The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1)

by Sarah Wathen

  Sam seemed to have regained his swagger, as if the horse were connected with his own swaying hips. “I always wondered about the name ‘Shirley’ for a town. Is it Gaelic, too?”

  “You know, I never thought about that. ‘Shirley’ isn’t strange to me, since I’ve lived here all my life. I guess it is, kinda. But, I don’t think it’s Gaelic. We learned about the origin in a history class a long time ago, but I can’t—”

  “Shit, what’s he doing?” Popcorn dropped low and prepared to roll. Sam sprang off his mount in a flash.

  Candy jerked the slipknot tethering the two horses and launched herself to the earth.

  “Stand clear, Sam.” She pushed him behind her and stepped them both back to a safe distance.

  The horse neighed and thrashed his head, thrusting the saddle against the ground and scrambling his legs in the air. Brownie sidestepped several paces with a nervous whinny.

  What the hell, it’s like he’s possessed.

  Candy handed Sam her own reins and reached out to take a hold of Popcorn’s, then cinched them tight. “I think he wants his saddle off, maybe it’s hurting him.” All hell was breaking loose but she kept her mind on the mundane. She snuck a finger into the saddle buckle and unhooked the latch with a flick, murmuring lovingly, like she was manipulating a naughty child, “There, there. We can fix that, boy.” The strap loosened, Popcorn calmed down enough for her to pull it free. The heavy saddle fell away with a thud.

  The horse wiggled and flailed before he found his feet, then tried to trot away with an angry snuffle. Candy still had ahold of his reins, and she led him into the shade of the trees.

  “It’s okay, sssshhhhh…”

  Popcorn reared up on his hind legs, his eyes still wild.

  It wasn’t the saddle, then.

  She gave the reins some slack and let him lead the way.

  “Alright, quiet now. Shush, boy.”

  They moved away from the meadow, the sound of the river building and the shade deepening under the trees, and Popcorn finally relaxed.

  Thank god. Candy let out a tense breath and mentally retraced her steps. She hoped they hadn’t gone too far; the thought of Sam alone in that meadow, probably shaken and disgruntled himself, filled her with shame. What a fun horseback riding adventure.

  She tied Popcorn to a stout trunk, catalogued surrounding landmarks, and told herself she’d text Sean later. The important next step was finding Sam and—somehow—trying to make things right after…after that…whatever.

  What the heck was that? That saddle wasn’t too tight. Was there a hitchhiker under the blanket, sticking him? She knew there was no way. Sean could be total A-hole to his cousins, but he was never careless with a horse. Possibilities and justifications for the unsettling occurrence dwindled as she made her way back to Sam. The thought occurred to her that Popcorn had grown calmer going in the other direction, but she put it out of her mind.

  She emerged from the trees, dusting her hands off on her jeans. “Man, you sure move fast.”

  Sam was standing with his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, watching the woods on the other side of the clearing. He turned back to her, his expression guarded. “Good thing, too.”

  “No kidding, right? If Popcorn had rolled over on you—which was exactly what he seemed to have in mind—you could’ve broken a leg at best.”

  Sam shrugged, “Not the first time I’ve felt like that here.”

  “What do you mean? Like what?”

  “Ousted,” he laughed, low and soft in his chest. “Like maybe I shouldn’t be here. Don’t belong here.”

  “Don’t belong?” The thought of Sam leaving Shirley County sent Candy into a panic she would be loathe admitting to a locked diary. “People make you feel like that?”

  His smile was bitter, enigmatic. “No. Not people.”

  “I don’t know what happened, maybe he had a sticker in his saddle blanket—he’s never done anything like that before. I am so sorry. Have I ruined the day?”

  Sam read the hysteria she was trying to hold back; the tautness left his shoulders and his whole demeanor softened. “Don’t worry, Candy. I don’t belong anywhere. It was a shock, but let’s not make too much out of it.”

  “Darn horse was chomping on wildflowers all morning. He’s getting so fat, he must need to keep his saddle on the next buckle hole now—I better tell Uncle Robin,” Candy babbled, casting around for a foothold back into normalcy.

  “What did you do, put him down?”

  “I tied him in a nice shady spot, right next to a patch of wildflowers.” Candy kicked at the retired saddle, still lying on the ground. “Good thing we’re right by the old mill, I can tell Sean where he can find him.”

  “Poor Sean.”

  “Whatever, I’m glad he’ll have to work a little harder today.” Candy was still bristling at her cousin’s earlier remark on the probable color of her pubic hair. “Serves him right.”

