From The Mists Of Wolf Creek
Rebecca Brandewyne
Unleash the untamed passions of the underworld in these deliciously wicked tales of paranormal romance.Sent away from Meadowsweet Farm after the tragic death of her mother, Hallie Muldoon has returned, determined to uncover the secrets that have kept her from her beloved childhood home. But some secrets are best left undisturbed. . . .Conjured by Hallie's dying grandmother, mysterious Trace Coltrane emerges from the mist with one purpose in mind: to protect Hallie and keep her safe from all harm. Much like a lone wolf, he is used to drifting. . . but Hallie's warmth leaves him yearning to fulfill her dream of home and family.As their newfound love grows, so do the dangers of secrets revealed. A past evil threatens to destroy all hope for the future with its simmering hatred. . . and Hallie is its target!
Praise for New York Times bestselling author Rebecca Brandewyne
“Like fine wines, some writers seem to get better and better, and Rebecca Brandewyne belongs to this vintage group.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Among the Updikes and Bellows of the [romance] genre are…Rebecca Brandewyne.”
—Newsweek
“Rebecca Brandewyne is…a…powerhouse of the romantic novel industry.”
—Houston Chronicle
“Brandewyne’s latest is another winning romp.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Crystal Rose
“Enduring Brandewyne gives her readers what they crave—a well-researched, detail-rich, and gentle historical romance about deserving characters and evildoers who get their comeuppance.”
—Booklist on The Crystal Rose
“A lush novel brimming with rich historical details and written in the grand tradition of the Victorian gothic.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on The Ninefold Key
REBECCA BRANDEWYNE
is a bestselling author of historical novels. Her stories consistently place on the bestseller lists, including those of the New York Times and Publishers Weekly. She was inducted into the Romantic Times BOOKreviews Hall of Fame in 1988, and is a recipient of the magazine’s Career Achievement Award (1991). She has also received Affaire de Coeur’s Golden Quill Pen Award for Best Historical Romance, along with a Silver Pen Award.
Rebecca Brandewyne
From the Mists of Wolf Creek
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader,
“Where do you get your ideas?” That’s invariably the question most asked of writers.
So, what does inspire a tale? In the case of From the Mists of Wolf Creek, the answer might surprise you—because it was actually my two dogs who gave me the idea for this particular novel. One of my dogs is a beautiful black long-haired German shepherd. He looks and acts very much like the wolf in my story. My other dog is a sassy Australian cattle dog (red heeler) mix. He reminds me of my book’s hero, Trace—someone who drifted around quite a lot before finally finding a good home. My dogs are the best of pals, to the point that each somehow always knows what the other is thinking. They’re both extremely loving and protective, also, offering exactly the kind of care I thought my heroine, Hallie, needed in this novel. So she got a wolf and a man, courtesy of my two dogs—and of her own grandmother, a woman wise in the ways of Magick who casts a powerful spell that enchants more than one heart at Meadowsweet Farm, on the banks of Wolf Creek.
Happy reading!
Rebecca Brandewyne
www.brandewyne.com
For Wulfie and Buddy,
who inspired this tale.
With all my love.
From the Mists of Wolf Creek
The wolf padded silently
From the mists of Wolf Creek
Into the magic circle
Where a wise witch did speak.
With her jeweled pewter wand,
She touched him on his head,
Cast a spell of enchantment
That bound him and so led
To his role as protector
At old Meadowsweet Farm.
There, he would forever stay,
Keeping all free from harm.
The man padded silently
From the mists of Wolf Creek
Into the magic circle
Where a wise witch did speak.
With her jeweled pewter wand,
She touched him on his chest,
Cast a spell of enchantment
That drew forth all his best,
Eased the pain of the past,
And bound him to the farm.
There, he would forever stay,
A stout heart, a strong arm.
When the spell was finally done,
Not the wolf nor the man
Knew where one of them ended
And the other began.
Sharing a deep and special bond,
They were as one, soul and mind,
Their dreams and their thoughts
Now and always entwined.
Laid upon them was this charge:
Guard the farm; keep it well;
And when love comes softly
To cast its magic spell…
Like the mists from Wolf Creek,
Greet it with willing arms
And with a faithful heart.
Revel in all its charms.
Both wolf and man listened hard
To the wise witch’s song.
For too many full moons,
They’d wandered far and long.
But the mists from Wolf Creek,
Now sweetly both bespelled,
And love came as promised,
At Meadowsweet e’er dwelled.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Prologue
A Spell Is Cast
Meadowsweet Farm, Wolf Creek, The Present
Death drew ever closer.
With her heightened senses, always so keenly attuned to her surroundings and her own being, Henrietta Taylor had discerned its inexorably nearing presence for some time now.
At first it had only lurked in the shadows and hovered at the edges of her consciousness. She had caught only occasional glimpses of it then—a fluttering of its amorphous cloak, an inscrutable glance from beneath its voluminous hood.
Sunlight and her sheer strength of will had held it at bay for a while.
But eventually over the passing months, Death had grown bolder and less patient.
Now, sometimes late at night when she lay sleeping, it slipped into her old Victorian farmhouse, into her bedroom, and sat upon her shallowly rising and falling chest, peering down impenetrably into her slumbering face, as though to steal away her last breath finally and forever.
No doubt, with these tactics, Death hoped to frighten her, as it did so many others.
But unlike them, Henrietta was not afraid. She had lived too long and seen too much for that. She knew Death was but the guide to another dimension, another plane of existence not yet fully understood by those who dwelled in the physical realm.
When she passed beyond the door through which Death would lead her, she would see her parents and Jotham and Rowan again, and she would be glad of that.
But before then, she must do everything in her power to protect those she would be leaving behind—especially her namesake and granddaughter, Hallie.
That was the reason for the ritual Henrietta was undertaking tonight and why she had gone to such great lengths to prepare for it.
For months, she had befriended the huge wild black wolf around which her ceremony would center, gradually gaining its trust and confidence. For weeks, she had gathered the herbs and other plants she intended to employ, neatly cutting them with her bone-handled boline, then drying and preparing them for grinding with her mortar and pestle. For days, she had consulted her almanacs and correspondence tables to ensure that her timing would prove auspicious and her tools appropriate to her spellwork. Earlier this evening she had bathed in the nearby creek in order to cleanse and purify herself, then carefully dressed in her best witching clothes and flowing cloak.
Now Henrietta was ready.
Above the sweet meadow in which she stood—and for which her farm had been named—the moon shone bright and full, a gleaming silver orb in the black-velvet night sky. From the creek that wound through the woods encompassing the meadow, wisps of mist drifted ghostily, enshrouding the gnarled old trees and blanketing the gentle hollows of the land.
With her black-handled, double-edged, singing arthame and the carefully knotted cingulum she took from around her waist, Henrietta began the casting of the magic circle she required for this night’s work, marking the perimeter with small stones she had collected some days before and set to one side for just this purpose.
When she had finished, she approached the round wooden table she had set up as her altar. There, she took up a little bowl of finely ground sea salt and, walking deiseil or clockwise, scattered it along the circle’s boundary, chanting as she did so. Next she lit a cone of incense in her thurible and waved the smoke from the ornate brass burner around the circumference, continuing to chant softly. Then she set a candle aflame, anointed it with oil and bore it clockwise along the ring’s edge. Last but not least, she uncorked a small bottle of holy water and sprinkled that around the periphery, so the magic circle had been cleansed and consecrated with all four elements: earth, wind, fire and water.
