The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) (15 page)

“Grandpa’s eyes were as wide and hollow as those drawings, the last time I saw him,” Pearl said.

John sensed that his grandfather being held in intensive care was not the only reason that she wasn’t visiting him at night. She was scared. “This one is a vulture—the long neck and hooked beak.”

“But, they’re masks, you see?” she insisted, pointing to the empty eye sockets and lack of neck or body. “And see this one,” she pulled the first page out of his hands and laid it on the table, to reveal the paper beneath. “See, this one has a human body, and his hands are holding the mask to his face.”

John placed the second page next to the other so they could look at the drawings side by side. There was another human figure on the first drawing that he could discern, since his grandma had pointed out the form. That one seemed to be dancing, with feathered, clawed, stomping feet, and calling up to the sky. Were they depictions of some sort of ritual? The drawings laid bare a man’s intimate fears, and suddenly John felt the lamp was shining too brightly on them.

“They look like dreams to me. Nightmares,” he said, hoping his grandfather was not actually seeing that stuff in his waking moments.

“They do, don’t they?”

“Dreams are pieces of our memories knitted together in creative ways.” John tried to remember what he had learned about the phenomenon of the dream state in a recent psych class at school. It was all vague theory rather than provable fact, though. “These could be scenes from a movie that he’s seen or a book that he’s read.”

“Why would a movie or book have been so important to him?” she asked, tracing the lines of a particularly fierce mask with a sharp tongue darting through the howling jaws of what looked like a jaguar. “The nurse said he’s also been talking about someone. A…”

John looked up when he realized she hadn’t finished her last comment, about to prod her to continue. But when he saw the expression on her face, he thought better of it. Jealousy. She rearranged her features and forced a smile.

“Does he talk about the drawings, Gram? You know, later? When he’s more with it.”

“Honey. He’s never really very ‘with it’ anymore.”

Something in her voice brought the edges of his awareness into sharp focus, and the hollows under her eyes matched the late-night cooking. When he first walked in the front door, he had noticed two empty slots in the bookcase. Over his grandma’s shoulder, he saw two books stacked there. They spoke volumes as to how she had been spending lonely nights: a
Book of Common Prayer
and
The Bible
.

“We’ll figure it out, Grandma.”

“We always do,” she agreed and willfully snapped herself out of the moment. “Anyway, I’ll finish these potatoes, honey. You eat your sandwich. God knows you’ll have to fight for your food tomorrow…”

She resumed her harangue of the Bennett brood and finished stocking the crockpot with vegetables while he ate his snack. Finally, the only job left to be done was to add the meat and plug in the power in the morning, and though John was ready to collapse with exhaustion, he knew Grandma Pearl would probably stay up watching Carey Grant movies until the wee hours.

At least that would be more cheerful than bible study, for a woman who doesn’t believe in God.
He gave her a gentle kiss goodnight and headed up the stairs without bothering to fetch his luggage. He felt bad about leaving her alone but he was going to pass out in t-minus-sixty seconds.

As John collapsed onto the bed upstairs, splaying his arms and legs over the sides, he let out a groan of pleasure. It didn’t take much will to chase thoughts of Grandpa’s nightmares out of his mind. He ran his hands over his scalp, erasing the tortured drawings from his memory, and then kicked off his shoes with a delicious stretch. He considered letting himself fall asleep right there on top of the covers.

“Ow,” he grimaced as he rolled onto his side and the starched lace duvet scratched his face.

He decided getting underneath was worth the effort and pulled off the itchy duvet, folding it neatly over the end of the bed. Getting up to flip on the ceiling fan, he glanced out the window across the field separating them from the McBride house and thought again about Candy. He turned off the bedroom light, and his reflection disappeared to reveal darkened windows next door. He stripped off his jeans and left them in a heap on the floor, then snuggled under the down comforter in his underwear, the fan roaring overhead.

He didn’t dream of howling masks and dancing shamans. He dreamt of dark eyes and soft lips, and he slept more soundly than he had in years.

chapter eighteen

“Somethin’ wrong, hon?” Mike asked, not bothering to close the bedroom door, since all the kids were blessedly out of the house that night. Their golden retriever bounded in against his leg and jumped onto the bed. “Hey, Copper. Good girl.”

