For old times’ sake, she grabbed a low branch and swung herself up and over, then slid easily to the other side. With a quick glance toward the house, she started to turn away when a voice arrested her from inside the horse stable.
“Where are you off to, young lady?”
For an instant, Bertie froze. Then recognizing her roommate’s voice, she relaxed. “Spying on me?”
Edith stepped out of the stable. She, too, had changed into her jeans. “That’s what I’m here for.” She turned and looked again at the building. “How I miss my own horse back in Mobile.”
“I thought you grew up in the city.”
“I did, but we always kept horses at a stable in the country. I dreamed of living in a place where I could get up in the morning and go for a ride before school.” She climbed over the fence and landed beside Bertie. “You haven’t told me where you’re going.”
“For a stroll.”
“Crowd getting to you?”
Bertie cast a wistful glance toward the road. “It’s good to see everyone, it really is.”
“But sometimes it can be too much.” Edith nodded. “I know.”
Bertie hesitated.
“Don’t let me stop you,” Edith said. “I’m well aware that you want to be alone right now, but this is as alone as you’ll get today.” She looped her arm around Bertie’s. “Where to?”
Bertie suppressed a sigh of frustration. She knew better than to argue, because with Edith, she usually lost. “I want to go home.”
Edith’s arm tightened around hers, and the humor died in her eyes.
“Just for a few minutes. Please.”
Edith raised an eyebrow, her eyes narrowing as she held Bertie’s gaze. “We should call Red or Ivan to come with—”
“No. Not this time. I don’t need either of them breathing down my neck right now. They hover too much, and I can’t focus when Red’s around. Besides,” she said, gesturing toward the stable, “He’s obviously gone somewhere on the horse.”
“So it seems.”
Bertie glanced toward the house again. “I want to do my own investigating, and I want to find my father’s hunting rifle, and even gather some comfrey if I can find it. Red’s leg obviously needs some help healing.”
“Then let’s get there and back before the posse can catch us,” Edith said gently.
Bertie wanted to hug her. Instead, she led the way around the house to the road.
Chapter Twenty
The birds serenaded Red as he urged Seymour toward the library. Some loud whippoorwill sat in the top of a gnarled old oak tree halfway up the side of the hill Hideaway was built on, not wanting to shut up—probably the same one that had kept him awake half the night. A mourning dove joined in the song, followed by a mockingbird.
What Red wouldn’t have given to hear this chorus when he was skulking through a deserted Italian town, expecting any minute to hear the whiz of bullets or feel the burn of metal in his flesh.
And when he finally did get hit, the physical pain had been nothing compared to the damage down deep inside.
The morning he was shelled, he’d closed his eyes and thought of home…of the sounds of the birds in the trees, the smell of the lilac bushes in full bloom, Bertie’s smiling face. All he’d had to get him through that day, when the Germans were watching too closely for the medics to get through to him and pull him to medical care, was the bundle of Bertie’s letters, which he’d carried right here in his front right pocket.
Could be she’d saved his life that day.
A small voice deep inside asked him why, now that he was out of danger and back home, he couldn’t tell Bertie how much those letters had meant to him. How much she’d meant to him.
As he rode beneath a tunnel of trees that overhung the road—sycamores and oaks, maples and willows—dappled sun warmed his face and neck, creating gold patches of light against the gray shadows beneath the trees. He allowed Seymour his head once again. The horse knew this road as well as anyone, and Red had more important things to do than tug on the reins.
He pulled a letter from his pocket—the one letter he would never forget, and which had caused him more joy than he’d ever felt in his life. In the past weeks, it had also been the one letter that caused him the most pain.
Sunlight shot through the trees and reflected from the top page with such brightness for a moment that it nearly blinded him.
Dear Red,
I can’t believe I’ve already been in California for over six months! Every day when I go to work, or look at a calendar, I remember how long we’ve been apart. I know it must seem silly to you, reading about the things that are happening in my life right now, when you’re in Italy’s trenches, fighting with your life for your country’s safety and freedom.
He didn’t know how many times he’d read this part, and it always made him feel good. She’d been thinking of him, about how much time they’d been apart. A woman as special as Bertie could’ve had any number of men callin’ on her, but she’d waited on him.
He fingered the sheet and continued reading.
To keep hope alive, I can only think of the future, how good it’ll be once we’re both back home. Knowing of your sacrifice urges me to keep giving blood, even when I’m still feeling weak from the last time I gave. The hope keeps me knocking on doors, urging folks to buy war bonds. Doing without sugar and meat and nylons is such a small sacrifice, when I think about what we could be doing without…our very lives. You’re a hero, Red Meyer, and I’ve never been prouder to be able to tell people I know you.
He looked up as Seymour reached the town square. Hideaway had a different city plan than any other town Red had ever seen. It was built with the storefronts and offices all facing outward onto a bricked street that surrounded it on all four sides. The town itself was built into the hillside, and overlooked the James River below, which wrapped itself around the hill on three sides in its lazy route to the White River.
He steered the big bay gelding to the right, then relaxed the reins again and continued reading.