After that, Henrietta ignited the bonfire she had laid earlier beneath the large iron cauldron that hung from a tripod she had placed at the heart of the meadow, inside the circle she had cast. Then she called the Quarters and welcomed the God and Goddess she had worshiped for many long years now.
Finally, taking a deep breath, she beckoned to the great wolf, which had been watching her curiously, intently, from the bank of the misted creek. As he loped toward her, she used her arthame to cut a metaphysical door into the circle for him to pass through, then closed it securely behind him.
No more than she feared Death did Henrietta fear the wolf. He was a creature of nature, and she had always shared a special affinity with those, frequently finding them far preferable to people. Indeed, the older she had grown, the less tolerant she had become of the latter, until, now, with the exception of a chosen few, she was virtually a recluse.
Still, Henrietta never felt a lack. Her life at the farm was rich and full in all the ways that mattered to her. She knew what was important—and what was not. It seemed to her that the world was an increasingly cruel, vicious place, of which she no longer wanted any part. For her, life began and ended at Meadowsweet—which was why it must be protected.
As the massive wolf prowled restlessly around the magic circle, Henrietta determinedly set to work, lighting several more candles and, with her mortar and pestle, grinding the herbs and other plants she needed for her powerful spell. She knew what she hoped to achieve this night would take every ounce of her strength, will and faith.
Still, in the end—the God and Goddess willing—she would succeed.
Once she had all the necessary ingredients together, Henrietta put them into the cauldron over the blazing bonfire. As the big kettle began to bubble and smoke, she rang the pewter bell that sat upon the altar. Then, with her left hand, she took up her bejeweled pewter wand and, with her right hand, drew her arthame from the cingulum now wrapped around her waist.
With the wand, she struck the arthame just so, making it sing—pure, sweet notes that echoed melodiously across the meadow into the swirling mist and caused the wolf’s ears to prick forward attentively.
Then, starting once more to chant and summoning her vast power born of the blessed Earth Mother, Henrietta began to work her elaborate spell of enchantment, calling the immense wolf to her side and touching him lightly with her wand….
Chapter 1
The Storm and the Wolf
A Two-Lane Highway, The Present
There was a storm coming on.
Hallie Muldoon could see it ahead in the distance, where leaden thunderclouds seethed and roiled on the horizon, blotting out the westering sun. At the sight, the strange, nebulous sense of anxiety and urgency she had felt ever since learning of her grandmother’s unexpected death last month heightened within her, and she pressed her foot even harder against the accelerator of the car she drove.
In response, the sporty red Mini Cooper S shot down the narrow two-lane highway that was a patchwork of macadam bounded on either side by long, sweeping green verges abloom with a profusion of wildflowers, beyond which lay checkerboard fields of ripening grain.
Under other circumstances, it would have been a picturesque scene. But at the moment, beneath the lowering sky, it was somehow reminiscent of Van Gogh’s painting Starry Night, and Hallie suffered the disturbing sensation that she was journeying into the distorted realm of an unquiet mind instead of toward the small town of Wolf Creek, her childhood home.
She had not been there since her mother, Rowan Muldoon, had passed away and Gram had sent her back East to live with her two great-aunts, Gram’s spinster sisters, Agatha and Edith. That had been many years ago now, and the beginning of an entirely new life for Hallie, the old one—the one she would have lived had her mother survived—having died along with the only parent she had ever known.
Hallie thought that in some respects, nothing had gone right in her life since that moment.
In sharp contrast to Meadowsweet, the quiet, relatively isolated farm where Gram had lived, Great-Aunts Agatha and Edith had resided in a crowded, noisy big city, in a dark old gloomy town house wherein the sunshine, freedom and laughter to which the then seven-year-old Hallie had been accustomed had been painfully taboo. In the great-aunts’ town house, the long heavy curtains were always drawn against the sun that would otherwise have faded the furniture and carpets, and little girls were to obey the rules, the primary of which had been to be seen and not heard. Natural childhood curiosity and chatter had brought severe frowns and censure.
As a result, back East, Hallie had quickly learned to keep her mouth shut and her thoughts to herself, to slip like a wraith through the shadowy halls of the town house, and to apply herself diligently to her studies at the private school in which the great-aunts had enrolled her, rather than wasting her time with such frivolous pursuits as idle daydreaming and rowdy playing.
In adulthood and retrospect, Hallie had realized the great-aunts had no doubt loved her dearly and meant well. It was just that having no experience with children of their own, they had reared her in the same fashion that their austere, Bible-thumping father, the Reverend Bernard Dewhurst, had reared them, knowing no other way. In the end, they had done their best for her, and Hallie could not find it in her heart to blame them for proving unable to change their own lifelong beliefs and behavior, and to move ahead with the times.
But, oh, how different things would have been if only her grandmother had never sent her away from Wolf Creek and Meadowsweet farm! A middle daughter, Gram had been the black sheep of the five Dewhurst sisters, estranged from her family because in her youth she had brazenly eloped with Jotham Taylor, Great-Aunt Agatha’s fiancé.
The highly reserved, straitlaced Dewhursts had never forgiven Gram for that, her father remorselessly declaring her dead to them for her unspeakable sin, striking her name from the family Bible and cutting her off without a single penny.
Eventually Gram and her dashing, wayward husband had moved to faraway Wolf Creek and bought the small farm, Meadowsweet, where Hallie had been born and to which she was now returning.
She wondered how much both the town and the farm had changed in the intervening years since she had been gone. In her own mind, of course, both had stood still, frozen in time, just the same as when she had last seen them during her childhood. Still, she knew that in reality, that would not be the case, that both would no longer be as she remembered them.
Perhaps Wolf Creek had grown in size and population, become more than just a tiny dot on a road map, of little or no interest to passersby. Unlike some small towns, it had no claim to fame to attract tourists, to entice them off the beaten path to the single grassy square bounded on its four sides by the only main streets in Wolf Creek. In another time and place, the square would have been referred to as the village green. But Hallie recalled it only as the park where, on market days, she had romped with the other children, in the shadow of the town hall and the courthouse.
Not for the first time, it occurred to her how strange it was that her memories of Wolf Creek were so much clearer than those of Meadowsweet, her birthplace and the farm that had been her childhood home until her mother had died and Gram had sent her away.
Hallie remembered that the farmhouse itself dated from the 1800s and boasted Victorian architecture, and she had a vague impression of cupolas and towers rising from a large house whose lightning rods were silhouetted like needles against a boundless azure sky. But try as she might, she did not recall more than that, not even the color of the house’s traditional wood scallops, siding and ornate trim, although she thought there had been at least three shades of paint.
More easily brought to mind was the sweet expanse of meadow whence the farm had taken its name. It had boasted a gay riot of grasses, toadstools and wildflowers, as well as butterflies, dragonflies and honeybees, the latter of which her grandmother had raised on the farm. All year long, when the weather had permitted, Hallie had played in the meadow, creating a vivid, imaginary world there, in which the insects were faeries and the toadstools and blossoms, their homes.
Even now, if she closed her eyes and tried very hard, she could still smell the sweet scent of the meadow and feel the warmth of the bright sunshine that had streamed to the earth there.
