The Long Road Home

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Damn you, Mike!” she swore as she hit the steering wheel with her fist. A September wind caught the curse and carried it across the Vermont mountains. The echo diminished into a menacing breeze that floated through the car like the whisper of a ghost. She shuddered and closed her eyes.

  Why curse Mike? It was childish—and too late. She got out a short laugh. Mike never got stuck here. He had skidded on this same road, but instead of cowering as she was, he’d grind into first gear and will that heap of metal up the mountain. Only once he didn’t make it, and that was when the snow was so deep even the tractor couldn’t get up to the house. Nonetheless, he had sold the car as worthless.

  “Well, there’s no Mike now,” she blurted out as she raised her head. “This is it. Nora MacKenzie. Your first test. There’s no turning back. Home is ahead.”

  She let out a ragged breath as reason took over. With a thrust of determination, she shifted into first then slowly, with ease, let out the clutch.

  “Come on, you hunk o’ junk,” she said. The tires spun, whined, and slipped back a few inches. Nora bit her lip and fought the temptation to hit the gas. Instead, she yanked the wheels away from a dirt patch. With a jerk, the tires caught on the firm roadbed and lurched forward.

  “Go, go, go,” she crooned as the metal beast struggled up the steep incline and slowly rounded the final curve.

  With the care of a captain in shallow waters, she turned the wheels away from the loose patches of gravel and rode the crest. At last, the high-pitched drone of the engine lowered as the incline flattened and she emerged from the tunnellike foliage into the light of a clearing. She hooted triumphantly.

  Ahead, perched high on her mountain overlooking the Vermont mountain ranges, was a sunlit terrace. And standing proudly in its center was her house. Nora’s heart swelled when she spied the peak of the redwood and brick structure looming high above the purple heather. Next appeared the large, angular windows divided by a mammoth beam and lastly, the broad wooden deck that stretched like a smile across the breadth of the house. Nora couldn’t help smiling in return.

  Pulling up in front, she danced her fingers along the wheel. She couldn’t wait to get out of the car. She yanked on the brake and scrambled out. The air was cooler that high up and its pine-scented breezes caressed her cheeks. She inhaled deeply, tasting its sweetness. Sporting a triumphant grin, she stretched her arms wide to take into her soul the majestic Vermont mountain range, blanketed now in a homey patchwork quilt of greens, purples, reds, and oranges.

  Her hands might be shaky, she thought, and maybe her knees were wobbly. So what if she didn’t know what her next step would be. She felt exultant. She had made it to the top! In an inspired rush, she tugged the gold band off her left finger and threw it with desperate force into the horizon.

  “I’m home!” she cried to the mountains, bringing her arms around her chest in a bear hug. The echo bounced back to her, repeating “home, home, home,” in reassuring repetition.

  From above came a deep, resonant response.

  “Looking for someone?”

  To Nora, it was thunder in the mountains. Fear struck her marrow like a lightning bolt. She jerked her head toward the second-story deck where a man, dressed only in a pair of worn, unbuttoned jeans, towered above her. His eyes glared with suspicion from under a towel as he rubbed his wet hair. Across his chest, droplets of water cascaded like a waterfall down a mountainside.

  Questions froze in her throat. Suddenly her mountain seemed very small and she felt trapped under the harsh gaze of the man on the deck above her. He was a stranger—an intruder. She was alone and vulnerable. She had to get out and get out fast. Spinning on her heel, Nora lunged for the car door.

  “Hey! You! Stop!” shouted the man as he threw off the towel and pounded down the stairs.

  A scream caught in her throat as Nora leaped into the Volvo and punched down the door lock just as the man grabbed the handle. He shook the handle, cursing.

  “Look, lady,” he shouted, dipping his head to peer in. Water dripped from his dark blond hair down his broken nose. On either side, his eyes blazed. She froze as would a deer in a flash of light. Only when he pressed hands as large as bear paws across her windshield did she bolt upright and insert her keys.

  “Let go, mister,” she shouted. He didn’t. Nora started the engine yelling, “I’m warning you.”

  “And I’m warning you.”

