Called Home
Page 17
Dahlia deliberated. “Not just yet.”
“Really?”
“Really. There’s a new moon tonight. And it’s clear. The sky out here is going to be like nothing you’ve ever seen. I don’t want to miss it—and I don’t want you to miss it either.”
Aroostine smiled. She’d seen the night sky before, but there was no harm in humoring the girl for a few hours.
10:00 PM
* * *
The sky was unlike anything Aroostine had ever seen. A pure black canvas with thousands, maybe millions, of stars splashed across it. Planets twinkled. The galaxy was brighter and more populous than she’d ever imagined.
She stood shoulder to shoulder with Dahlia and felt her heart expand as she saw the literal Milky Way, the cloudy band of white smeared across the starry sky. She caught her breath at the clarity of the constellations. And she cried—a little—when Joe materialized beside her, just in time to catch her hand in his not-really-there hand that nonetheless was warm and familiar and watch a shooting star streak across the sky overhead in a dazzling arc.
“Did you see that?” Dahlia exclaimed, her eyes shining in the dark.
“I did.” As Aroostine turned to answer her, she felt Joe slip away, dissolving into the dark purple night. She shivered.
“I’m ready to go home.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
They walked in silence to the truck, which they’d already loaded with the tent and Dahlia’s bag.
As Aroostine navigated the dark and twisting roads to the reservation, Dahlia prattled on. Aroostine barely paid attention. She was focused on not driving off the side of one of the hairpin curves snaking through the mountains.
Then she zeroed in and realized Dahlia was embarrassed for her to see Pine Ridge. She cut her off mid-sentence. “I wasn’t born on a reservation. The Eastern Lenape weren’t officially recognized by the government. But my parents were desperately poor alcoholics, and we lived in what you could only call a slum. Until they drank themselves to death. Then I lived with my grandfather in a Native community—not an official tribe, but it might as well have been. Until he died. There’s not a thing I’m going to see tonight that I haven’t seen before. Except the overwhelming love of a mother reuniting with her daughter. So just stop it, okay?”
Dahlia bobbed her head. “Okay.” After a moment, she said in a halting voice, “The couch pulls out if …”
“I’d love to.”
They drove in silence the rest of the way, except for occasional navigational help from Dahlia.
“This is it,” she announced when they reached a weathered aluminum-sided trailer. “We’re home.” The interior was dark but one bright light shone down on the steps.
Aroostine killed the engine and helped Dahlia haul her stuff out of the truck. Dahlia hesitated on the front stoop, suddenly unsure. So Aroostine leaned forward and rapped on the door with her knuckles.
After a moment, a lamp flickered to life in the house. While they waited for Janice to open the door, Aroostine leaned toward Dahlia. “Oh, right. Almost forgot. My real name’s Aroostine Higgins.”
Dahlia cocked her head but before she could ask any questions, the door flew open.
“What in the name of … Dahlia?” Janice Truewind stared up at her daughter.
Dahlia crouched just inside the door and grabbed her mother’s hands in hers. “I’m home, momma. If that’s okay.”
“Momma? You haven’t called me momma in a dozen years.” Janice looked dazed. She caught Aroostine’s eye. “What are you doing lurking around outside? Come in and close the door. My daughter and I have a lot of catching up to do.”
Aroostine smiled and stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind her. Janice rolled her chair halfway across the living room floor then suddenly stopped. She leaned forward, arched her back, and pushed her chair forward while her back hit the chair. She popped a celebratory wheelie and threw Aroostine a look over her shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ she mouthed.
Then Janice turned back to her daughter, who knelt, threw her arms around her, rested her head on her shoulder, and sobbed. Janice smoothed her hair and hummed a soft tuneless song.
38
Two weeks later
Walnut Bottom, Pennsylvania
Aroostine sat on her boulder, watching the autumn leaves swirl in the creek’s current. Rufus slept next to her, his side and rump wedged against her hip, his warm head in her lap. He breathed noisily, his eyelids twitching as he dreamed of rabbits or soup bones or whatever canine desires filled his mind. She rested one hand behind his ears and exhaled.