He’d discovered a few months ago that Bertie was not only writing to him, but to a few of his buddies. She’d also convinced several of her girlfriends to write, as well. She was like a one-woman campaign to keep the soldiers supplied with letters from home.
At first, he’d been jealous, and had let her know about it. Then he’d been ashamed.
He especially liked the ending to this letter.
Red, you know I miss you something awful, and the months that go by make it harder and harder. Writing to other men fighting for our freedom makes me feel I’m that much closer to you, but don’t you worry. You get the most letters, and you’re the one I think about so often every day. You’re the one in my prayers and in my heart. Always and forever in my heart. You hang in there and come back home to us. The one thing I want more than anything else in the world right now is to see you again, healthy and whole.
He winced at that, then refolded the pages and slipped them back into his pocket. She always signed her letters Yours with love. He knew it’d been wrong to ask her about the other guys she was writing to, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d never been jealous before.
He reached the library and slid from Seymour’s back. Time for some more research.
“I don’t know where Lilly’s going to put all the food people are bringing,” Edith told Bertie as they strolled along the deserted road toward the farm.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be eaten soon enough.” Bertie stepped to the edge of the road, where, if she looked just right, she could see the curve of the river below. “Though none of my relatives are coming in for the funeral, we won’t lack for people. They almost always have a dinner on the church grounds.”
“Good, because I’m eager to taste a botten cake.”
Bertie cast her a curious glance. “I’m sure you’ve had those before.”
Edith looked at her blankly. “Not that I can remember. I’m hoping to taste goosebe
rry pie, and fried mayapples and mountain oysters, as well—whatever those are. I thought I’d tasted everything the world had to offer, but the Ozarks offer foods I’d never even heard of in Hawaii or California.”
Bertie grinned to herself.
“So, what is a botten cake?” Edith asked. “Mrs. Jarvis brought one. I’ve heard of chocolate cake, pound cake, fruit cake and wedding cake, but—”
“You’re going to be disappointed.” Bertie chuckled, pitying her poor, proper-English friend. “Edith, you have too much school teacher in you. Have you met Arielle Potts, Ivan’s mother?”
“Not yet. I helped Lilly in the kitchen for as long as I was needed this afternoon.”
Bertie chuckled. “Mrs. Jarvis simply bought her cake at the store instead of baking it at home.”
Edith blinked, her dark brown eyes mirroring confusion.
“Boughten.”
Edith frowned.
“Store bought.”
“You realize, of course, there’s no such word as boughten.”
Bertie smiled. “You realize, of course, that we’re hillbillies who sometimes make up our own language,” she said, mimicking Edith’s southern accent. “Don’t worry, though, you’ll still have plenty of new things to taste. I daresay you haven’t had black-walnut cake.”
“I’ve had plenty of black walnuts. I’m from Alabama, you know. Have you ever eaten boiled peanuts?”
Bertie made a face. “No, and I don’t intend to. As I said, I really think you should meet Arielle Potts. She was a school teacher, she has a college education, she’s the town’s only librarian, and the two of you speak the same language.”
“Well, by all means, I hope to meet this delightful lady. Ivan’s mother, you say?”
“That’s right,” Bertie said. “She’s quite a lady. She’s also busy, and the library is one of her top priorities. You might stop by there sometime soon.”
Edith nodded. “I may do that.”
When they reached the farmhouse, Bertie paused for a moment inside the front gate. This had been the only home she’d ever known. Mature elm, maple, broadleaf pine and dogwood trees shaded the house, keeping it cool in the summertime. Or at least as cool as it could get in the humid Ozark climate.
Edith touched her shoulder. “Are you okay, honey?”
Bertie nodded and led the way up the porch steps, frowning at the limbs scattered along the far end, which she hadn’t noticed earlier in the day. She didn’t know where those had come from. She’d have to ask Red.
She opened the front door and went in, once again accosted by the poignantly familiar smells that threatened to bring tears.
Edith followed more slowly. “You people don’t believe in locks, do you?”
“No reason to use them. We’ve never had a break-in here.” Bertie stopped in the middle of the living room, frowning at the closed door in front of her.
“What’s wrong?”
“That’s odd. I know I left the door open between the kitchen and the living room when I left here this morning. And Red went out before I did.”
“Maybe Red came back after he left the guesthouse.” Edith stepped up behind her, sniffing. “Did something die in here?”
Bertie sniffed, grimacing. “That doesn’t smell like a dead animal.” She pushed open the kitchen door, and the smell attacked her.
She stepped backward. “That’s propane gas.”
Edith caught her arm. “Must be a leak. We should get out of the house.”
“No, wait.” Bertie pulled away and went to the stove. She was shocked to find the burner knobs all opened to the widest setting. She turned them off and reached for the back door to air out the room.
Before she could get the door open, however, from the corner of her eye she caught sight of a thick thatch of golden fur wedged between the stove and the back wall.
“Herman!” she dropped to her knees, gagging at the stench of the gas as she reached for her father’s barn cat.