Steph was standing in the master bedroom in her nightgown, her slippered feet firmly planted and her hands on her hips, frowning at her husband in dismay. “What happened to you tonight, Mike?”

“I had a call. I had to leave.” He pulled off his gun holster in one fluid sweep and dumped it on the mule chest. “Look, I’m sorry I missed the end of your meeting, but you know I can’t ignore a call.”

“I saw you walk out with Mieke Walsh, and neither one of you came back.” Steph could hear the panic in her voice and she cringed at the sound.

“Yeah, you told me to ask her about the security breach and I did. She showed me where it was.” Mike stopped undressing, mid-button, and turned to face her squarely. “Why she didn’t go back to the meeting, I have no idea.”

“Oh.” Steph gulped, feeling ridiculous and forcing her tears back with an effort. “What was it, a broken window, or something?”

“An unlocked door.” Mike resumed disrobing. Steph knew how much paperwork an unlocked door at the school meant for him in the morning. He scrubbed his hands over his face and waved it away for the night, “I’ll talk to Henry about it tomorrow.”

“Good, okay,” Steph said, her voice breaking with relief.

Mike twisted around, startled. Seconds passed between them in silence, before he rose from the bed and approached her with his arms spread wide and his voice a caress. “What’s goin’ on, now?”

She choked on a sob, turning it into a laugh, as he pulled her into a bear hug. “You guys just left, and I didn’t know…”

“Oh, you’re somethin’ else, Pussycat. I get a call and suddenly I’m—what?—diddlin’ Mieke Walsh in the janitor’s closet?”

“I’m sorry. That woman just really gets my goat, is all.”

“Oh, come on.” He released her and fell onto their king-sized bed, pulling off his shoes with a groan. “She seems like a nice enough gal to me, why don’t you like her?”

She pretended she hadn’t heard his question. “Well, what was the call? Where’d you have to go?”

“Oh, way down south by the gorge.”

“Really? Why?”

“The Derringtons.”

“Who?”

“You remember that tourist that got lost about a week ago? Husband went missing; wife didn’t have the car keys, so she had to hike out of the canyons with her two kids?”

“Yeah, you said the poor little girl had to be hospitalized.”

“Uh huh. Well, we found the husband.”

“Was he alright?”

“No.” Mike put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes, as if to erase an unwelcome image. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Ew. Don’t tell me, then.”

“But, I brought you a present.” He stood up and dug into a pocket hanging loose from his already unzipped fly. He brought out a rolled-up plastic bag and waved it in the air, grinning wickedly. “Had to stop in Finley Cove, too. Seems like you need to relax a little.”

“I see.” Steph folded her arms across her chest in a pout, her disgruntled mistrust reawakened; Mike knew how much she loved screwing when she was stoned. He kicked his pants down the rest of the way to the floor, and plopped on the bed in his underwear. Giving her time to cool off a little more, he went to work raised up on his elbows, silently sorting through the pot and ready to listen to her complaints.

Steph was ready to voice them. “I don’t know, I just don’t trust her.”

“You know you’re my queen.” Mike looked up and fixed her gaze, before looking back to his hands to continue his work.

“I trust
you
, I just don’t trust
her
. You should have seen what a mess she saddled me with tonight.”

“You don’t trust anyone you haven’t known your whole life,” Mike chuckled, separating the sticks and seeds into a little pile on the bedspread, brushing Copper’s nose away when she tried to sniff it.

“Well, that’s right,” Steph agreed, throwing up her hands. “I’m not going to apologize for that. What’s wrong with knowing who your friends are? Knowing where you come from?”

“Nothin’ at all, Pussycat.”

Steph rounded on him, thinking she heard sarcasm in his reply, but when she saw his eyebrows knitted and his toes laced together in complete concentration on his task, she stopped pacing to watch; it was one of his most endearing habits, those interlocked toes.

He noticed the quiet, looked up and smiled. “What?”

“I love you.”

“Come ‘ere, beautiful.” He held out a hand in invitation.