Reminiscing about that meadow had been her one salvation in those early days back East. It had been the place to which she had escaped in her mind when the unexpected loss of her mother, the sudden uprooting from her home and Gram, and the darkness and dreariness of the town house belonging to Great-Aunts Agatha and Edith had proved far too depressing and overwhelming for her, a lonely, baffled child.
But now, as all these memories of the meadow besieged her, Hallie could not suppress a wry smile. She did not think her great-aunts had ever believed in faeries. But Gram and Hallie’s mother had believed, and they had passed that belief on to her.
They had talked to the honeybees, too. She wondered if those precious insects were still raised at Meadowsweet, their white wooden hives lined up neatly in a row behind the farmhouse. She hoped so.
Despite all the years that had passed since she had left Wolf Creek, there was still so much Hallie did not know, did not understand. Why, for instance, had Gram ever sent her away to begin with? Other children lost their parents, grieved and tried to go on with their lives afterward. They were not packed off to long-estranged relatives and never permitted to come back home. Still, that was exactly what Gram had done to her.
Had Hallie not been so certain of her grandmother’s deep and abiding love for her, she would have thought that after her mother’s death, Gram had not wanted to be bothered with her, a seven-year-old child. But, no, that was not the reason. Hallie felt sure of that. There was something else, something her grandmother had never told her, always keeping her at arm’s length ever after, when the two of them had previously been so close.
Even now, when so much else was misty in her mind, Hallie could remember trotting in Gram’s wake, helping to feed the chickens and to care for the honeybees, to harvest fruit from the orchard and vegetables from the garden and to hang the clean wash out on the clothesline to dry. Yes, there had been a time when she could have been described as her grandmother’s little shadow.
But then her mother had died, and everything had changed.
Maybe because she resembled her dead mother so much, she had been a painful reminder to her grandmother of their mutual loss. Perhaps that was why it had appeared Gram could no longer bear the sight of her and so had packed her off to the care of Great-Aunts Agatha and Edith. If that were indeed the case, Gram’s action would at least be understandable, if not particularly kind. Still, however plausible, this rationale did not seem at all in keeping with what Hallie recalled of her grandmother’s joyous, generous nature. Nor did it explain why, in the end, Gram had willed her the farm.
But what other reason could there have been?
Hallie did not know, but one of the main reasons she was now returning to Wolf Creek and Meadowsweet was to try to find out. Her grandmother was dead and buried now, so could no longer keep her away, and surely, by leaving her the farm, Gram had intended that she come home at long last, anyway.
Because she was so lost in her thoughts, it was only at the last moment that from the corner of her eye, Hallie glimpsed the streak of dark fur that suddenly shot across the highway unwinding endlessly before her. Abruptly jolted from her reverie, she instinctively slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the animal. In response, her small red vehicle screeched along the road, tires burning rubber and laying skid marks, before coming to such a bone-jarring stop that she felt certain she would have a bruise later from the seat belt she wore.
Ahead of her, in the middle of the highway, stood the largest wolf Hallie had ever seen.
As a child, she had often spied the animals, which had given Wolf Creek its name. But this one was unquestionably uncommon—and not only in size. For it was almost wholly black in color, with only a little silver-gray around its face, and as it stared hard at her, she saw that in a rare but recognized twist of genetics, it had retained the gleaming blue eyes with which all wolf cubs were born, but that normally turned golden in adulthood. A thin but visible jagged scar ran downward across its left cheek, as though the animal had survived some long-ago, hand-to-paw battle with a hunter and, for its defiance, been knifed during the desperate struggle.
Hallie felt strangely mesmerized by the beast’s gaze, unable to tear her eyes away. Oddly, despite its obvious size and strength, the wolf did not initially appear menacing to her. But that was before, without warning, gathering its powerful muscles, it lunged toward her, abruptly leaping onto the hood of the car and pressing its muzzle against the windshield to peer in at her.
The unexpected weight and action of the animal jolted the vehicle violently, causing it to rock briefly and Hallie first to scream and then to catch her breath in her throat as she wondered if the beast were capable of somehow shattering the safety glass in order to attack her. Ludicrously, in some dim corner of her mind, she also hoped the wolf’s hard, sharp toenails had not scratched the car.
The disjointed, upsetting thoughts that raced through her brain were joined by others equally unnerving. At this moment, the only weapon of any kind she possessed was the sturdy LifeHammer she carried in the glove compartment, in order to break the vehicle’s windows in the event that she should ever have an accident that caused the car to become submerged in water. Still, she doubted the emergency tool would prove much use in defending her against the animal that loomed over her, panting against the windshield, its pink tongue lolling and its fierce canine teeth showing almost unnaturally white in the pallid, glimmering light that waned toward dusk.
Inside the car, Hallie could hear the sound of her own breath, now coming harsh and fast, and feel her heart hammering in her breast as she pondered her predicament. She had heard of bears climbing on vehicles and threatening their occupants, but she could not remember any news reports of wolves resorting to such behavior, and so she was at a loss as to how to proceed.
On sudden impulse, she blasted the horn, hoping to startle the animal and send it on its way. But much to her dismay, her thoughtless action did not seem to have any effect, and belatedly, it occurred to her that the sound might only enrage the beast, inciting it into attempting to destroy the thin glass barrier that was all that separated the two of them.
As her wide, apprehensive green eyes continued to be riveted on the wolf, Hallie could see that behind it in the distance, the thunderstorm that had earlier massed on the horizon was now beginning to roll inexorably eastward, its ponderous dark gray clouds billowing and spreading like giant, smothering cotton boles across the land. In between the titanic, madding clouds, the last vestiges of the pale, sickly sunlight shimmered, thin bony fingers stretching toward her portentously before mutely evanescing, swallowed by the descending twilight and advancing storm.
At the sight, Hallie felt her heart sink. She had hoped to be safely ensconced at Meadowsweet before the storm broke. Now perhaps she would not reach the farm at all.
Still watching the predatory animal hulking on the hood of the car, she covertly unlatched the glove compartment and groped inside for the LifeHammer. She knew that because the windshield was laminated glass, the emergency tool would not smash it. Rather, it was designed to break the tempered glass of the side windows to effect escape.
Nevertheless, she had some vague notion that if she beat authoritatively on the windshield, the beast might mistakenly believe she was not only armed, but also quite capable of defending herself, and would move on.
That, instead, it might perceive her gesture as a threat and try to attack her through the glass, Hallie did not even want to consider.
Nor did she even think about stamping on the accelerator and speeding away. Whether such a result would actually occur, she worried that the impetus of that act might fling the massive wolf savagely against the windshield, shattering it, thus giving the animal access to the inside of the vehicle and causing her to run off the road, at the very least.
She did have her cell phone with her and knew she could call the highway patrol for help. But what if dispatch did not believe her? Even as she tried to envision how to explain her situation, Hallie recognized how wild and improbable it would sound to someone not actually present to witness it.
She might be dismissed as some teenager pulling a silly prank.
Further, even if her story were given any credence, the animal would surely be gone by the time the highway patrol managed to arrive.
No, she was literally on her own. This particular stretch of road was desolate in more ways than one, without even another car in sight.