  With shaky hands, Nora rammed the gearshift and roared into reverse, sending the man and gravel flying. Again, she slipped into first, jerked the wheel around and hit the gas. From the corner of her eye she saw him leap out of the way of the moving car, then heard him pound the rear in frustration. Nora cringed but kept her eyes on the winding drive ahead. She knew she was going too fast as she neared the first sharp curve and hit the brakes. They locked, sending the car skidding across the gravel straight toward the steep bank. She corrected the steering wheel, but the wheels had locked. She’d lost control. Her muscles tensed, her mouth opened, and time stood still. Nora was filled with the sickening knowledge that she was going to crash.

  She covered her head as she hit the tree.

  He heard the crash as he reached the door of the house.

  “Aw, damn,” he muttered, swinging wide the door and dashing inside. Within seconds, he had grabbed his keys and jacket and was rushing toward his Jeep, buttoning his pants along the way. The gravel dug into his bare feet, but he ran without pause to the car, hit the accelerator, and sped down the road. After the first curve he spotted the blue Volvo in the ditch and sucked in his breath. The car lay buried under a broken limb and its foliage. He saw again the New York license plates.

  With dread, he ran to the driver’s seat and peered in through the broken glass. The woman lay crumpled against the steering wheel. Jiggling the handle of the locked door, he cursed again. The passenger door was blocked by a heavy limb. He’d have to move it but wasn’t sure he could. Focusing on the limb, he grabbed it and heaved the limb away from the door, all the while still cursing the woman for showing up here at all. He yanked open the crumpled door and crawled in beside her.

  She was beautiful. It was one of those futile thoughts that pop into one’s mind at the wrong time. Shaking his head, he reached to pick up her wrist. It was thin and fragile, like the wing of a wounded sparrow. He laid his own large, callused fingers upon her pulse. Nothing had ever felt so good as that steady beat. The stranger was now a real person.

  “Just hang on, little bird,” he murmured. “I’ll get you out of here.” But how? Advice he had once heard nagged him: Never move an accident victim—something about broken bones. Well, he thought as he shifted his weight, there was only one way to find out. Carefully lifting her head, he cradled her against his shoulder. Her blond hair felt soft against his bare chest, making him uncomfortable touching her. His hands clenched and unclenched in indecision.

  “This is ridiculous,” he said aloud. There was nothing to do but be professional and quick. He gingerly lifted her suede jacket and slipped his hand under the fabric. His fingers palpated her neck, shoulders, and traveled down her spine. Then, being exceedingly careful not to touch her breasts, he slipped his hand across her ribs. She really was like a sparrow, all bones and feathers. And as far as he could tell, the bones were unbroken.

  His whistle of relief filled the crushed compartment. The rest he could handle. He carried the woman to his Jeep as gently as he would a handful of fresh raspberries. Resting her head on his lap, he frowned when he saw the purple swelling of the bruise on her head. He’d have to get her to a doctor, but her crashed-up Volvo blocked his path down the road. He’d better call Seth.

  The Jeep’s gears screamed as he backed up the mountain in reverse, but still she didn’t awaken. He carried the petite woman into the house, thinking as he did that he’d carried sacks of grain that weighed more than she did. Without a second thought, he took her up to the master bedroom. It was quiet, private, and somehow appropriate. Balanci
ng her against his knee, he pushed back the piles of quilts and blankets, releasing a heavy scent of mothballs. Carefully, he laid her upon the clean sheets, then as carefully, removed her fine leather shoes and covered her with a thick down coverlet.

  The air was getting crisp as night set in and her hands were cold in his warmer ones. As he dialed the farm’s caretaker, his free hand rubbed hers softly, noting that her delicate fingers were void of the large, vulgar rings he despised. In fact, there was no wedding ring. That struck him as odd. She looked like the type a man would marry. How old could she be, he wondered? Twenty-five, thirty? Probably divorced—then again, maybe not.

  He shook the idle thoughts from his head as Seth Johnston answered the phone. In few words the old man agreed to have the Volvo moved and help sent to the house. Talk was cheap and time expensive on the farm, and Seth liked to economize. They both preferred it that way.

