“She’ll learn,” Dirk said, leaning down to scoop the cat into his arms. “Riley won’t take much guff from anyone.”
Portia raised a hand to stroke the cat. “I don’t know this one, Dad.”
“He’s one of Buttermilk’s kittens. Remember her?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
“She’s around here somewhere,” Boone said. “She’s still the boss.”
Portia glanced down the aisle. “Can I see the rest of my horses now?”
Boone stepped aside and swept an arm before him. “Thought you’d never ask. Let’s go hunt up some of your old favorites.”
Chapter 12
After spending an hour meeting and greeting her old friends and learning the names of some of the new foals, Portia left the men to talk farm business on the porch. Exhausted, she shuffled back inside where she found Grace and her mother cuddled together on the couch.
The aroma of baking cornbread filled the air, and in that one swift moment of recognition, she knew she was really truly home.
Cornbread. Warm, buttery, crumbling in her fingers. She almost melted with the idea of it.
Leaning against the kitchen doorway, she watched Grace laughingly play with her mother’s hair. A stab of jealousy pricked her. There was a new closeness between her mom and sister, one that hadn’t been there before.
When had that happened? Since the wedding?
Portia had always been the “good” girl, and even had suspected she was her mother’s favorite. But now she felt so removed from everything, so distant. Sure, she got some welcoming hugs when she came home, but it felt like everyone was tiptoeing around her because of what happened.
Of course they were. She still hadn’t told them. She’d have to face it before long.
Dread grew in her stomach.
To talk about it…oh, God. Even to think about it, made her nauseated.
Grace trilled a laugh. “I like it. It grew in real nice, Mom. I think you have a little more curl than you used to.”
Daisy reached up to pat her short gray hair. “I’m so glad to be done with that danged chemo.”
Portia glanced up at the ceiling, wondering at the footsteps overhead. In a flash she realized it must be Anderson walking around upstairs in the guest bedroom, opening and closing drawers and closet doors.
He’s too good to Grace, bringing in the suitcases, putting away their clothes. An uncharitable thought hit her. She doesn’t deserve such a nice guy.
Immediately, guilt struck her.
Just because I suffered doesn’t mean my sister shouldn’t be happy.
She shifted against the cool paint of the doorframe. What’s wrong with me? Why am I so mean now?
She sighed, realizing she had a lot of family history to overcome. All the pain Grace had put her family through with the drugs and court and rehab…it was still there. She hadn’t seen her sister recover, or even apologize. She hadn’t had two years to forgive and forget. It all felt so fresh. But it wasn’t fresh. She had simply stagnated, pulled out of life by the bastard who took her. Put on a shelf to dance to his needs, while the rest of life went on and on without her.
And then of course, there was that weird display earlier, where Grace flirted with Boone right in front of everyone.
How do I feel about that?
She let her mind free up a bit, but one wandering thought wouldn’t go away.
I’m jealous.
Jealous? Why?
You ninny, you were jealous of Grace and Boone.
After all, Boone was her friend, her riding pal, her childhood crush.
Sure, she shrank from him in the beginning. He was just so big now, so different. But inside, he was the same old Boone. Gentle. Caring. Funny.
Wasn’t he?
She faced the thought full on. She had been jealous of Grace flirting with Boone. She felt possessive of him, although she wasn’t ready to have him touch her or get too close. She didn’t know if she’d ever let any man come within a foot of her now, except her father and Doc—and maybe Anderson. There was something about Anderson that put her at ease. Maybe it was the kindness filling his eyes, the gentle smile on his lips? Either way, she liked him already.
But Boone was all male, so big and muscled and…such a cowboy.
Her mother turned, suddenly noticing her in the doorway.
“Honey, come inside.” She patted the seat next to her. “Sit with us.”
Portia walked over and sat on the other side of her mother, leaning into her embrace. “Hi, again, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie.”
Grace smiled at her from the other side, and when her eyes shifted to a quizzical glance, Portia was afraid she was going to ask her again about what happened.