Steph dug into the drawer of her nightstand and brought out her favorite glass tobacco pipe, designed to look like a cute little caterpillar. She bought it at the old-time music festival, more than twenty years before, right after the birth of their first baby. When their daughter, Liza, was a toddler she used to think it was the funniest little puppet. Steph would make it talk with a silly voice, often to
Alice in Wonderland
playing for background entertainment. “Spark it up then, honey. I guess I wouldn’t mind relaxing with you for a while.”

chapter nineteen

The sun was barely up, the morning still cool, when Sam hiked up the dirt pathway around the edge of Shirley County’s town center. Candy had told him to meet her early, so that they might have a pleasant ride up to the campgrounds before the heat of the day was upon them. Her uncle’s horses were calmer in the morning, still a little sleepy and not yet harassed by tourist brats. She warned that there would be plenty of ‘out-of-towners’ that day, in lieu of the music festival and at the close of summer, and she had asked her uncle to save them a gentle gelding on the Shirley side of the ranch. She knew that Sam had never ridden a horse before, and was delighted to offer her expertise. Thinking of a day with Sam would normally have made her nervous, but she was never nervous around a horse.

“Looking pretty charged already,” he said when he spotted her sitting atop the enclosure wall, kicking her dangling feet in anticipation.

“Hey, you made it.” She hopped off the wall and bounded over to him for a hug.

His voice was still husky with sleep, “Whoa, tiger.”

“Still not awake yet, even after a shower?” Candy mussed his wet hair and planted a loud kiss on his freshly shaven cheek. “Ooh, baby soft. I like it.”

“Are you on drugs, or just part Chihuahua?”

“Sorry, I’ve always been a morning person. Not you, though, huh?”

“Nope.” He plunged his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, but flashed her a wolfish grin.

Her belly did a backflip in response. “Well, day’s not gettin’ any younger.” Looping her arm in his, she steered towards the footpath leading northwards up the valley. Their shoulders bumped as they loped along together, so Sam pulled his hand free of its cozy pocket and grabbed hers. Candy swung their clasped fists between them and chattered happily about the ranch, her uncle who owned the ranch, his kids, and how easy the horses were to handle. Her uncle was already working the stables closest to the campgrounds at the top of the valley when they arrived, so one of her cousins greeted them and showed them to their mounts. One was a shiny chestnut mare and the other a dappled grey and white gelding, both munching oats serenely, already brushed and saddled.

Her cousin had recently ascended to assistant manager, and she eyed him warily, cringing against the moment he realized she was on a date. Thankfully, Sean was a little slow in the mornings, especially that one. “These are trail horses, so they’re used to unfamiliar people that don’t really know how to ride. One’ll follow the other. Candy, you know how to lead.”

“Yep, I got it,” she said, nodding briskly and checking the saddles and reins on both horses. She selected the mare for herself and leaned down to adjust the length of the stirrups a little higher, since she was about a half-foot shorter than Sam.

“Here’s your pack.” Her cousin patted the zippered canvas backpack attached to one of the horses. “Water, map, and long range walkie-talkie.”

“Sean, I don’t need that,” Candy started, annoyed, but he cut her off, all business.

“Hey, it’s a big ranch and insurance says the pack’s required.”

She whined, “Do I have to stick to the trail?”

“With these horses, you do,” Sean said in his big boy voice. Candy thought he might be feeling the aftereffects of partying with the carnies the night before, but at least he hadn’t embarrassed her. Then, when he turned to walk back to the stable office, he added under his breath, “…fire crotch.”

“You butthole!” Candy grumbled in a strained hiss, not wanting to upset the horses, but slapping his broad shoulder so hard it stung.

He jogged away, snickering. “Have fun, kids.”

“Nice.” Pissed off and embarrassed, she turned back to the horses with a red face.

The family squabble had put Sam at ease, though; he seemed loose and relaxed, letting Candy direct him with authority and regain her dignity. His assigned horse for the day, the comely grey and white named Popcorn, loomed enormous next to Candy, but she had no trouble leading the gentle giant to where she needed him. She moved him around the paddock to demonstrate how to use the reins while Sam watched, his hands in his pockets. Though he seemed aloof, she had the feeling he was taking meticulous mental notes.

“Popcorn’s a little round in the belly, and likes to move slow,” she apologized. She wouldn’t have minded a rowdy stallion for herself, and it was hard to get a feel for how a guy like Sam would want to ride. Every move he made impressed her and every word he said she savored. She wasn’t sure how to handle being in charge.

But, Sam was acting as pliable as Popcorn, “Sounds good to me.”

