"Open up, Doc!"
She hurried around the corner of the house to find the boy all but hurtling himself against the front door.
"Jamie, what is it? Why aren't you in school?" she asked as he spun around, wild-eyed and tear-streaked.
"He found out! You gotta help me!"
Eden gripped his shoulders, steadying him as best she could. "It's okay, honey. Who found out? About what?"
"Gunther did! About my animals!"
Eden's stomach roiled as Jamie grabbed her hand and began dragging her toward the porch steps. "You gotta help," he panted. "You gotta help me hide them 'fore ol' Gunther gets there!"
"But how—"
"Kit McCoy! He told. And now Gunther's gunning for Collie!"
* * *
Michael jerked awake, his lungs heaving, his pulse pounding.
Jesus.
He sat quickly, shaking enough to make his narrow cot squeak. In the pale streams of morning that filtered through the chinks in the Thunder Valley Orphanage's barn, he stared at his hands. He turned them over twice, just to be certain.
Still flesh. Still bone. Thank God.
He squeezed his eyes closed, gulping breath after shuddering breath. The dream had seemed so real. Too real.
"Where am I?" he'd demanded of the beautiful young man who'd walked out of the iridescent pink and gold mists veiling the eastern sky.
The young man smiled. Dark-haired and fair-complected, with eyes bright enough to rival the sun, he seemed familiar somehow. And yet his sculpted features were so breathtaking, so hauntingly ethereal, that Michael trembled, hard-pressed not to drop to his knees. Surely only the Son of God could be so beautiful.
The youth laughed, as if knowing his thoughts. "I'm Gabriel," he'd greeted in a rich, liquid tenor. "Your brother," he added wryly, "not the angel."
Michael blinked, dumbfounded. Was this some sort of sick joke? Gabriel was dead. Ten years ago, God had sent a lung plague to rob him of his youth. Murdered at twelve, that's what Gabriel had been. But this youth looked to be—
"Twenty-two. Yes, that would be about right, wouldn't it?" The youth grinned as Michael gaped. "Normally, we don't pay much attention to time here in heaven, but I figured you'd listen to me a whole lot better if I appeared... well, older than twelve."
Incredible. Michael latched on to anger to snuff out his rising fear. "Are you reading my mind?"
"I've had more pleasant assignments, I assure you. But since I volunteered to be your guardian angel, there's no helping it, I suppose. Hey," Gabriel continued glibly, "now that we're on the subject: Would you mind concentrating a little less on the doom and gloom?"
"This is ridiculous."
"No more ridiculous than you walking around blaming God for all the misery you've heaped on yourself. I assure you, nobody up here determines your future. That's your job. You make all the choices. We just try to steer you clear of the ones you'd have trouble living with."
"So now you're telling me you communicate with me?"
"Sure. All the time. You just don't listen. Lucky for you, Sera does. And Eden does too, to an extent."
"What do you mean... to an extent?" he asked suspiciously.
"Well..." Gabriel shoved his hands into the front pockets of his bib overalls. For the first time, Michael noticed his self-professed guardian angel was wearing his kid brother's favorite red neckerchief and blue gingham shirt—only several sizes larger than the originals, of course.
"Usually I've got my hands full just trying to hammer truth into your skull," Gabriel said, "but every now and then, while you're sleeping, I can sneak off to chat with Talking Raven. She's the one Eden listens to best, so if I need you to hear something—like, you're a stubborn old billy goat and need to have your head examined—Talking Raven whispers it into her ear, and she tells you."
"Eden has never called me a billy goat."
"She will."
Michael scowled, more hurt than miffed. How dare his guardian angel tell his wife to call him names?
"I suppose you and Talking Raven told her to find a new husband, too?"
Gabriel sighed, shaking his head. "If you only knew how much she loves you, you'd kick yourself right off this cloud."
Michael started, noticing for the first time that Gabriel was buried up to his calves in fluffy white nothingness. "Where the devil am I?"
"I told you. Heaven. See how you don't listen?"
"But..." His voice cracked. "If that's true, then I'm dead!"