  “So….” Sam blew out a long breath, snapped his fingers, and clapped a hand on one fist. “What now? Should we walk the rest of the way?”

  “Uh, no. It’s still pretty far. We can ride together, if you don’t mind sitting that close to me.”

  “With that soft, fat arse between my thighs? Heaven.” Sam dodged a punch and slung the backpack from Popcorn’s saddle over his shoulder.

  They left their remaining horse at the Balick County end of Colemann Ranch, and walked the last quarter mile to the campground entrance on foot, hand in hand.

  “Is that the train?” Sam cocked his ear as a hand-painted banner came into view: Mountain Sound Festival 2014. After a few more steps, an old log cabin with a deep porch emerged from behind the trees, and they saw that what had sounded like a steam engine’s whistle was actually a song produced by the gnarly old man sitting in a rocking chair. He had one boot propped up on the porch railing, trundling himself back and forth in a bentwood rocker, a harmonica barely visible between his fluttering fingers. The tune changed from the chugging train to a slow, mournful wolf call, before picking up the melody of “Angeline the Baker.”

  “He’s good,” Sam said under his breath as they neared the porch.

  “Yeah, he’s like ninety-something years old. He’s had almost a century of practice.”

  “That’s a relief. Then he won’t pass out in a second.”

  It was true. The old man was huffing and puffing on his instrument at an amazing rate, impressive at any age. Candy hated that old bastard, though. “No, but he probably won’t remember who I am, either. Hello, Mr. Lowry, sir. My, that is a fine tune.”

  “Eh?” The old man came out of his trance and the music stopped abruptly. “Why’d you shut it down, then?”

  “I am sorry, sir,” Candy said, smiling widely. “I didn’t want to startle you. Are you accepting the festival entrance fee?”

  The old coot spat affirmation and walked away without explanation.

  “He’s such a grumpy...” She held her tongue. Talking trash about old people wasn’t attractive, even on Pluto. “If we had walked past without interrupting his music, he would have chased after us, accusing us of stealing. There’s no winning, I swear.”

  Candy grabbed Sam’s hand—almost protectively—and waited. Mr. Lowry came back outside, still cursing and spitting, but he pulled a money pouch out of his voluminous overalls. At least things were moving forward. “That’s $10 for two, son.” He thrust an open palm towards Sam, with no recognition of the girl standing next to him, who had lived in the sparsely populated neighboring county all her life.

  “Thank you, sir,” Sam said, handing over the cash. The man snatched it into his claw and stuffed it into the zippered bag, then turned his back on them.

  “Tickets, please, sir,” Candy said sweetly, undaunted.

  Mr. Lowry wheeled around with a scowl, chewing his cud and peering at her under thi
ck, wiry eyebrows. She held the gaze serenely for a couple of seconds, and he growled something incomprehensible about stupid tourists, plunging his knobby knuckles into another pocket. He withdrew two numbered raffle tickets and tossed them towards Sam, who was quick enough to catch them midair before they fluttered to the ground, foiling the old codger’s attempt at making him grovel. The man cursed them again and hobbled back to his rocking chair, his harmonica already on his lips. Within seconds he was piping out beautiful music, once more.

  “Shit,” Sam whispered, chuckling under his breath, as Candy hauled him through the entrance under the banner.

  “He’s always like that, forget it.” She was using most of her will to smooth down her hackles. That bastard. “But you don’t want to get on the Lowry clan’s bad side. It’s pretty backwoods in these parts, and they’re sort of….”

  “Hillbilly gangsters?”

  “Yeah,” she said, catapulted out of her funk. “How’d you know that?”

  Sam caught her gaze and held it for a heartbeat. His smile was easy, a lifetime of experience behind it, somehow. “Something about the eyes.”

  “Know a lot of gangsters?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  Sam shrugged and glanced back at the skinny, partially senile sack of bones, whose eyes were murderous behind his jubilant tune.