Whoa, this is weird. Note to self: take Sam riding more often.

They started out on the trail together, Popcorn following Candy’s horse, Brownie. Candy would have liked to let her horse run free in the fields, but it was probably best they were forced stick to the trail. The trail had been designed especially for tourists and flowed through the prettiest stands of trees (to hide any unsightly commercial buildings or stinky trash dumps), and regularly opened onto sundrenched meadows speckled with wildflowers. As the going became steep and rockier along the river, the horses slowed down to pick their way along. The ranchers had routed them through an area with the best view of the rapids and the cliffs, and the trail narrowed and dropped about twenty feet to the water below.

After plodding along for about fifteen minutes, Sam called over the roar of the river, “How far is it like this?”

“We’re almost past this part,” she hollered back, twisting around in her seat casually. “Isn’t the view beautiful?” They were at her favorite section of the trail—mountains on one side and steep drop-off on the other. Spectacular.

“Alright, alright.” He waved at her, urging her to face straight ahead.

She pushed her sunglasses to her forehead and saw that Sam face was blanched, his knuckles white on the reins.
Oh shit, he hates it.
“We can ride side by side in a sec.” After several hundred feet, their path took a sharp turn into a line of elm trees and then they were in open, rolling hills. Candy glanced back and was relieved to see Sam’s color returning.

She remembered the reason for the detour: an old wooden mill backed into the clearing and jutted out into the river on the other side.
Oh, he’ll like that.
Feeling like a tour guide, she motioned towards a peek at the backside of the mill and he peered through the trees at the impressive relic from the 19th Century. “Now the valley will narrow, and then we’ll come to the top of it and head up into the foothills of Western Mountain.”

“Western Mountain? So, we’ll have to cross a bridge?”

“Yeah, we’re due north of Shirley, the campgrounds are straight ahead, but the river curves around in front of us along the ridge.” She pretended nonchalance, but she knew that bridge, and consoled herself.
Rickety, but still safe.
Nothing for it but to soldier on and prattle on, “The festival is always held at the entrance to the grounds, right in the foothills. See, we’re headed out of the valley and coming into Balick County, which runs along the ridge of the Western Mountain.
Bealach
is Scottish Gaelic for ‘mountain pass;’ I think Balick is sort of a bastardization of the term. There were a lot of Scottish settlers here in the early days. They still have a Highlands Festival, it’s really cool.”

Sam seemed to have regained his swagger, as if the horse were connected with his own swaying hips. “I always wondered about the name ‘Shirley’ for a town. Is it Gaelic, too?”

“You know, I never thought about that. ‘Shirley’ isn’t strange to me, since I’ve lived here all my life. I guess it is, kinda. But, I don’t think it’s Gaelic. We learned about the origin in a history class a long time ago, but I can’t—”

“Shit, what’s he doing?” Popcorn dropped low and prepared to roll. Sam sprang off his mount in a flash.

Candy jerked the slipknot tethering the two horses and launched herself to the earth.

“Stand clear, Sam.” She pushed him behind her and stepped them both back to a safe distance.

The horse neighed and thrashed his head, thrusting the saddle against the ground and scrambling his legs in the air. Brownie sidestepped several paces with a nervous whinny.

What the hell, it’s like he’s possessed.

Candy handed Sam her own reins and reached out to take a hold of Popcorn’s, then cinched them tight. “I think he wants his saddle off, maybe it’s hurting him.” All hell was breaking loose but she kept her mind on the mundane. She snuck a finger into the saddle buckle and unhooked the latch with a flick, murmuring lovingly, like she was manipulating a naughty child, “There, there. We can fix that, boy.” The strap loosened, Popcorn calmed down enough for her to pull it free. The heavy saddle fell away with a thud.

The horse wiggled and flailed before he found his feet, then tried to trot away with an angry snuffle. Candy still had ahold of his reins, and she led him into the shade of the trees.

“It’s okay, sssshhhhh…”

Popcorn reared up on his hind legs, his eyes still wild.

It wasn’t the saddle, then.

She gave the reins some slack and let him lead the way.

“Alright, quiet now. Shush, boy.”

They moved away from the meadow, the sound of the river building and the shade deepening under the trees, and Popcorn finally relaxed.