"Nah. Well..." Gabriel seemed to change his mind. "If you keep wanting to be dead, we can help you get really sick. But the fact is, Eden's in a fix. She needs you to ride out to that animal orphanage before she does. So if you don't put your spirit back inside your body—"
"My spirit?"
"Sure. You still don't think you own one? Look at your hands."
Uneasily, Michael spread his palms and nearly bit his tongue in two. His fingers, wrists, and forearms—even his chest and legs—were crackling currents of white.
Pure energy. Like the cloud.
Shuddering again on his cot, Michael clenched his fists. He dug his fingernails into his palms until he felt the good old earthbound pain of flesh.
It was a dream. Just a dream.
Stubborn old billy goat. The unbidden thought flooded his mind.
He bolted upright, and chills scuttled down his spine. Youthful laughter rang in his ears before it faded into the twitter of sparrows and the jangle of halter rings. Brutus shook his head again, gazing curiously at him from the adjacent stall.
Michael smiled weakly. "Remind me never again to visit Gabriel's grave and then try to sleep on a stomach full of Lydia's chicken dumplings," he told his horse.
Brutus snorted.
Michael raked a hand through his hair. The act jogged his memory.
Collie. What the devil am I doing, wasting time thinking about dreams?
He reached for his saddle.
If he hadn't been riding Brutus, Michael would have searched all night long for the boy. However, he wasn't callous enough to force his horse to weather the storm. Blue Thunder Mountain hadn't been named for its hospitality in weather. Even nestled in the foothills, a good five miles away, the orphanage had been pummeled by howling winds and rain. The lightning displays had sent most of the children diving under their beds. Michael had hoped that Collie would come down off the mountain to find sturdier shelter. Even though the boy hated the orphanage, it was still the closest outpost between Bartholomew MacAffee's hovel and town.
But Collie hadn't shown his face on Lydia's doorstep. And that had worried Michael.
The odds were good that the boy wasn't in jail at this hour. Michael had paid a call on the town marshal—who happened to share an office with Whitley County's sheriff when Ben Truitt was in town. And Truitt was in town. He was visiting his granddaughter for her birthday. Truitt's presence didn't bode well for Collie, who distrusted Truitt almost as much as Ben distrusted him. Michael just hoped that the storm had chased the sheriff and his deputies indoors before they could collar Collie.
Now the question was, had the bad weather stopped Collie from plugging Kit McCoy?
Michael led Brutus into the blooming golds of dawn. If Collie had waited out the storm, then there was nothing keeping him from his "rat hunt" this morning. Michael had to find the boy before Collie found McCoy.
Or a bullet found Collie.
As if to echo his thought, a shotgun blast rolled off the hills to the northwest. Brutus stomped. Michael strained his senses. He had no earthly reason to think of the animal orphanage in that moment. But he did.
Had Collie fired the gun? Had he gone at first light to see how his wards survived the storm and found one that needed to be put out of its misery?
His heart speeding—for no logical reason—Michael vaulted into the saddle and spurred Brutus for the road.
It wasn't until he'd cleared the first ridge two miles later that he spied an ominous black tendril of smoke curl
ing over the hickories, white oaks, and pines.
Chapter 15
The gunshot drove Eden's heart into her throat.
Even Jamie, cradled in her arms astride Claudia's mare, jumped as if he'd been hit. The whole forest hushed, and for a moment, there was nothing but Nag's labored breathing, Jamie's chattering teeth, and the ominous rumble of that dying echo.
"It came from the clearing," Jamie whispered, twisting anxiously beneath their wool blanket.
Eden did her best to soothe him, to soothe Nag. The mare was skittering as if the blast had gone off right under her silly nose. "Collie was probably just practicing."
They both held their breath, listening. But the only sound beneath the canopy of pine was the whispering of the needles in the wind.
"I dunno. If it were just Collie practicing," Jamie said, tilting his head so his coonskin tickled her nose, "there should've been another shot."
Eden feared he was right. But she didn't dare say so. The boy—Nag, too—had been jumpy enough during the six-mile ride.
"Then I'm sure there's some other logical explanation," she said firmly, spurring Nag forward.
"Yeah. Gunther."
"Jamie Harragan," she scolded, "don't be a goose."