After rummaging blindly through the glove compartment for what seemed like minutes but, in reality, could only have been seconds, Hallie found the LifeHammer at last. As her fingers closed around it, they trembled with the fear that coursed through her wildly, and a lump rose in her throat, choking her. With determination, she swallowed this last.
Then, grasping the emergency tool tightly, she raised her fist, poised to strike the windshield, in an attempt to scare off the predatory beast.
At that, much to her utter surprise and confusion, its carnivorous visage pressing so close to her own vulnerable one through the glass split into what, in a human being, Hallie could only have described as a wide grin.
Then, just as suddenly as it had sprung onto the hood of the Mini, the great black wolf leaped down, swiftly and silently disappearing into the oncoming darkness and storm.
Chapter 2
Memories
Meadowsweet Farm, Wolf Creek, The Present
For what seemed like an eternity after the wolf had vanished into the twilight, Hallie just sat there in the car, her fear only gradually ebbing to be replaced by overwhelming relief and astonishment at what had happened.
What had prompted the animal’s bizarre behavior? she wondered, still shaking. Perhaps the beast was deranged—or even rabid! At this last thought she shuddered visibly, knowing there was no cure for rabies and her imagination conjuring horrible, vivid visions of what a mad, sick wolf might have done to her, had it managed somehow to break the windshield and attack her.
And the way it had grinned at her! In that instant the animal had appeared almost human, amused by her plight and her desperate determination to fend it off however she could.
Now, for the first time, Hallie vaguely recalled snatches of conversation she had overheard in her childhood, something about the beasts that prowled the copses and meadows surrounding Wolf Creek, that they were not merely wolves, but something more….
No, that was simply impossible, nothing but local superstition and old-wives’ tales to scare naughty children, surely—although at this particular minute, Hallie could almost believe the stories were true.
Shivering, she finally realized she still clutched the LifeHammer in her hand, and that the first drops of rain that presaged the impending storm had started to fall, splattering like the saliva from the wolf’s panting tongue against the windshield. She could not continue to remain here on the highway, like a startled deer frozen in the oncoming glare of a pair of deadly headlights in the darkness.
Opening the glove compartment, she replaced the LifeHammer. Then, slowly, she stepped on the accelerator, only to discover that, sometime earlier, she had mechanically and habitually slid the gearshift into Park, so she had not had to keep her foot on the brake to prevent the vehicle from accidentally lurching forward with the animal atop its hood.
After slipping the gearshift back into Drive, Hallie started onward. But she had hardly picked up any speed at all when she suddenly observed a large, deep, dangerous pothole on her side of the road and drew once more to a halt.
Originally, the crater had been visibly marked with an orange-and-white-striped wooden barricade topped with flashing amber lights. But at some point, someone had obviously struck the sawhorse-shaped hazard warning, knocking it flat into the ditch alongside the highway.
Had Hallie come barreling down the road at her previous rate of speed, it was quite possible she would never even have noticed the blinking lights half concealed by the tall grass of the verge. She would have hit the pothole hard and dead-on, doubtless suffering a blowout or other serious accident.
If not for the wolf’s unexpected and still-inexplicable intervention, she might even have been killed!
At the dreadful realization, Hallie felt an icy tingle run down her spine.
Gram had always taught her that the earth’s creatures were a good deal more sentient than most people ever gave them credit for being. Had the animal somehow known what lay ahead of her in the road? Could it possibly have been attempting to save her?
No, surely, that was a farfetched idea!
Still, now that she thought about it, Hallie recognized that the beast had not actually done anything to threaten her. It had only stopped her dead in her tracks, forcing her to proceed a great deal more slowly when she resumed her course.
Oh, it had been a long day’s worth of driving, and she was hungry, tired and letting her wild imagination run away with her, Great-Aunts Agatha and Edith would most certainly stoutly insist. Hallie had little difficulty at all in envisioning their severe expressions of disapproval and dismay, respectively—Agatha stern and unrelenting, Edith flustered and upset that there should be any discord in the town house.
So, for a very long time now, Hallie had kept such fanciful notions as these to herself. But it seemed that the closer she got to the farm, the more her childhood self was struggling to emerge from the strict, sheltered cocoon in which the great-aunts had enshrouded it. For a moment, Hallie wondered if when she finally arrived at Meadowsweet, she would metamorphose into one of the bright butterflies that inhabited it. Then she shook her head, smiling ruefully at herself.
Great-Aunts Agatha and Edith would certainly not have approved of that idea!
But Gram would have. She would have flung her head back in that wholly unselfconscious and uninhibited way she had about her and laughed—a deep, rich laugh filled with the earthiness of the land she had loved so well and to which she had been so close.
At the memory, Hallie felt her eyes suddenly flood with tears, and for the second time in less than an hour, a lump rose in her throat, choking her. Abruptly, she laid her head on the steering wheel and cried her heart out.
But after a short while, she recognized that she must somehow pull herself together and get moving again, that at best, another vehicle might come along at any time and, not realizing she was stopped on the highway, crash into her.
Besides, there were the imminent storm and darkness to consider.
Determinedly stifling her sobs, Hallie carefully maneuvered around the treacherous pothole and at last drove on, eyeing the shadowy sky anxiously through the windshield. She loathed being caught in a storm while on the highway, and she suffered from night blindness, as well.
What if she missed the lonely and poorly marked dirt road that was the narrow turnoff to the farm? She certainly did not want to get lost out here in the middle of nowhere—especially with that huge wolf on the prowl!
Perhaps next time, it might not have such honorable intentions as she had so whimsically sought to bestow upon it.
Once or twice, from the corners of her eyes, Hallie uneasily thought she spied it following her, its silky black fur flashing amid the seemingly ceaseless rows of the tall cornfield that ran along one side of the highway. But as the dusk and the rain partially obscured her vision, she could not be sure, and resolutely, she told herself she was only imagining it, that for one thing, there was no way the animal could keep pace with her traveling car, and that for another, even if the beast were crazy and diseased, rather than sane and protective, it would scarcely be stalking her, but, rather, some other prey.
Still, briefly, she did wonder if there might be something about the color of her vehicle that had initially attracted the wolf and perhaps, more down to earth than her earlier flighty musings, even accounted for its odd behavior. The car was painted a vibrant crimson shade dubbed “Nightfire Red” by the manufacturer, and Hallie knew the color red was supposed to enrage bulls—at least, that was why matadors employed crimson capes in the bullring, although some said the hue was to disguise the bloodstains engendered by the brutal sport.
But because she had never heard anything mentioned about the color red inciting wolves, she was finally forced to discard the idle theory, eventually putting the entire episode down as a life mystery she would probably never solve.
Sighing deeply at the thought of other life mysteries that decision brought to mind, Hallie pressed on, wondering again why Gram had ever sent her away from Meadowsweet.
The rain was falling harder now, making it difficult for her see. So she switched on her windshield wipers and headlamps, once more hoping she did not miss the lane that led from the highway to the farm.
Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, she reached for the map she had printed out for herself a couple of weeks ago, her route carefully marked so she would know the way. Hallie had thought that once she neared the farm, her memories would kick into gear and serve to guide her home.
But she was also realistic enough to realize that it had been many years since she had seen Meadowsweet, and that memories sometimes played tricks on one, too. So, with the practicality instilled in her by Great-Aunts Agatha and Edith, she had taken the precaution of arming herself with the map.
