the relief were so enormous she felt weightless and unshackled. But with it a guilt settled deep in her core.

  She pushed the memories aside obstinately, for now, and climbed out of the now-cold bath water. She would have to think about all of this later. Rose was waiting.

  Libby ate lunch with Rose in the hotel’s kitchen—which served as the rather unglamorous winter replacement for the dining room since there were no other guests and only a handful of staffers for the season—then passed several hours oohing and awing over Rose’s hats and sketches, before climbing on her bicycle and pedaling toward town. Rose said she wanted to work on more designs, so Libby decided physical activity and the warm sun on her face might help her harness the anxiety she felt in waiting to hear news about Gretchen’s death. She’d long since mastered the tricky combination of a dress on a bike, and the challenge of pedaling on dirt roads. Once near town, she steered away from the town’s hub, not wanting to see familiar faces.

  On her return, around half past five, she surveyed the darkening landscape skimming by on either side. She smiled at the raw cry of a predator bird in the distance, and goose bumped at the wind feathering through the wild grass. In 2016, she’d been too busy to stop and appreciate. Too caught up in collecting, and hurrying, and doing, and proving. She’d forgotten to just be in the moment. Landing here had been like coming from a techno-cramped place to somewhere she could breathe. It was much the same feeling she’d always experienced when camping. Why had she stopped?

  As she rounded a twist in Sweet Root Road about a quarter mile from the hotel, she spotted a man to her left stepping off one of the many mountain trails the hotel created for guests to hike. Nothing out of the ordinary because many locals hiked the trails, too.

  Her heart sped up, but wasn’t sure why. She hit the brakes, bringing her bicycle to a bumpy, sudden stop, knocking the chain off its track. She dismounted, but kept her gaze on the man. Daylight was fading quickly so the figure was distorted by long shadows cast from the wooded hills that blocked the setting sun. Perhaps it was the way he walked, the distinct firm line of his shoulders, the angle at which he swung his arms. She watched until the man looked up.

  Andrew!

  “Libby!” An exuberant smile crossed his face as he jogged to her. Before she could collect her thoughts, he reached her side and pulled her into his arms. The angle was clumsy, given the bike between then, so she let herself be wrangled free of it and heard it crash to the ground.

  “Andrew! What are you...how did you get here?” Silly question that. Of course she knew how he got there.

  “I saw the 1926 on the cave wall, but I wasn’t sure where I’d find you. You haven’t moved on from this place?” He chuckled. “Well, I’m here now, babe, and the world is our oyster. It’s so wonderful to see you. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “You have. I’m overwhelmed.” Then why did her voice sound shaky and underwhelmed? And why had someone—Davis?—added her initials in the cave?

  He looked thicker and less muscular than she remembered, and his black hair too short for this timeframe. But his face was the same, dark and mysterious with smoldering black eyes that demanded attention. Then again, there was a twitch around his eyes that wasn’t there before. She sensed nervous energy. Her heart plummeted. He loved her and must have been anticipating an exuberant welcome.

  She was glad to see him. He was a good man, and he had saved her life. She moved into him for another embrace. “It is so good to see you. I have missed you, too.” Their lips met briefly and he pulled her tight again. She stroked the tweed jacket feeling his strength beneath, smelled his maleness, a mixture of sandalwood and soap.

  Sandalwood? Tweed jacket? And, hadn’t she noticed spit-shined leather shoes?

  She pulled back. “Why are you dressed?”

  He grinned. “Really, sweetheart, I don’t think this is the place—”

  “And you’ve bathed. Groomed. When did you get here?”

  His head inched back and he hesitated. “I’ve learned so much. Turns out, you can take the water at any time. I arrived last night and I—”

  “Last night?” She swayed a little, confused, unsteady. “At the Crystal Spring?”

  “Yes,” he said the word as though he were talking to a child. “I hoped to surprise you so I took a bath in town first and got some clothes. Libby, I did it for you. I didn’t want to see you for the first time in months in my birthday suit. I have been here before, you know. I do know my way around.” His voice trailed away and he looked undecided, as if hesitating over what he should and shouldn’t say or do.