It’d been eleven days since she’d picked Rufus up from the Jackmans’ place. She’d kept busy with visits to her parents and Joe’s, trips into town for books and groceries, even a drive to D.C. to have lunch with some old work friends. But every night, she came home to a quiet house.
Joe hadn’t visited her since she’d been back home. She’d really expected him to show himself, but she hadn’t seen him since the day in the Badlands. She was beginning to worry he’d left her for good. Had his spirit moved on?
As if he could sense her thoughts, Rufus whined in his sleep.
The wind picked up, and a familiar voice filled her ears. Her heart squeezed in her chest. It wasn’t Joe; it was her grandfather.
Little one, he’s not gone. He’s here with me—we’re right here with you. But you’re not with us. You’re with the living. Go. Live. He’ll talk to you when you need him. Just as I do. Just as your spirit guide does. Now, live your life.
His gravelly voice faded and the breeze died down. The dog shifted and resettled his head.
Live.
She reached up and rubbed the beaver charm that Dahlia had insisted belonged to her now. They’d even performed the ritual exchange of gifts—Dahlia’s charm for Aroostine’s field jacket.
Live her life.
She nodded to herself. She could do that. An idea was forming. Not like a bolt of lightning, the way inspiration strikes in the movies, but a slow unfolding. A nascent shoot taking root in her heart.
She scratched Rufus’s head and thought for a long time. Then she fumbled her phone out of her pocket and selected Carole’s telephone number from her list of contacts.
“Good morning, Aroostine.”
Of course. It was still morning in Oregon.
“Hi.”
“Are you bored already?” She laughed dryly.
“Ha. Actually, that’s sort of what I want to talk to you about.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know about going back to work. I believe in Grace’s mission. But I’m not convinced the best way for me to help the community is as a governmental liaison.”
“Turns out you enjoy not following the rules?”
She sputtered a protest. “It’s not like that. I just—”
“Oh, please. It’s exactly like that, and there’s no shame in it. No matter how creative I get with tribal law—and, believe me, I get very creative—”
“Um, I know. I was there for the talking stick ceremony, remember?”
“So you were. Still, though, I’m constrained in how much I can do. And I’m at peace with that. We need people like me to push for justice from within the system. But we also need people who operate outside the rules, who can do whatever it takes. It’s okay for you to be that person.”
Aroostine felt something shift inside her. As if her beliefs had cracked right down the center during her fight for justice for Mercy Locklear, and she knew—she didn’t know how she knew, but she knew—when she glued those pieces back together, they wouldn’t fit seamlessly anymore. They were different; she was different.
“What are you saying?”
“We need you to be Rue Jackman. We need you to be willing to be on the wrong side of the law to be on the right side of life.”
There was that word again. Life. Live. It was becoming a theme.
“How?”
Carole paused for a moment. “I just learned today about a mother and daughter who’ve gone missing in Cherokee, North Carolina.”
Rufus started awake and leapt to his feet, tail wagging, and ran up to the water’s edge. Aroostine followed his line of vision and glimpsed two figures on the far bank of the creek. Still half-listening to Carole, she focused on the shadowy shapes until they developed like a Polaroid picture.
Joe stood next to her grandfather on the other side of the creek. Her grandfather nodded once, solemnly. Joe raised a hand and waved goodbye.
Thank You!
The Aroostine Higgins series continues in Crossfire Creek:
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Also by Melissa F. Miller
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About the Author
USA Today bestselling author Melissa F. Miller was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Although life and love led her to Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, D.C., and, ultimately, South Central Pennsylvania, she secretly still considers Pittsburgh home.
In college, she majored in English literature with concentrations in creative writing poetry and medieval literature and was STUNNED, upon graduation, to learn that there’s not exactly a job market for such a degree. After working as an editor for several years, she returned to school to earn a law degree. She was that annoying girl who loved class and always raised her hand. She practiced law for fifteen years, including a stint as a clerk for a federal judge, nearly a decade as an attorney at major international law firms, and several years running a two-person law firm with her lawyer husband.
Now, powered by coffee, she writes legal thrillers and homeschools her three children. When she’s not writing, and sometimes when she is, Melissa travels around the country in an RV with her husband, her kids, and her cat.
Connect with me:
www.melissafmiller.com