She braced herself.
Before her sister could ask the dreaded question, the sound of tires on crunching gravel filled the air.
Portia stiffened. “Oh my God.”
Daisy frowned. “Honey? What’s wrong?”
Portia scrambled to her feet, her heart hammering hard beneath her ribs. She broke into a cold sweat and ran to the window, but couldn’t see the car. “It’s him. Oh, God. He’s here.” She hurried toward the cellar stairs. “No, no, no!”
Jerking open the old wooden door, she flipped on the switch and stumbled down the rickety stairs, fell at the bottom, then got up and raced for the small room at the end of the dirt floor cellar. The cold storage room stood waiting, its flaked blue-painted door ajar.
Quickly, she eased herself through the crack and pulled on the overhead light.
The smell of rotting turnips hit her full force. With a shock, she realized the storage room had been deserted last year, and the few remaining vegetables had been left to wither and rot.
Uncaring, she pushed the door shut behind her and shoved a large garbage can full of sand behind it, using every ounce of her waning strength. Trembling all over, she headed for the far corner and sank against the rough stone wall, ignoring the nasty cut on her knee that seeped blood through her pajama pants.
Sobs escaped her, slow at first, then they built to a wailing crescendo. Shoulders shaking, heart pounding, she cried so hard she was sure he’d hear her. Trying to muffle the sound, she pressed her mouth into her sleeve, pushing so hard she bruised the inside of her lip against her teeth.
NO. NO. NO. NO. NO!
Help me, dear God. Please help me.
Footsteps descended the stairway and she panicked once again.
Someone’s coming.
Oh, no. Please. No.
“Portia?”
The voice outside sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t relax. Not yet. He could be tricking her, like he used to.
Someone pushed open the door a crack, shoving the sand bucket a few inches toward her.
Realizing with a start that her mouth was free, that no tape held her sounds captive, she screamed, long and loud. The shuddering sounds echoed through the damp stone room.
Chapter 13
“It’s just me, sweetheart. It’s Dad.”
With a shaky sigh of relief, Portia opened her eyes. “Daddy?”
Her father pushed the door open, knocking the sand over. He rolled the bucket aside and eased into the room, crouching beside her. “It’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I promise.”
A new torrent of sobs flowed from her. She clung to her father, rocking back and forth.
He stroked her hair, and held her tight. “You just breathe, now, princess. Just breathe.”
She caught a glimpse of Boone in the doorway, worry written on his handsome features.
His deep voice rumbled in the cold stone room. “Is she okay?”
Dirk nodded over Portia’s shoulder. “She will be. We just need a little time.”
“Okay, then. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
Portia hiccupped and coughed, then tried to regain control. She looked up suddenly. “Wait. Who drove into the yard?”
Her father didn’t answer
straight away.
“Dad? Who was it?”
“I sent them away, but they’ll be back tomorrow. It’s Sheriff Dunne and Deputy Mills.”
Shrinking away from him, she shook her head. “I can’t talk to them.”
“I know. That’s why I asked them to come back.”
“What did they want?”
“Just to know what happened, sweetie. They’ve been following your case since the day you disappeared. They have reports to file, a case to close.”
“What did they say? Did they tell you anything new?”
“Like what?” he said, frowning.
She kept the words from coming out, but her brain poured through all the questions.
Did you know he was dead, ma’am?
Did you kill him, ma’am?
Did you steal his money and truck, ma’am?
What did he do to you, ma’am?
She shuddered again. “Nothing.”
“Honey?” He tilted her chin up so she was forced to meet his eyes. “Do you want to see a doctor?”
“I’ve seen Doc,” she said.
“No, I mean a psychiatrist. Someone you can talk to. They might prescribe something to—”
“No drugs!” she yelled, instantly embarrassed at the volume of her voice. “I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t want to be drugged up. I just want to be home. With you, and Mom. And my animals.”
He stood, helping her straighten up beside him. “Okay, sweetie. If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.”