  The look on his face unhinged her. She was instantly consumed with remorse. She cared about him and he deserved better. He was her husband. She stepped closer and put her hands on his chest. “I know, I’m sorry. For so long I had a visual in my head of how I would be there for you when you returned.” She flattened her face on his chest and inhaled his essence.

  His embrace was firm, hearty, and when he spoke it was with such tenderness she decided he could not possibly know she harbored ambiguity. “It’s alright,” he said. “We need to take things slow. Come on. You’re still at the Springs Hotel? Let’s head back and relax.”

  As they walked—Andrew pushing the bicycle—Libby did not know what he was thinking so she chattered on about the hotel, and her friends, Maude, Rose, and the Kentons. She was afraid Andrew would ask about her experience arriving in 1926. She wasn’t ready to discuss Davis. She wasn’t certain yet if she wanted him to know how she’d let Davis deceive her regarding his whereabouts. She schooled her face not to react to his comments about their future.

  As they neared the hotel, she heard Rose yell, “Ma’am. Over here.”

  Libby turned to see N.C. and Rose strolling down the sidewalk toward them, Rose’s hand resting in the crook of N.C.’s arm.

  She swirled back to Andrew. “That’s Rose. Please don’t say who you are. She thinks I’m a widow.”

  His shoulders drooped and the tips of his lips with them. He looked crestfallen. “Babe, really? A widow?”

  She felt the sting of his admonishment. Wondered if her emotional betrayal clung to her like lint on her clothing that he could see. “I wouldn’t know how to explain your sudden appearance. We can work on a story later. Please.”

  He hesitated, then gave her a quirky nod that suggested he didn’t like it, but understood the need to avoid the awkwardness. “Alright. For now.”

  As they approached, N.C. tipped his hat and Rose said, “Ma’am, did you have a good ride?” But, Rose’s gaze kept darting to Andrew.

  Libby conjured up a smile. “This is Andrew Grey. We’ve... known each other a long time.” That would have to suffice because that’s all she could offer. “Andrew, this is Rose Morgan and N.C. Smith. Rose is my friend and lady’s companion, and N.C. is—”

  “A friend,” N.C. interrupted. “Of Mrs. Shaw, and Rose, of course.”

  Libby blinked. She’d never known N.C. to be so concerned about status that he wouldn’t want Andrew to know what line of work he was in.

  N.C. pointed to the bike. “Trouble with the chain? My dad had a bike shop. I can fix that in a jiffy.”

  “That’d be great,” Andrew said with a forced smile and turned the bike over to him.

  “I’ll just move it into the grass where I can sit,” N.C. said, wheeling the bike a couple yards away.

  Andrew followed. “I was going to fix it later. Once I could wipe the grease off my hands.”

  Libby listened to the exchange. Testosterone. Competition. Men would never change.

  Rose whispered, “It’s the strangest thing, ma’am.”

  Libby wondered why the whisper. Still, she ac
quiesced in kind. “What’s that?”

  “We’ve been strolling up and down here several times. He seems anxious. Like he’s waiting for something.” Her eyebrows scrunched together in concern. “I’m afraid he’s going to propose.”

  Libby raised a brow. “Does he have reason to believe you would accept?”

  Rose shrugged. “He knows I want to get married. One day. But, it’s too soon. I want to be more independent. Like you. Not just a wife. I want to have my own work.”

  “Maybe he’s nervous about your ambition. Wants to stop your career aspirations while he can.”

  Rose didn’t respond because Andrew and N.C. had finished, parked the bike, and returned. N.C. pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped grease from his hands.

  Without warning, Rose made a loud exclamation and turned to Libby. “I almost forgot! The most terrible thing, ma’am. The sheriff’s wife died last night. Tripped and hit her head at the river. Fell in and drowned.” Rose shivered.

  So that’s the story being bantered through town? Libby steadied herself. “How awful.”

  Andrew asked, “The sheriff?”

  N.C. nodded. “Brogan Harrow.”