  After laying down the phone, he covered the woman with another blanket and tucked it under her softly rounded chin. His hand moved to her cheek and patted it, then brushed a few hairs from the purple lump on her forehead.

  Staring at her face he was once again struck by her waiflike beauty. Hers was not a voluptuous appeal. Her face and golden hair were delicate, like an angel’s, making the ugly bruise swelling on her forehead menacing. There lay the truth of it, he thought with a frown. Her business here made her more a devil than an angel. A skinny runt of a devil.

  The woman’s clothes, though of fine quality, were baggy and hung loose on her bony frame. Her cheeks were gaunt and her skin color was more pale than fair. She looked as if she needed a good meal.

  He sighed. He had expected a Philip Marlowe type to track him down. Leave it to Agatha to send a woman.

  “Lady, lady, lady,” he whispered. “Just look how your snooping has hurt us both.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. The evidence was clear: New York plates, expensive clothes, patrician features. He recognized the style, he could almost give the address. And her money and status made it a sure bet she knew who he was.

  “Karma,” he said with resignation. He could only accept it and pack. As soon as she was in good hands, he’d slip away.

  From outside, the sound of whining engines and crunching gravel alerted him to Seth’s arrival. He reluctantly left the woman’s side to throw on a sweater and greet his boss.

  Seth squeezed his great girth out from behind the wheel of his pickup truck. He looked as weathered by time and mileage as the Ford and about as rusty. In the cab sat two children, grandchildren from a marriage gone bad. Following as usual, his sons drive up in the old green Impala. He expected the whole family. This was exciting business up here in the mountains.

  Seth stretched out a well-callused hand. “You be havin’ friends up at the big house now, Charley?” he asked with a grin that revealed many missing teeth.

  C.W. knew it was more than a friendly inquiry. Seth shared the flock and used MacKenzie’s land in exchange for keeping an eye on it and the house.

  “No, sir, I am not,” he answered firmly. “I’ve never laid eyes on her before. I was in the shower when I heard the car pull up. When I tried to talk to her she sped down the mountain like a demon. Her plates are from New York.”

  Seth’s eyes narrowed. “New York, you say?” He turned to his son. “That right, Frank?”

  “Yeh-up. The city all right. Saw the plates when we moved the car. Never saw that one before, though. You thinkin’ it might be one of MacKenzie’s?”

  “Could be. Come on, Charley, show us where she is. You two young’uns stay out here and out o’ trouble. Frank, Junior, Esther, come on.”

  The two tall and lanky men strode with a gait so loose and close their shoulders bumped in a brotherly camaraderie. Even in their mid-twenties, they resembled lion cubs, swiping and jabbing with a youthful exuberance. They approached the house as they did everything—together.

  C.W. smiled a brief greeting, then turned to Seth’s eldest daughter. Esther, one of Vermont’s persistent flower children, covered her long, lean body with patched jeans and a flowered shirt. At her side she carried a large straw bag. Knowing Esther, he imagined it carried a practical, well-thought-out first-aid kit.

  As she passed, Esther smiled from under her floppy straw hat. As always, C.W. had to search for signs of her twenty-six years. The soft lines at the corners of her eyes accentuated her sharp mind; the thin frown lines at her mouth revealed the degree of her discontent.

  He led them to the master bedroom, then stepped aside while Seth and his family filled the room. In a moment he heard them utter as one, “It’s Nora!”

  C.W. stood straighter and walked closer. “You know her?”

  Seth turned to face him, his eyes serious. “You did right by putting her in here. This be her room…her house.”

  C.W.’s eyes widened. She wasn’t an investigator? He looked at the woman again. Mrs. MacKenzie? She seemed too young and innocent to be the flamboyant Michael MacKenzie’s wife. Realization set in.

  “I thought you said they never came up here.”

  “They don’t. Her not once in three years,” Seth responded.

  C.W. held his arms akimbo and his chin low to conceal his shocked expression. The Big Mac’s widow. Here. He felt like he’d been punched. He studied the thin, pitiful-looking woman in the bed and hardened his heart. What the bloody hell?