“Bertie, what is it?” Edith asked. “We have to get out of—”
“Get the back door open, quickly!” Bertie lifted the cat into her arms. “He’s still warm.”
She felt the animal’s body arch, and then sharp claws buried themselves in her arm as he yowled.
“Ouch!”
“Here, bring him out.” Edith shoved the door wide and braced it as Bertie fought the suddenly struggling animal.
She couldn’t hold him. When she dropped him into the grass, he scrambled away from her, footsteps as unsteady as a drunk’s.
“What was he doing in there?” Edith asked.
Bertie reached for an old washtub at the corner of the house to brace the door open. “I have no idea. He sure wasn’t there earlier today, and Red wouldn’t’ve let him in.”
“He also didn’t open the gas valves on that stove,” Edith said, “And he didn’t blow out the pilot light.”
Bertie turned to her friend as the implications sank in. “Someone’s been here.”
Eyes wide with alarm, Edith glanced around the yard, looked toward the barn, and looked back at Bertie. “And someone might still be here.”
Bertie started back into the house. “We need to call for help.”
“Not here.” Edith grabbed her by the arm. “What if whoever did this is still in the house? Or what if the gas has spread enough to ignite? Isn’t there a water heater in the house, with a pilot light?”
Bertie closed her eyes, focused on her breathing. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Edith looked down at Bertie’s arm, then released her. “You’re bleeding.”
“Cat scratched me.” Bertie’s heart thrummed in her chest. The cat had also ripped the dressing from her sutured finger.
“We’ll get you taken care of as soon as we get back to Lilly’s,” Edith said. “But we need to get there as quickly as possible.” She cast another glance around the yard, and then she looked at the kitchen window. Her eyes widened, and much of the natural color drained from her cheeks. “Oh, Bertie,” she whispered.
Bertie looked up at the window. Scrawled in thick red lines were the words Nazi gas chamber.
Edith grabbed her again. “Let’s go. Now! Let’s get back to town!”
Chapter Twenty-One
Red opened the library door and stepped inside. The Hideaway library was little more than a large room out back of City Hall. There’d never been a library at all before Arielle married Gerald Potts and came to town.
She had a lot of pet projects—special classes on charm for the young ladies, establishing a town newspaper, hosting a weekly ladies tea, but the library seemed to be her biggest source of joy, other than her son, Ivan.
Here at the library, she prided herself in keeping a wide variety of reading material, with the latest novels and periodicals. The magazine rack was especially well stocked with news about the war, and she always had more than one copy of Stars and Stripes, because it was so popular.
She was carrying a stack of books in her right arm and pushing one book into place on a shelf with her left when Red walked in, and he got a lot of satisfaction from the look of surprise on her face when she saw him.
“Fooled you, didn’t I?” he said.
The surprise turned to welcome as she smiled at him and set down the books she’d been shelving. “And here I’d done all my research on the Bald Knobbers because I was sure I’d never see you in here doing it for yourself.”
He hid his relief. He didn’t have time to go searching through all the books for something that might not even be here. “Are there many books on the subject?”
She pointed to her desk, just inside the entrance. “A total of two. The original vigilante group of men who called themselves the Bald Knobbers formed in the mid-eighties, many years after the end of the Civil War in ’65.” She picked a book up from the desk and held it out to Red. “What began as a good thing, to enforce law and order, soon turned evil when men allowed their greed for land and power to control their
actions. It’s much the same today, of course.”
Arielle Potts had been a teacher of high-school history for a brief time before Ivan was born—and before she discovered she didn’t possess the brute strength it took to corral a schoolhouse full of wild “hillbilly” kids. She’d always taken an interest in history, especially in this area—probably from a need to understand why the Ozarkians were so different from Easterners.
“Just in case you didn’t have time to read these books, I’ve written some notes for you.” She opened the cover of the top book and slid out two folded sheets.
Red recognized her neat, very precise handwriting. “Thank you, Mrs. Potts. Do you think my hunch might be right?”
“About a revival of the gang?” She frowned. “There are some similarities, of course. The Bald Knobbers formed after the Civil War because so many men had been killed there weren’t enough to contain law breakers. Our war with Germany recently ended, which is a similarity, but we have law and order here. Times aren’t the same.”
“But we don’t even have a police force here in town. We have to rely on the sheriff, and if you don’t mind my saying, he ain’t the best.”
She gave an elegant grimace. “Why don’t you let me talk to Gerald about this? He would be the best person to speak with Sheriff Coggins.”
“That’d be fine.” Red didn’t tell her he planned to keep searching for Joseph’s killer, no matter what the sheriff decided to do.
Bertie and Edith reached Lilly’s guesthouse, winded and perspiring, but safe.
“We can’t go inside with this,” Bertie said, holding up the rifle she had insisted on grabbing from the pump house.
“I can’t believe I let you waste time getting that thing!” Edith said. “What would we have done if we’d been shot?”
“Well, we weren’t.” Bertie skirted around the outside of the fence toward the corral and stable.
“We’ve got to tell the police about this.”
“Not yet. I’ve done some thinking about it, and I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”
Hideaway Home Page 13