  Rose continued. “N.C. was at her funeral. It’s so sad.”

  Libby startled. “She was buried already?”

  “Doc Henshaw got her ready,” N.C. explained. “He was heading to Harrisburg tomorrow for a medical conference so he went ahead and prepared the body. She had no other family. There was no reason to delay.”

  “I wish I’d known.” Libby’s voice was hoarse. When three sets of eyes gazed at her, she added, “To pay my respects.”

  “Say,” N.C. said as though he’d just gotten an idea, “Rose and I are going to a concert up the mountain tonight. Why don’t you two join us?”

  Rose’s “Oh, yes,” overlapped with Andrew’s “No, I don’t—”

  An awkward moment followed their crashing answers, and Libby said, “That sounds lovely.” Rose didn’t want to be alone with N.C., and she didn’t want to be alone with Andrew, so that made it a three-to-one vote.

  Andrew raised his brows at Libby, but turned to N.C. with a chuckle. “I guess we’re joining you.”

  N.C. looked pleased. “It’s just a fiddler playing Appalachian mountain music. At one of the trail cabins. They’ll have a campfire. You may want to wear hiking gear.”

  Rose shifted her stance. “Odd they planned a concert in November though. It’s bad luck to assume the weather will cooperate you know.”

  N.C. shrugged. “I just heard about it today. I guess it’s a last-minute affair.” He touched Rose’s arm. “I’ll be back in an hour and a half and we can head up the trail. I need to check in at work first.”

  Libby watched N.C. exchange such an adoring, comfortable look with Rose, that she suspected he loved Rose more than the girl realized. He was a caring, considerate man, and Libby sensed he would tolerate any career aspirations Rose had in mind.

  After N.C. left, Libby suggested the three of them meet for a light meal before their nighttime excursion hiking up the mountain. Rose hurried off to her room to change her clothes, and Libby straggled behind with Andrew. She didn’t want Rose to see them enter her room together.

  Once there, Libby felt nervous. Was it her imagination or was the room suddenly cramped and intimate? She wished she’d left it in disarray, less welcoming.

  She toyed with the notion of going into the bathroom to change, but that would be silly. Instead, she turned her back to him as she unzipped her dress. He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She wished the urge to lean back and rest her body against his would wash over her. But, it didn’t. His hands caressed her shoulders, before sliding her dress down her arms, then to her hips. The dress fell to the floor. He made a gruff sound, something between desire and frustration. She reminded herself that he was her husband. And a red-blooded man. And, he had a right to touch her. She felt his effort to turn her around. She acquiesced.

  He studied her gravely through eyes dark as unburned coal chunks, and she realized he wore no glasses. Perhaps the water had healed his eyesight this time. She tried, but couldn’t force a smile.

  Andrew frowned and dropped his hands. “I’m guessing you don’t want me here right now?” He flexed a hand into a fist and released it.

  She stared at him, this attentive, caring man who just five months ago had made her feel safe and valued, who taught her to love classic literature again, and to dream of sharing a life with someone. As recently as a few weeks ago, she’d begun to believe she would never see him again, so she’d closed that door.

  “Andrew, I’m sorry. Rose’s room is right beside mine, and—”

  “I know.” He shook his head and huffed. “Look, tomorrow, we’ll leave here. Finally have a honeymoon. There’s no reason to stay. This,” he made a sweeping gesture to encompass everything around them, “isn’t our life.”

  But it was her life. Her friends. Her home. Perhaps, her future. She’d even toyed with the prospect of buying a Sears Roebuck house. Of accepting the job Jarvis offered. He’d called her a problem-solver. She’d hope to explore that designation. Perhaps even help Rose build her business. Would Andrew understand these desires? She wished she had foreknowledge now, about her and Andrew’s future.

  He placed his hands on the side of her face and forced her to lift her chin. His touch was gentle. “Let’s just get through tonight, then figure out what we want to do.”

  She reached out to touch his arms. “Thank you. For understanding.” For this reprieve. “Thank you,” she added again as if her gratitude bore repeating.