She ought to be getting very close now, she thought. But in the end, despite everything, she still almost missed the turnoff. It was now so overgrown that she did not recognize it, and in fact, it was only the glare of her headlights shining on the badly askew signpost at the junction that caught her attention as she flew past.
“Dammit!” Hallie swore heatedly under her breath to herself.
Hitting the brake pedal, she screeched to a halt, glancing over her shoulder to be certain no one was coming. Then she backed up and turned onto the narrow, sandy lane, cursing some more as the Mini bounced along the bumps and ruts that riddled the ill-kept rural route.
Beneath the trees lining the road and forming a half canopy above, it was much darker than it had been on the highway, and in response, she turned on her high beams, totally grateful that the farm could not be much farther now.
Looking at the gnarled old branches of the thorny hedge-apple trees that rustled and whipped in the rising wind, Hallie knew she needed to reach Meadowsweet and batten down the hatches before the full fury of the storm was unleashed upon her.
A tornado might even be brewing, and she would have no way of knowing. Frowning at her own stupidity, she flicked on the radio, trying to tune it to one of the local channels. Instead, static and then rock music blasted into the Mini, and after a moment she gave up, switching the radio off, knowing she needed both hands on the steering wheel.
The rain pelted in splotches against the windshield, and once, a hedge apple was ruthlessly torn from one of the trees and hurled down to skitter like a poorly thrown bowling ball across the lane. Hallie could only feel relieved that the fruit had not struck her car.
As she watched the hedge apple roll off the road into the ditch alongside, her headlamps lit up a weatherbeaten sign hanging by one rusty chain from the barbed-wire fence to which it was attached. It read “Meadowsweet Farm.”
Spinning the steering wheel quickly, Hallie turned onto the narrow, serpentine drive that led up a small hill to the old farmhouse beyond. Her heart pounded with anticipation, and her nerves went taut as she quivered with a strange mixture of trepidation and excitement.
Leaning forward, she strained for a glimpse of her childhood home, wishing she had arrived much earlier, when she could have seen it much more clearly.
Still, abruptly emerging from the windblown trees onto the hillcrest, she spied the house at long last, looming ahead in the darkness, illuminated by a sudden, jagged flash of scintillating lightning that forked across the churning sky.
Much to her dismay, the first unbidden thought that came into her mind as she instinctively paused the car on the knoll was that the Victorian farmhouse looked like something straight out of a horror movie. She suspected it would have been right at home next door to Norman Bates’s creepy old house on the hill.
Silhouetted against the night sky, it was all dark, towering cupolas and pointed turrets capped with lightning rods that seemed to pierce the very firmament. As she caught sight of these last, Hallie felt some long-forgotten memory unexpectedly stir in her brain, and she heard herself as a child speaking to her grandmother in the expansive front yard.
“I don’t like the lightning rods, Gram. They look like needles stabbing into God’s eye.”
And in her mind, as had happened in her childhood, she saw Gram throw back her head and laugh, and heard her declare, “Shout at the Devil, and spit in God’s eye! That’s just the way I’ve lived my whole life, Hallie—standing on my own two good feet, working with my own two strong hands, and never asking either man or beast for anything. And I don’t mind telling you, it’s been a long, hard path to follow, child. But in the end, I reckon it’s a journey that’s been the making of me, and I’m too old to change now, besides.”
“Don’t you believe in God and the Devil then, Gram?”
“Of course, I do, Hallie. It’s merely that I’ve never noticed that either one has ever been of much use to humankind. Why, most of the wars in this old world have been fought in God’s name, and if the Devil hadn’t got into people, making them do evil to one another, I don’t know what has.
“Sometimes, it seems like there’s not a lick of common sense or kindness or caring left on this entire earth! We were put here to take care of this planet and the creatures on it, you know, and it seems to me that between God and the Devil, we’ve done a mighty damned poor job of it all.
“No, child—” Gram had shaken her head firmly to emphasize her point “—I rely on myself, and what I know to be right and wrong according to the dictates of my own conscience, to lead my life, and I leave God and the Devil to those who need them. I hope that one day, you’ll understand that and do the same.”
Standing there with Gram in the yard that summer’s day, Hallie had not truly comprehended a single word of their conversation. But now, the full meaning of their dialogue dawned on her, and in that moment she grasped her grandmother’s character with far more clarity than she could ever have done in her childhood.
“Gram—” Hallie spoke now, her words breaking the stillness inside the car “—I don’t know why you ever sent me away after Mom died. But I know you must have had a good reason, one you thought was right, just as you must have had one equally as good for bringing me home again. And while I’m not sure I’ve made up my mind yet about God and the Devil, I do have faith and trust in you.
“So…here I am, Gram, home at last after all these long years. I wish…I really wish you were here, too, standing on the front porch to greet me, the way you used to when you heard the school bus drop me off at the bottom of the hill. Instead, you’re dead and buried in your grave, and I’ve got to rely on myself, just as you did.
“Oh, I guess I’ll manage somehow. You see, I know how to stand on my own two good feet, too, Gram. Still, I’ve got to tell you that sometimes, like this evening, that’s pretty damned cold comfort. What I wouldn’t give for a cup of your hot Earl Grey tea, served with your smile and words of wisdom, right about now. Maybe if I’m lucky, there’ll still be a tin, at least, somewhere on one of your kitchen shelves. I can only hope.”
With that last thought to sustain her, Hallie put the gearshift back into Drive and guided the vehicle on toward the old farmhouse that stood waiting silently for her, a momentous sentinel in the rainy darkness, relentlessly defiant against the blustering wind—and armed with needles that still dared to jab the thunderous sky.
Chapter 3
Home Is Where the Heart Is
By the time Hallie pulled the car to a stop beneath the intricate wooden carport on one side of the house, the wind was lashing the trees unmercifully, the rain was pouring down and the fleeting dusk had well and truly died.
She was inordinately grateful for what protection, however small, the carport provided as, with difficulty born of the storm, she lifted the vehicle’s rear hatch and unloaded the two bags she had packed to bring with her. Then she fumbled in her purse for the house keys Gram’s attorney, Simon Winthorpe, had mailed to her some days ago.
Once she had finally got the side door open and stepped into the small vestibule beyond, she felt for the light switch on the wall. But much to Hallie’s consternation, when she flicked it, nothing happened. Either the electric company had not received her instructions to restore the power, or else the storm had knocked the power out. Either way, she was obviously not going to be able to get the lights to come on.
Wondering what else might go wrong this seemingly ill-omened night, she set her luggage inside, then returned to the car to fetch the flashlight from the emergency roadside kit she always carried in the cargo space. Punching one of the buttons on the key remote, she locked the car, then ran back into the house, closing the door behind her, shutting out the inhospitable elements.
For a moment, Hallie just stood there in the darkness, dripping with rain and shivering with cold. She correctly suspected that the outside temperature had dropped twenty degrees or more in the last few hours, and she was dressed for summer, not for the onslaught of a storm and its attendant chilliness.
But finally, collecting herself, she switched on the flashlight and began to explore the house. Once or twice, she tested other light switches, only to receive the same disappointing result as before. She had hoped the lightbulb in the vestibule was simply burned out, but now, it was clear to her the power itself was indeed off.