The boy grew quiet after that, but his heart pounded harder against her forearm with each step that Nag took. They were only a half mile from the animal orphanage before Jamie piped up, "Do you smell smoke?"
The wind had shifted. Nag was snorting, tossing her head.
"Maybe Collie's cooking breakfast," Eden said.
"I don't think so," Jamie said in dire tones. "A fire would make him easy to track, and he's supposed to be hiding out from Gunther."
Eden's nerves tensed another notch at this news.
"Well, there's only one way to find out," she said in her best matter-of-fact voice. Ignoring the queasiness in her gut, she urged Nag faster up the trail.
It was the stench of blood that hit her senses first.
Jamie jumped down, running for the clearing. She hurried after him, dread making her knees wobble. She heard him gasp, saw him slide to a halt.
Muddy boots, attached to scarecrow-like legs, protruded from the door of the shack.
She collided with Jamie's spine, pressing her glove to her mouth.
The body—a male—had fallen face down, struck from behind by a gunblast. Meanwhile, dancing macabrely around him, flames licked the inside of the shack.
"No!" Jamie cried, charging for his trapped animals.
"Jamie, wait!" Ripping off her riding gauntlets, Eden ran to the man's side and fell to her knees.
My God. My God. It's Gunther. Nausea hit her so fast, her head spun. Somebody shot Gunther!
"Collie, what have you done?" she half sobbed, trying to drag the taxidermist to safety. "Jamie!" she shouted again, struggling for a grip on the man's slippery boots. She nearly fell on her buttocks as her heels lost their purchase in the mud.
Jamie staggered out of a billowing cloud. Coughing, his face flushed with heat, he gripped a rabbit cage in each fist. "They're gonna all burn!"
"We have to help Gunther!"
Somehow, she convinced him. Somehow, they dragged the body over the threshold. Blood oozed into the mud. Cinders sizzled on the wet ground.
She dropped Gunther's legs near the tree stump. "I can't find a pulse," she choked, pushing aside stringy gray hair with a trembling hand.
"Ain't he breathin'?" Jamie panted.
She couldn't bring herself to examine the wound below Gunther's shoulder blades. "I-I don't know."
"You made me touch a dead man?"
Jamie shrieked, retreating so hastily, he tripped over the stump. She squeezed her eyes closed. Somehow, she mustered the courage to roll the taxidermist. The shotgun had blown a hole clear through his other side. She might have retched if she hadn't been so desperate to find some sign of life in him. She squeezed his wrists, listened for his breath.
There was nothing.
"Miss Eden!" Jamie cried again from the direction of the shack. "Help me!"
Shaking nearly too hard to stand, Eden knotted her skirts above her knees; she forced her feet back past the blood-spattered ruts that the corpse had made in the mud. The shack's roof was a bonfire now. It was climbing dangerously close to the pine eaves.
"Open their cages!" Her eyes were watering as she cleaved a path through the thick, roiling clouds. "They'll know what to do."
But lifting the metal doors wasn't easy. The heat had made the bars blistering hot. She shoved one of her riding gauntlets into Jamie's hand. "Hurry!"
"Where're my hounds?" he shouted at her.
"I don't know!"
The coons paced anxiously; the rabbits huddled wide-eyed and trembling in the rear of their cages. Eden swiped at smoke, at spider webs, at the pine-needle thatch that drooped from the roof. It smoldered into flames near her ears. Dear Lord, how many animals did Jamie have? She'd thought she'd convinced him that Collie couldn't save every whelp Gunther bred.
Collie, Collie, where are you?
Behind her, an ominous creaking all but obliterated the clang of a cage. Morgie and Rocky galloped for the door. Harriet chattered, her black eyes nearly red in the half-light. Eden gave up on the latch and grabbed for the handle, hauling the cage outside. When she stumbled, dropping it at her feet, the door sprang open, and Harriet charged after her brothers.
"How many more?" she panted as Jamie passed her, listing under the weight of another rabbit cage.
"Two! Maybe three!"
She gasped for air, halting just beyond the threshold. She didn't think the roof would last much longer.