With a final hug, she leaned against him, her words muffled in his shirt. “Thank you.”
“We’ll worry about the Sheriff tomorrow, okay? Right now, let’s get you upstairs and comfortable. I don’t think I can take the smell of those old turnips one more minute.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Okay?”
She sighed, long and low. “Okay.”
Together they made their way toward the stairs and back up to the living room, where everyone busied themselves with something, generous in their intent not to embarrass her.
Her mother flipped through a magazine, pointing out fashions to Grace, who tried to seem interested, but kept shooting furtive glances at her older sister. Anderson sat quietly beside them on the couch, reading Bury the Hatchet in Dead Mule Swamp, by Joan H. Young.
Boone ran a dishcloth over a glass carafe, then set it carefully into the coffee maker. “Anyone want another cup?” he asked.
Dirk helped Portia to the stairs. “I’ll have another when I come down, Boone. Thanks.” He turned to his wife. “You want to go upstairs with her, honey? I think she could use some Mom-time.”
Portia shot him a grateful smile, grateful that her father was so in tune with her needs.
Grace jumped up as if to join them, but to Portia’s relief, her father waved the girl away. “Just one at a time right now, sweetie. I think that’ll be best.” He gave the girl a conciliatory glance. “You two sisters can chat together later. Maybe we’ll play some Scrabble or something, huh?”
Grace stared after them, her expression pouty. “Okay. I guess.” She plopped back onto the couch next to Anderson. “I only came all the way from Albany to see her.”
Daisy chided her, climbing the stairs behind Portia and Dirk. “Now, honey. Give her time. You’ll be here for the whole weekend, right?”
To Portia, her sister’s response sounded like she had when she was a little girl.
“Yes, Mom. I know you’re right.”
Arm-in-arm, Portia and her mother ascended the stairs.
Chapter 14
Daisy watched Portia flop onto the bed and roll sideways into a ball. She slid onto the mattress behind her shaken daughter, wrapping her own weakened arms around her. “Oh, my sweet girl.”
She nodded thanks to her husband, who had been standing by the bed as if he didn’t know what else to do to help.
“Go ahead back down, Dirk. I’ve got this,” Daisy said.
“Okay.” He leaned down to kiss both of them, then backed out the door, closing it softly behind him.
Laying her head against the girl’s back, she began to sing. “Hush little baby, don’t you cry…”
For the next ten minutes, she sang the song, over and over again, not sure of the lyrics, but carrying the tune with her warbling voice until the room was full of a mother’s love and her daughter finally stilled, breathing quietly.
“You awake, honey?” Daisy asked in a whisper.
Portia’s head nodded once. “Uh huh.”
“Please talk to me. Talk to your momma. Can you do that for me?”
Slowly, Portia turned on the bed to face her mother. With eyes reddened from crying, her tortured expression pulled at Daisy’s heart.
“My God,” she said, gently pushing back a stray lock of hair over her daughter’s brow. “What did they do to you?”
Portia’s eyes welled with tears again, but she didn’t lose control. “It wasn’t ‘they’ Mom. It was one guy. One horrid man.”
“Oh, my poor baby.” She hugged and stroked her daughter’s back, murmuring comforting words.
Daisy held back, much as she wanted to pepper the girl with questions, get answers, find out who did this and bring the wrath of God raining down on his head. As enfeebled as the cancer had made her, she felt strength rising up within her, and it was laced with a lust for vengeance.
Surprised at herself, she almost recoiled at the intensity of her emotions. She wanted to kill this man, whoever he was. Whoever had taken and hurt her girl.
“Honey?”
Portia raised her eyes to meet her mother’s inquiry.
“It’s time. We need to know what we’re facing, here.” She took both of Portia’s slender hands in hers, squeezing them gently. “Are we in danger, baby?”
Portia collapsed against her mother’s chest, her words muffled. “I don’t know, Mom. I just don’t know.”