As she proceeded down the hall beyond the vestibule and then through several of the rooms on the ground floor of the house, shining the flashlight this way and that, Hallie was swept with myriad emotions.
Much to her vast relief, in so many ways that she now realized had subconsciously been of prime importance to her, the old farmhouse had not changed. In rooms that had clearly been redone over the years, Gram had chosen the very same patterns that had always papered the walls, and she had reupholstered the furniture with fabric identical to the worn material it had replaced. She had moved little or nothing in the intervening years. Sofas, chairs, curio cabinets, and tables still stood where they always had, and paintings still hung in their accustomed places.
The large portrait of Hallie’s mother, Rowan—forever young and beautiful—still looked down at her from its place of honor above the intricately carved fireplace mantel in the front parlor.
On the much simpler fireplace mantel in the back parlor, Gram’s treasured collection of antique Victorian oil lamps were still clustered, along with the sharp, ornate brass scissors she had used to trim the flat wicks, and the beautiful, matching brass box that housed the stick matches she had employed to light them.
Now, as in her childhood she had watched her grandmother do so many times before, Hallie crossed the room to remove the oil lamps’ glass chimneys, carefully trim the wicks and set them ablaze. Soon the back parlor was awash with the warm glow of their flames and with the fragrant scents of the oils that filled the glass fonts. Sweet lavender and vanilla mingled with the pungent smell of the beeswax with which her grandmother had always polished the furniture.
Standing there in the room, closing her eyes and inhaling the old, familiar aromas, Hallie could almost imagine she was a child again, that any minute now Gram herself would come into the back parlor, wiping her hardworking hands on the apron she had always tied on over her simple workaday garments.
But, no, Hallie would never see her grandmother again in this life.
At the thought, hot tears stung her eyes, and almost, she wondered if she had made a terrible mistake in coming back here to Meadowsweet.
It was said that one could never go home again.
Sighing heavily, fighting back the flood of tears that threatened once more to fall, Hallie abruptly switched off her flashlight. Then, picking up one of the oil lamps, she made her way to the kitchen.
There, she drew up short, stunned and incredulous.
For here, at last, everything was changed.
Once, solid-oak cupboards, turned dark with smoke and age, had lined the walls, one of which cabinets had sported an ancient copper sink, and open shelves cluttered with crockery had hung above. There had been a large, worn butcher block in the middle of the room, and a badly scarred yellow pine floor. The open hearth to one side had been composed of reddish brown bricks blackened with soot from winter fires.
The kitchen was the one part of the house Hallie remembered much more vividly than all the rest. It had always reminded her of the old cozy but mysterious kitchen in some fairy-tale cottage, and sometimes, she had half suspected Gram herself was really some enchanting witch.
But now all that was gone, as surely as her grandmother was. In its place were clean white beadboard cupboards topped with black granite counters, above which gleamed glass-fronted upper cabinets. A white porcelain Belfast sink had replaced the copper one, and a long wooden farmhouse table occupied the center of the room. The floor was now a checkerboard of black and white tiles, and the old brick fireplace had been painted white to match. Against one wall stood a massive Welsh dresser Hallie had never before seen. Only Gram’s crockery on its shelves was the same. Even her old stove and refrigerator Hallie thought must surely have dated from the fifties had given way to modern reproductions that looked like Victorian antiques.
What on earth had ever caused her grandmother to make such drastic alterations to the kitchen, Hallie wondered, deeply puzzled, when she had plainly left the remainder of the house so largely untouched?
As she continued to stare at the many changes that had been made, Hallie was suddenly beset with the oddest sensation that there was something missing, something she ought to have been seeing, but that was no longer there in the kitchen. But try as she might, she could not think what it was, and at last, she gave up the attempt, realizing it was getting late and that she was truly hungry and exhausted.
There would be plenty of time in the weeks to come to explore the old farmhouse properly during the daylight hours—and when she had got the power to the lights restored.
Fortunately, Gram’s sweeping redecoration of the kitchen had not included switching from a gas stove to an electric one, so Hallie would be able to cook, at least. Now, if she could only find a tin of tea and something to eat.
She had planned to run up to the corner market upon her arrival and buy some groceries. She had not counted on oversleeping earlier at the motel where she had spent last night and, as a result, getting such a late start today. Nor had she accurately calculated how long the drive this afternoon would take or on being delayed by the storm and the wolf.
So much for the best-laid plans of mice and men, she thought, frowning.
Opening the icebox, Hallie was once more besieged with amazement and disbelief. For, instead of finding it completely empty, as she had expected, she discovered it was filled with food: a huge glass platter of cold fried chicken and large ceramic bowls of homemade baked beans, cole slaw and potato salad—precisely what Gram herself would have prepared for her homecoming.
At first, in her weariness, Hallie thought dimly that it must be victuals hospitable neighbors had made and carried over when her grandmother had died. Then she recognized how stupid that notion was, that there would have been no one here to provide meals for and that Gram had passed away last month, besides. All the food would have spoiled by now.
Adding to her confusion were the plates of biscuits and brownies she finally noticed sitting on the counter next to the fridge. Slowly unfolding the plastic wrap and examining them, she found they were fresh, probably baked that very afternoon, in fact.
At the realization, Hallie felt a sudden cold chill creep down her spine.
Someone had been in this house earlier—perhaps was even still here….
From the knife block perched on the farmhouse table, she carefully withdrew a sharp butcher knife for protection. Then, picking up the oil lamp, she embarked upon a thorough inspection of the house, determinedly pushing aside her nostalgia and grief at familiar sights that kindled long-buried memories to concentrate instead on some sign of an intruder.
Back through the ground floor, she progressed, her mouth dry and her heart pounding as she searched behind sofas and yanked open closet doors to peer inside, only to find nothing save emptiness. Then, stealthily, Hallie ascended the beautifully carved staircase in the main hall to the upper story.
Here, the tale was exactly the same as it mostly was below. Nothing had changed, except that just like downstairs, all the closets were bare. Much to her astonishment and heartache, even her old bedroom looked just as she had left it so many years ago, all her childhood books, dolls and stuffed animals perched neatly on their shelves, her robe still lying across the foot of the bed.
At the sight, Hallie felt more certain than ever Gram must have had a very good reason for sending her away. Her grandmother would never have left this room untouched like this if it had been nothing more than an annoying reminder of a bothersome child, or if Hallie’s resemblance to her dead mother had been more painful than Gram could bear.
Now there remained only the attic. But when she reached the bottom of the narrow staircase that rose to that dark space above, Hallie hesitated, all the strictly forbidden Gothic stories she had ever sneaked into her great-aunts’ town house and read as a teenager returning to haunt her. She had always thought those poking-and-prying heroines who had invariably crept up steep narrow attic stairs to investigate matters that really had not concerned them in the first place were exceedingly dumb. A deranged killer had always been hiding up there, lurking in the shadows, lying in wait to conk the heroine on the head as a dire warning for her snooping.
Most assuredly, Hallie did not want to suffer a like fate. She had already had more than enough for one day, and now, it belatedly occurred to her that Mr. Winthorpe’s wife, Blanche, had probably brought the food over and left it for her. It was just the sort of neighborly gesture Mrs. Winthorpe would have believed proper. Hallie did not know why she had not thought of it earlier, instead of leaping to the crazy conclusion that an intruder was in the house.