Thank god.
Candy let out a tense breath and mentally retraced her steps. She hoped they hadn’t gone too far; the thought of Sam alone in that meadow, probably shaken and disgruntled himself, filled her with shame.
What a fun horseback riding adventure.

She tied Popcorn to a stout trunk, catalogued surrounding landmarks, and told herself she’d text Sean later. The important next step was finding Sam and—somehow—trying to make things right after…after that…whatever.

What the heck was that? That saddle wasn’t too tight. Was there a hitchhiker under the blanket, sticking him?
She knew there was no way. Sean could be total A-hole to his cousins, but he was never careless with a horse. Possibilities and justifications for the unsettling occurrence dwindled as she made her way back to Sam. The thought occurred to her that Popcorn had grown calmer going in the other direction, but she put it out of her mind.

She emerged from the trees, dusting her hands off on her jeans. “Man, you sure move fast.”

Sam was standing with his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, watching the woods on the other side of the clearing. He turned back to her, his expression guarded. “Good thing, too.”

“No kidding, right? If Popcorn had rolled over on you—which was exactly what he seemed to have in mind—you could’ve broken a leg at best.”

Sam shrugged, “Not the first time I’ve felt like that here.”

“What do you mean? Like what?”

“Ousted,” he laughed, low and soft in his chest. “Like maybe I shouldn’t be here. Don’t belong here.”

“Don’t belong?” The thought of Sam leaving Shirley County sent Candy into a panic she would be loathe admitting to a locked diary. “People make you feel like that?”

His smile was bitter, enigmatic. “No. Not people.”

“I don’t know what happened, maybe he had a sticker in his saddle blanket—he’s never done anything like that before. I am so sorry. Have I ruined the day?”

Sam read the hysteria she was trying to hold back; the tautness left his shoulders and his whole demeanor softened. “Don’t worry, Candy. I don’t belong anywhere. It was a shock, but let’s not make too much out of it.”

“Darn horse was chomping on wildflowers all morning. He’s getting so fat, he must need to keep his saddle on the next buckle hole now—I better tell Uncle Robin,” Candy babbled, casting around for a foothold back into normalcy.

“What did you do, put him down?”

“I tied him in a nice shady spot, right next to a patch of
wildflowers
.” Candy kicked at the retired saddle, still lying on the ground. “Good thing we’re right by the old mill, I can tell Sean where he can find him.”

“Poor Sean.”

“Whatever, I’m glad he’ll have to work a little harder today.” Candy was still bristling at her cousin’s earlier remark on the probable color of her pubic hair. “Serves him right.”

“So….” Sam blew out a long breath, snapped his fingers, and clapped a hand on one fist. “What now? Should we walk the rest of the way?”

“Uh, no. It’s still pretty far. We can ride together, if you don’t mind sitting that close to me.”

“With that soft, fat arse between my thighs? Heaven.” Sam dodged a punch and slung the backpack from Popcorn’s saddle over his shoulder.

They left their remaining horse at the Balick County end of Colemann Ranch, and walked the last quarter mile to the campground entrance on foot, hand in hand.

“Is that the train?” Sam cocked his ear as a hand-painted banner came into view: Mountain Sound Festival 2014. After a few more steps, an old log cabin with a deep porch emerged from behind the trees, and they saw that what had sounded like a steam engine’s whistle was actually a song produced by the gnarly old man sitting in a rocking chair. He had one boot propped up on the porch railing, trundling himself back and forth in a bentwood rocker, a harmonica barely visible between his fluttering fingers. The tune changed from the chugging train to a slow, mournful wolf call, before picking up the melody of “Angeline the Baker.”

“He’s good,” Sam said under his breath as they neared the porch.

“Yeah, he’s like ninety-something years old. He’s had almost a century of practice.”

“That’s a relief. Then he won’t pass out in a second.”

It was true. The old man was huffing and puffing on his instrument at an amazing rate, impressive at any age. Candy hated that old bastard, though. “No, but he probably won’t remember who I am, either. Hello, Mr. Lowry, sir. My, that is a fine tune.”

“Eh?” The old man came out of his trance and the music stopped abruptly. “Why’d you shut it down, then?”

“I am sorry, sir,” Candy said, smiling widely. “I didn’t want to startle you. Are you accepting the festival entrance fee?”