"Come on!" Jamie dashed past her, fearless in his frenzy to rescue his wards. He'd bottle-fed most of them. He'd named every one. She suspected he'd have to be overcome by smoke to sacrifice a single coon or bunny.
Gritting her teeth, she forged inside. The ancient timbers were groaning. The door was consumed by the blaze. She snatched up a rabbit, kicking aside its cage. This would have to be their final trip.
"Come on, Jamie!"
"Where's Millie?"
"I don't know!" She grabbed the boy's collar.
"We have to find her!"
"There's no time."
"But she'll burn!"
Unable to battle both the squirming rabbit and the struggling boy, Eden lost her hold on the bunny. It thumped to the ground, loosing a spray of embers, before its long claws clattered on the floorboards and it scrambled for freedom.
"Millie, Millie, where are you?"
"Jamie, please! We have to leave now."
The sound of shredding wood made them both gasp and turn. The door toppled, belching cinders, smoke and flames. Jamie screamed. Eden spun him around, doing her best to shield his face and hair.
"Jamie! Are you all right?"
He coughed. Then he sobbed. "My arm got burned!"
Panic gnawed at her reason. The glowing red inferno that had once been the door was wedged diagonally across the exit. There was no other way out.
"You'll have to go outside. Put some water on it."
"But—"
"There aren't any more bunnies, Jamie. We're the only ones left." Her hands were shaking as she wrapped her coat around him. "You'll have to squeeze under the door. You can do that, can't you?"
He nodded tearfully.
"Run outside. As soon as you do, roll on the ground. Roll like a puppy would. Stop only when you're sure you're not burning. Okay?"
"Aren't you coming?"
"Yes, yes, now go!"
She shoved him, and he ran, wriggling into the triangular crevice like one of his rabbits. She heard a rip and his yike; the sickening smell of smoldering wool followed him over the threshold.
"Jamie!"
She heard him coughing on the other side.
"Jamie, I'm too big." With trembling fingers, she tore off her skirt and petticoat and tried to beat down the flames. "Get a bucket and wet down the door!"
"Okay. I'l
l be back!"
She barely heard his muffled cry above the roaring and crackling around her. Her sinuses burned; her throat felt like it had been scored by talons. She could barely see the sky now—her sliver of freedom—through the boiling black haze. Wheezing, she tried to kick down the corner of the door that wasn't completely ablaze, but as the planks sagged lower, the walls crowded closer. She suspected that makeshift crossbeam was the only thing keeping the outer timbers from collapsing inward.
"Jamie!" Something crashed behind her—a shelf of watering bowls. She sobbed, slapping out the geyser of sparks that burned her sleeves and hair. The few feet left to her now weren't wide enough to swing her skirts.
Dear God, am I going to burn? Am I going to die before I can use my gifts—really use my gifts—and heal Michael?
"Jamie, hurry!"
"Eden!"
Michael galloped into the plumes of smoke, his heart wedged in his throat. Some sixth sense warned him that she was in danger even before he saw the blood that led to Gunther's corpse.
"Doc!"
He recognized Jamie's voice, saw the boy struggling to haul a rusted water pail to the door.
"Miss Eden's stuck inside!"
Merciful God.
Instinct dissolved his next thought. Vaulting from the saddle, Michael grabbed Jamie's bucket, doused himself, and lunged for the hatchet that was jutting from the pine the boys had periodically hewn to thatch their roof. He could hear Eden's coughs above the roaring of the flames.
"Eden, stand back!"
"M-Michael?" Her throat sounded as raw as the fear that clawed his gut. "Michael, help me!"
He muttered a prayer and swung. The words came from nowhere, a catechism he'd long forgotten, a plea he'd stopped speaking, because every time he'd prayed, it had fallen on deaf ears.
...Deliver us from evil...
"Hurry!"
Her panic drove him harder, faster, hacking through flames and timbers to reach her on the other side. The heat scalded him through his damp clothes. Sweat stung his eyes; cinders sizzled on his flesh. He barely noticed. If she died, his life would be over. She wasn't just the one true love of his heart. She was the bright, shining piece that was missing from his soul.
"Michael, the roof's caving in!"
His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2) Page 29