For pity’s sake! she chided herself sternly. An interloper wouldn’t have stocked the fridge and baked biscuits and brownies! She must be even more tired than she had realized.
Sighing with relief, truly glad she was not to be compelled up into the attic, Hallie returned downstairs to the kitchen, inordinately grateful she was not going to be forced to cook for herself, either. She even discovered a tin of Earl Grey loose tea in one of the cupboards and so was able to make a cup of hot tea.
Perhaps her luck was changing, after all.
Filling a plate, she ate mechanically, now so weary that she could actually scarcely eat at all. Still, she knew she needed something in her stomach if she did not want to awaken with a sick, hunger headache in the morning. So she cleaned her plate and drank her tea.
When she had finally finished, Hallie unconsciously did something she had not done since her childhood in this very kitchen: she swirled the remnants of her tea around clockwise three times, then turned her white ceramic mug upside down on its matching saucer to drain off the remaining liquid.
For an instant she waited expectantly for Gram to take the cup and turn it right side up again, peering into it to see what symbols the tea leaves left inside it had formed. But of course, her grandmother was not there, and so Hallie could not imagine why she had ever done such a thing, indulging in a long-forgotten gesture Great-Aunts Agatha and Edith had labeled “superstitious pagan nonsense” and a habit they had labored diligently to break her of.
“Aunts Agatha and Edith would surely not be very happy with me right now, Gram.” Hallie spoke in the empty room. “They said it was a good thing you sent me to them, that otherwise I might have lost my way and become a heathen and a sinner, just as you did. I know they meant well and loved me. Still, it was a long, hard path you set my feet on, Gram, when you sent me away to them. Did you know it would be? Is that why you did it? You always believed that kind of journey was the making of a person.”
There was no response save for the plaintive keening of the wind outside and the steady thrumming of the rain against the kitchen windows. But Hallie had not really expected one. In some dark corner of her mind she knew she was talking only to herself, that her grandmother had passed beyond the pale into another state of being.
Still, for old times’ sake, and for everything from her childhood in this farmhouse that she held dear, she closed her eyes, made a wish then upended her teacup to look inside.
She supposed there were symbols someone like Gram, knowledgeable about the art of reading tea leaves, would have recognized. But to Hallie, the dregs seemed like nothing more than a complete mishmash at the bottom of her cup.
Inexplicably, she felt a strange, bewildering sense of disappointment, as though she had believed her grandmother would somehow speak to her through the teacup—and had not.
Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she smiled wryly.
“What a silly notion, child!” she could hear Great-Aunt Agatha announce firmly. “If they are good, the dead go to Heaven. If they are evil, they go to Hell. What they do not do, missy, is hang around the world from which they have departed, carrying on in death just as they did in life! It was undoubtedly Henrietta who put such a heathenish idea into your head. She ought to be ashamed of herself! But, then, I’m certain she is not, no—for she has never suffered any shame at all at her wild behavior, no matter how grievous it has proved to her poor family!”
“Henrietta” had been Gram’s given name. Hallie was named after her.
Covering her mouth, Hallie yawned widely, dully realizing she was so thoroughly exhausted that she was about to fall sound asleep sitting straight up in her chair.
“Well, Gram, as much as I’d like to continue this somewhat lopsided conversation, I’m afraid I really do need to get to bed. I can hardly keep my eyes open.”
In fact, Hallie was so tired that instead of washing the dishes, as she normally would have done, she set her cup and plate to one side of the sink. Then, after extinguishing all the oil lamps in the back parlor, she turned on her flashlight to guide her in the darkness and trudged back upstairs, not even bothering with her luggage.
She would unpack tomorrow, when she was rested and feeling more herself. Right now, she had the most peculiar sensation that by coming back here to Meadowsweet, she had somehow been mysteriously transported back in time to her childhood. She was thinking, saying and doing things she had not thought of in years—and talking to herself, besides.
What she needed was a long hot bath, followed by a nice soft bed.
But in the end, Hallie skipped the former and, stripping off her clothes, headed straight for the latter in her childhood bedroom.
Her last thought as she drifted into slumber was that somewhere outside in the night, a lone wolf was howling in the storm.
Chapter 4
Reading the Tea Leaves
When Hallie awoke the following morning, it was to the raucous noise of a rooster crowing and a bell chiming.
For a moment, still half asleep and disoriented by the sight of the room that met her drowsy gaze, she mistakenly believed she was a child again, and she waited expectantly to hear Gram’s footsteps in the main hall below and the muffled sound of voices as the door was answered.
Then, abruptly coming to her senses, Hallie remembered she was a woman fully grown and that her grandmother was dead. Jolted into action, she reached for the alarm clock on the night table, only to realize she had never set it the night before, so that was not what was ringing. It must be her cell phone. But, no, she had left that in her purse downstairs last evening.
It really was the front doorbell chiming, then, just as she had initially surmised.
Leaping from her childhood bed, Hallie hastily dragged on the same crumpled clothes she had so tiredly discarded the night before, then combed her fingers roughly through her long blond hair. She supposed that even so, she looked a fright, and she wondered who could possibly be here at this early hour.
Then, glancing at the alarm clock, she realized it was half past ten, that the morning was well advanced, that it was she who was late, rather than the hour that was early.
Not bothering with her shoes, Hallie scrambled down the stairs in the main hall, reaching the front door just as the bell rang again.
“Gram!” she cried, stunned, as she opened the door and spied the elderly lady standing on the wide wooden verandah.
“Oh, dear, I fear it never even occurred to me that you would mistake me for Henrietta, child,” the older woman announced, obviously flustered by the error, shaking her hatted head and clucking with disapproval at herself. “How very stupid and thoughtless of me! What a shock it must have been to you to see me, then. No wonder your poor, lovely face has gone so very white. I’m so sorry. You’ll have to forgive me for being such a foolish old woman!
“I’m Gwendolyn Lassiter, Henrietta’s younger sister—and I do apologize if it seems presumptuous of me, child, but after all these years, well, I’m old and so I probably don’t have much time left, and I thought it was high time we finally met!”
“Aunt…Aunt Gwen…yes…yes, I can see, now, that you’re not Gram—although you do look a lot like her! I should have realized, but I—I just awoke, you see,” Hallie confessed. “So I’m afraid I’m not at my best.”
“Oh, dear,” Aunt Gwen reiterated ruefully. “I didn’t think about the fact that you might still be in bed, either. But I expect you were worn out from your long journey. I can’t believe you drove all the way here from back East—and all by yourself, too! You must be a very brave and resourceful young woman. Is that your little car I saw under the carport? But it must be, of course. It’s darling. Well, aren’t you going to invite me in, dear? Or did Aggie and Edie succeed in convincing you I am as dreadful a black sheep as they always thought Hennie was?”
As she spoke, the elderly lady’s faded blue eyes twinkled with delight, and a mischievous dimple appeared in one cheek, so Hallie got a glimpse of what she must have been like as a child and could not repress an answering grin.
“I think maybe you were only a gray sheep, Aunt Gwen!”
At that, the older woman’s laughter tinkled brightly.
“Well, I can’t say I find that very gratifying,” she declared stoutly. “For I think I would quite like to have been painted just as black a sheep as poor Hennie was. So scandalous and exciting, you know—although I daresay that in this day and age, one’s elopement with the fiancé of one’s sister would scarcely raise even an eyebrow, much less start a decades-long family feud!”