Daisy pulled back a little, infusing a bit of stern mom-talk in her voice. “Okay. I’m going to ask your father to brew up a pot of tea. Then we’re going downstairs to see if my cornbread is ready, and you’re going to do your best to fill us in.” She tilted her daughter’s chin up and looked into her haunted eyes. “Okay?”
Portia nodded, misery written all over her face. “Okay.”
***
Boone sat at the kitchen table with Dirk, going over the farm records. The air filled with the scent of cornbread, and as if they both had the same thought, Dirk looked up suddenly toward the oven.
“Oh, drat. I’d better check that. Daisy will kill me if it burns. It’s our first cornbread in over a year.”
He hopped up and opened the oven door, releasing even more of the heady aroma into the room. Grabbing a butter knife from the drawer, he inserted it into the middle of the bread. “That’s how Daisy does it,” he said. “If it comes out clean, it’s done.”
Boone watched expectantly. “It’ll go good with my mom’s pea soup. She’s bringing it over in a bit.”
“Yep. It’s done.” With red oven mitts, Dirk slid the hot bread out of the oven and set it on a rack on the stovetop. “That’s real nice of your mother, Boone.”
Boone smiled. “She doesn’t know how else to help. So she cooks. And cooks. And cooks.”
Dirk laughed. “It’s in our genes, I think. Good food, good neighbors. It all goes together.”
The men glanced up when Daisy and Portia came down the stairs. Boone noticed the girl had dressed in jeans and a sweater, had washed her face, and her hair hung neatly in a ponytail down her back. She offered him a weak smile, then sat at the kitchen table and took a deep breath.
His heart broke for her. Every little action seemed to take so much out of her. Just getting dressed, taking a short walk. She seemed to get winded real easy, as if she had some kind of breathing problem going on.
Maybe she did?
No. Doc has listened to her chest. That couldn’t be it. And she never had asthma, as far as he knew. Could it be she was just
so out of condition that she had to build up her strength again? Hadn’t she been able to walk, or move around wherever the hell it was she’d been kept?
When Daisy started toward the teakettle, he jumped up to help. “Let me do that. Why don’t you sit with Portia?”
She tossed him a grateful smile. “Thanks.”
He noticed Daisy’s warm glance at Dirk when she saw the cornbread—unburned—on the stove. “Oh, it’s done!” She turned to Boone. “Make a lot of hot water for us. We’re going to need plenty of tea.”
He wondered why, but filled the kettle to the brim and set it on a burner on high.
“Lipton okay?” he asked, rummaging in the cabinet to the left of the stove. “I don’t see much else here.”
Daisy smiled. “Check that Teavana canister in the back. I think we have some Mohito Blackberry in there.”
“Got it.” Boone took it down and popped open the lid. “Wow. Still smells good.”
Daisy took Portia’s hand, as if she were trying to give her strength. “It’ll be okay, honey. Let’s get everyone settled with their tea and cornbread, and then we can start.”
Boone watched Portia’s eyes dance from him to the living room and back. She looked scared, and again, he wondered what was going on.
“Portia?” he asked. “Can I get you a nice big chunk of cornbread? Your father bought some supplies early this morning for his breakfast feast, and I know I saw butter in there.”
Her eyes met his, held his gaze, and for a split second, he sensed a tremor of appreciation in them. “Yes, please.”
Glad to have something to do while the kettle boiled, he grabbed a narrow spatula from the drawer and carved out a big square. He popped it on a plate, added a pat of butter, and slid it onto the table in front of her. “Want a napkin?” he asked.
She nodded. “Thanks.”
The tension in the room grew when Daisy called Grace and Anderson to the table.
“Honey,” she said, leaning in to Portia. “I know it’s gonna be hard talking in front of all of us, but we all need to know what happened so we can help you to the best of our ability.” She looked around the table at the circle of concerned faces. “And if we’ve gotta worry about someone coming here who may threaten you, or any of us, we need to know the scoop.”
Devil's Lake (Bittersweet Hollow Book 1) Page 5