  By seven o’clock that night, the four headed to the dirt and stone trail, blankets and flashlights in their hands. Without the sun, the air cooled considerably. They hiked for forty-five minutes, nothing strenuous, but ascending with almost every step. At one point, Rose spotted a black cat and insisted they alter their path, but otherwise, most of the hike passed in silence, leaving Libby free to soak in the sounds of leaves skittering on a breeze, shoes scraping over rocky paths, and squirrels scrabbling around tree trunks. She liked those sounds.

  Finally, N.C. shined a light on a cabin made of mud-chinked logs, tucked into the side of the mountain and perched beneath a canopy of aged maple trees. It was fronted with a deep porch. A fire pit sat off to the right, a wood pile to the left. “There it is.”

  “Finally,” Andrew huffed with a heavy breath. He bent to rub his thighs as though he suffered fatigued or burning muscles.

  Libby had become familiar enough with the area and the terrain that she recognized the cabin as located one steep ridge away from the Crystal Spring and at least two ridges and a gully from the cave where Davis had tended to her.

  “It’s dark,” Rose offered, stating the obvious. “There’s no one here yet.”

  N.C.’s voice sounded in the darkness. “Maybe we’re early. There’s no electricity, but there are extra lanterns in the shed ’round back. Beside the outhouse. I’ll get a couple. Maybe we can get the place lit and start a fire.”

  He ducked behind the building and was back in less than a minute. He took matches from his pocket, lit one lantern and handed it to Andrew, then lit the other. The wicks grew in strength, enveloping them as a unit in an amber glow. “Come on, let’s go inside and get the best seats.”

  He led the way to the door. “It’s warped. It’ll take a shoulder,” he said before proceeding to prove himself correct. With a strong heave, he thrust it open, and the door creaked and scraped over the floorboards. He waved for the others to enter, but reached out for Rose who was directly behind him and pulled her to his side. “Help me get a couple more lanterns.” He looked back at Andrew and Libby. “We’ll be right back.”

  Libby entered the cabin, followed by Andrew. It smelled of aged wood and earthy mustiness.

  In the next instant, so much happened that Libby later would be hard-pressed to say what occurred in what sequence.

  The door s
lammed shut behind them.

  Someone slid a bar across the door.

  She heard Andrew say, “What the—” as he held the lantern aloft, allowing the glare of the flame to dart into the shadows.

  Chapter Thirty

  1926

  Libby gasped when light fell on the faces of Davis Whitaker and a man she’d never seen before.

  “Surprise!” Davis donned a wide-tooth smile and spread his arms wide. “Welcome back, Andrew!” He wore a field jacket atop familiar casual clothing, attire Libby hadn’t seen since her first few days in the cave with him.

  Beside him, on a wooden table—a board propped on two barrels—sat a cake, a glass jar of what looked like lemonade, and several metal plates, cups and utensils. Behind the food, a sign half the size of a door leaned against the wooden wall. On it, someone had written in red paint: Welcome back.

  Jolted, Libby summoned what she hoped was an appreciative smile. “How nice.” And, odd. “Isn’t it Andrew?” She turned to gauge his reaction.

  His gaze darted between the two men before he spoke. “Nice, yeah,” he said, a flat tone to his voice.

  Libby watched Andrew’s rapid blinking. She’d never known him to be unfriendly or daunted by anything. He was agitated. Did he know some revelation about Davis she had yet to learn? Perhaps Andrew had learned something sinister about David and that’s why.... A new suspicion crept through her, unbidden, and it confused her, but she shrugged it off as non-sense.

  The other man lit four more lanterns hanging from rusty hooks and perched on make-shift sideboards along the cabin’s two longer walls. The illumination bathed the cabin in a golden glow, revealing uneven wood plank floorboards, a stone fireplace against the back wall, and a scattering of weathered, backless benches strewn about. Toward one corner, the distinct lines of an alcove appeared, and beyond that, the light faded into darkness as though it led to a small space or back door in that direction. The cabin looked like it had been built for venues such as nature lectures or small-scale festivities.