  He searched Nora’s pale white profile. No doubt she was as cold-hearted and fast-fisted as her husband. What other kind of woman would marry Mike MacKenzie?

  4

  “SHE’S COMING AROUND, PA,” called Esther from Nora’s bedside.

  Nora blinked once, lazily, then again as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. Through the lifting fog, she saw a woman’s face peer into her own.

  “Esther?” Nora asked in a feeble voice.

  “That’s me, Mrs. MacKenzie,” Esther replied in the clipped, practical voice that Nora remembered. “You got yourself a nasty bump. Here, let’s put some ice on it.”

  Nora winced as a bag of ice was plopped on her head and a thermometer was stuck in her mouth. “Seth? Seth Johnston, is that you?” she asked, removing the thermometer and holding out a hand.

  “Yeh-up,” he drawled as he ambled to her bedside with a rocking gait.

  Nora was disturbed to see him so fat now that he panted with the effort. The only things thin about Seth were his hair and his clothes, and the latter were faded as well.

  “Nice to have you back again, missus,” he said, taking her hand. “Long time.”

  “Too long,” she responded with a weak smile.

  “Yeh-up.” He nodded, releasing her hand. “Long time.” He nodded again and shifted his eyes.

  Stepping forward, Esther returned the thermometer to Nora’s mouth with authority. “What the blazes sent you tearing down the mountain that way?”

  “I believe I did,” came a reply from the corner.

  Startled, Nora followed the bass voice to the far corner of the room. A tall broad silhouette was outlined in the shadows. She slowly raised herself to her elbows, squinting in the poor light.

  “And who are you?” she mumbled with as much authority as she could muster with a thermometer in her mouth.

  He slowly straightened, and after a palpable pause, strode into the light. Her hand rose to her throat. It was the stranger from the deck.

  “You!” she whispered.

  He didn’t respond, but his mouth set in a grim line. He stood before the bed, watching her every reaction in tense silence, before quietly asking, “You don’t know me, Mrs. MacKenzie?”

  The question was more of a challenge. She narrowed her eyes and searched the tall man in tight jeans and a plaid shirt. With his dark blond hair and hard, chiseled features, he had the kind of masculine good looks that a woman would remember. Yet standing next to Junior and Frank, he did not emit the conceit or pride that she found so offensive in attractive men. In fact, he appeared distinctly uncomfortable with
her study.

  “No,” she replied, firmly removing the dread thermometer and returning it to Esther. “I’m quite sure we’ve never met. Should we have?”

  He stepped back a pace, shaking his head no. But not before she detected a distinct smile of relief. A shiver of suspicion ran down her spine. Nora quickly straightened, but the room spun, forcing her back on her pillows with a groan.

  The man was suddenly at Nora’s side.

  “The lady needs to see a doctor. No offense, Es.”

  “None taken, C.W. But there’s no doc to call.”

  “Well, now,” interrupted Seth. “There’s that New York doctor what stays in Middleton Springs. Comes up every fall for the hunting season. Redman…Red somethin’ or other.”

  “Redden,” Nora responded softly behind closed lids. “I know him. His number should be by the phone.”

  “A New York doctor?” C.W. asked. “Isn’t there anyone local we can call?”

  “No,” Nora said cautiously, surprised by his antagonism. “He’s our physician of choice. He’ll come.” She didn’t add that he’d better come. Mike had given Dr. Redden full rein of their four hundred acres to hunt every fall for years, and it was time to call in a favor.

  At a nod from her father, Esther headed out of the room.

  “I’ll give him a call, C.W.”

  C.W. stood abruptly, his face clouded.

  “Do you have objections to calling a New York doctor?” Nora asked. His stance, the authority in his voice, the angle at which he held his head—all held an indefinable air of breeding. Strange in a farmhand, if that was what he was.

  “No, why should I?” he replied, his face suddenly impassive. “Call who you like—as long as you call.”

  “Better watch how you throw your weight around, Charley,” said Seth, laughing, “now that it’s hunting season. Big bucks are a prime target.”

  Nora witnessed the affection in C.W.’s glance at Seth. Who was this man, she wondered, who wore his sophistication as comfortably as his work clothes?