“No, I don’t suppose it would,” Hallie agreed, holding open the screen door. “Please forgive my momentary lapse in good manners, and do come inside, and tell me how you came to be here.”
“As to that, Hallie, for the past several years, since my husband passed away, I lived here with Hennie—right up until the day she died, of course. But at her death, Meadowsweet became yours, so I didn’t feel it would be right of me to go on staying here at the farmhouse—especially when you might not even know I still existed. So I moved into Wolf Creek’s one and only bed-and-breakfast.”
“Oh, Aunt Gwen, you needn’t have done that,” Hallie insisted as she led her great-aunt into the kitchen. “I wish I’d known you were here, but Gram never said a word about it to me. I wonder why.”
“That was my fault. I fear I’m a bit of a coward, child, and I simply didn’t want Aggie and Edie to learn I was here. They would have believed I had sided with Hennie against them, and they would have written me off, just as they did her.
“Such a real pity, it was, that they decided to go on holding their grudge against her for the rest of their lives, when we all might have been friends. But there it is. I suppose that in the end, they had simply held on to their bitterness for so long that they just couldn’t let it go—not that there was ever any true justification for it, of course.
“It was always Hennie, not Aggie, poor young Jotham Taylor had come to the town house to court, and it was only Father’s wholly archaic notions about the eldest daughters being married before the younger ones that caused him to try to foist Aggie off onto Jotham. But, then, Father had been born during an earlier century and era, so he was very straitlaced and highly principled, and he refused to waver. Eventually, he succeeded in maneuvering poor Jotham into offering for Aggie instead, but naturally, once that deed was actually done, both Jotham and Hennie were miserable. So, finally, they decided to cut their losses and elope.”
“I never knew that—the whole story, I mean…only bits and pieces,” Hallie said, fascinated by this peek into her family’s past. “It really was too bad of Aunts Agatha and Edith to hold such a terrible grudge, then. But, from the things she did impart, I feel quite certain Aunt Agatha, at least, was firmly convinced in her own mind that Gram stole Jotham away from her.”
“No, doubt.” Aunt Gwen’s voice was wry. “It’s just like Aggie to have deluded herself in such a fashion.”
“Have you eaten yet, Aunt Gwen?” Hallie asked, abruptly recalling her manners. “Would you like some breakfast? Oh!” She drew up short. “I’ve just now realized it must have been you who left supper for me last evening.”
“Good heavens! Don’t tell me I forgot to give you my letter, too!” The elderly lady fumbled in her purse, eventually withdrawing a crumpled envelope marked “Hallie.” “I did. Oh, dear, I’m so terribly forgetful these days. That’s what comes of growing old. Yes, it was I who brought the food, and I intended to leave you this note, explaining everything. You poor thing! No wonder you were so confused this morning and mistook me for Hennie!
“I’ll tell you what, Hallie—” Aunt Gwen removed her wide-brimmed straw sun hat, laying it on the old farmhouse table “—I ate at the bed-and-breakfast. So why don’t I make you breakfast instead, while you go upstairs and get cleaned up? If you don’t mind me saying so, child, it looks as though you slept in those clothes, and I noticed you hadn’t unpacked your baggage, either.
“There are a few other things that need to be taken care of here this morning, besides, which is one of the other reasons why I came. There are still some chickens here at Meadowsweet, which need feeding. I didn’t know, of course, what you would want done with them, whether you intended to stay here permanently, making the farm your home, or whether you meant to put it on the market. So I was reluctant to sell the chickens or even to give them away. But that’s why Old Bernard is still screeching his darned fool head off outside. He’s hungry.”
“Old Bernard?” Hallie raised one eyebrow inquisitively.
“The rooster,” the older woman explained. “I know it’s awful, but Hennie said he was so mean that she was going to name him after Father—and I’m afraid that’s just what she did!”
“Good grief,” Hallie rejoined lamely.
Still, she was unable to repress the laugher that bubbled from her throat, and soon Aunt Gwen was giggling as hard as she.
“I’m sure…poor Father…must have turned over in his very grave…when Hennie christened that old rooster,” the elderly lady said, in between bursts of merriment.
“Well, I don’t believe Gram was ever a highly reverent sort of person,” Hallie mused aloud, remembering. “I guess perhaps she had got her fill of that growing up. Are there still bees here at Meadowsweet, as well, Aunt Gwen?”
“Oh, yes, dear. Hennie would never have parted with her bees. In fact, right before she died, she said it was more important than ever to keep them going here at the farm, that for some unknown reason, billions of honeybees are dying all over North America. ‘Colony Collapse Disorder,’ it’s called, she told me. Without bees to pollinate our crops, many will be lost. I don’t know all the particulars myself, but I suppose it could lead to all kinds of food shortages and maybe even a worldwide famine. I don’t think anyone really knows for sure.”
“Well, we’ll continue to take care of the bees here at Meadowsweet, then,” Hallie stated firmly, “and see that they don’t die.”
“Are you going to remain here, then, for good, Hallie?” the older woman inquired.
“I’m…I’m not certain yet.”
“Is there some reason why you can’t? I mean, I know from what Hennie told me that you have both a job and a husband somewhere back East—”
“No.” Hallie shook her head. “Well, at least, not a husband…not anymore, anyway. In the end it…it just didn’t work out. Before she died, Aunt Agatha tried to tell me it wouldn’t. But I just thought she was so bitter about not ever having got married herself that she wanted to ruin my own happiness, too. So I didn’t listen to her. But I should have, because everything she ever said about Richard—that’s my ex-husband—eventually turned out to be true. He wasn’t the right man for me and was never going to be.”
“You’re divorced now, then, I take it?” Aunt Gwen’s tone was sympathetic.
“Yes…yes, we’re divorced now. In point of fact, I signed the papers just before I left to come here. But that didn’t matter. Our marriage had been over for quite a while. I guess I just hadn’t wanted to face it. But now, I think perhaps that’s one of the main reasons I decided to come back here to Meadowsweet. I needed some time to myself, a quiet place to lick my wounds. So I took a sabbatical from my job—I’m a graphic designer—and I packed my bags, and well, here I am.”
“And now I’ve thoughtlessly intruded on your solitude.” The older woman sighed deeply. “I’m so sorry, Hallie.”
“No…no, you needn’t be,” Hallie said adamantly. “In fact, I’m glad you’re here, Aunt Gwen. Naturally, I’ve heard about you now and then over the years, but with the family being what it was, most of them on such ill terms with one another, you and I just never seemed to have a chance to meet, to get to know each other.”
“Yes, I know, and of course, it didn’t help that until these past years, I was never around much, but usually traveling out of the country somewhere,” the elderly lady noted. “That’s why I always missed holidays, birthdays, weddings and funerals, and the like. My late husband, Professor Victor Lassiter, was an archaeologist, you see. So we were invariably off in some far corner of the world, digging up old ruins and artefacts—besides which, as you said, our family was never particularly close.”
“Still, what an exciting life you must have led, Aunt Gwen.”
“Yes…yes, I have. Still, I don’t mind telling you there’s a lot to be said for putting down roots and making a real home someplace permanent, instead of always living in a tent and out of a suitcase.”
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