  Candy felt a primal urge to be gone. “Well anyway, I wouldn’t stare.”

  chapter twenty

  The old man’s song grew fainter as they strolled up a tree-lined path. Birdsong joined in with the fading harmonica, high in the canopy above them. Before long, the din of a bustling crowd started to rise in between the fluttering notes of a fiddle. They rounded one last turn around a granite outcrop and were greeted by a raucous party, the mountain pass widening into full-scale country jamboree. People of all shapes, colors and sizes were meandering around tables and tents full of hand-woven clothing, jewelry with local gemstones, Civil War paraphernalia, old Appalachian replicas of all sorts and any other oddity that made the grade that year. A stilt walker was handing out fliers, probably for the late-night show that was reportedly pretty bawdy. Candy had never attended the show, but one of her cousins told her it was the closest Shirley got to cabaret. Makeshift stalls lined the avenue to serve a hungry, bustling crowd. Her stomach clenched when the smell of roasting meat hit her nostrils.

  “Whoa, what a party.” Right on cue, orange flame shot up in a diagonal next to the stilt walker. The crowd oohed and aahed. “Jesus, there’s a firebreather.”

  “Unexpected?” Candy smiled; it was rare to see Sam caught off guard.

  For Candy, after months of the wide-open fields and lonely mountain roads, such a throng was an admitted novelty She imagined a bird’s eye view of the festival grounds, like there were tiny ant lines trickling through the countryside, draining into the cauldron of people before her. Festival time was easy to love. The crowd was mostly tourists, snapping pictures and pointing and generally behaving badly, though. She pulled Sam off to the side to wander in between the tents and tables from the inner alleyway between vendors.

  Right away, she spotted a tall, gangly girl in overalls sporting two long braids on either side of her neck. Candy didn’t know many people she’d call a best friend, especially at school, but Erica Norman was a close buddy. “Hey, Erica,” she called, going in for a hug.

  “Hey, guys.” Erica pushed her horn-rimmed glasses higher on her nose and regarded the new guy warily. Of course she would’ve recognized him from the previous school year, but up close was a different story, of which Candy was well aware. “Whatcha been up to?”

  “You’ve met Sam?” Candy beamed.

  “Uh…no. I mean, I remember you started at Andrew Jackson halfway through last year, right?”

  Sam held out his hand, those impeccable manners surfacing again. “Yes. It’s nice to finally meet you, Erica.”

  The three chatted for a few minutes about how they had spent the summer, school starting, and Erica’s dad’s new line of mountain dulcimers. They were gorgeous instruments, all hand-made, with intricate inlay work, hanging from the roof of a tent and lying in row upon row on display tables. Candy hoped they sold well at the festival; Erica had often described how much hard work and expert craftsmanship went into them.

  “Hey, let me get a picture for Dad’s scrapbook,” Erica said, producing a cellphone from her pocket.

  Sam ducked out of shooting range, and held out his hand to accept the phone instead, “Let me take it, you two get together.”

  “Oh, okay. Come ‘ere, Candy.”

  Sam snapped several shots with Candy dwarfed under Erica’s armpit. Under his direction, Erica leaned down and Candy went on tiptoe so they could grin into the lens on a level. His oh-you’re-so-precious-little-Candy look made her want to smother him with kisses and kick him in the balls, simultaneously. He captured a few with Erica holding one of the beautiful dulcimers and asked her to demonstrate how they were played. She was happy to oblige but Candy ushered them on, assuring her they would come back soon.

  “You do not want to set Erica Norman on that course right now, trust me,” she said, holding onto an elbow and weaving them through the crowd to reach the other side of the avenue. “We could be stuck there for hours.”

  “Is she good?”

  “She is, but I’m starving.” She pointed to the line of food stalls across the way. “Let’s eat.”

  Candy’s stomach had been growling since before Popcorn tried to kill Sam, and the smell wafting from the food carts was heavenly. There were several smokers chuffing out wonderful incense, and Sam headed for the pulled pork lines. But, smell could be deceiving, especially with barbecue. “You want my advice; you should go for the kebabs.” Candy redirected him towards a shorter line to the left, where the locals were milling and gesticulating about something either important or gossip-worthy. Several were holding her favorite variety of gyro sandwich. “The Williams’ goats herd right in Shirley Valley. The meat is fresh, organic, and for sure cruelty free—you can meet them, if you want to be sure.”

  “Are they friendly goats I’d be eating, then? Good personalities?”

  “I meant the Williams’ are good people, smarty pants. They treat their animals well,” she said. “Hey, better to know they frolic in the fields, rather than stand around in their own poop.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She got in line, and didn’t care for once if he followed. Not that much. “And the cucumber mint sauce is to die for, trust me.”

  “Locals always know best.” Sam sidled over next to her and slid his arm around her waist.

  “Darn right.” She rose up to give him a quick peck on the lips, but he held onto her and made it a kiss to set her body aflame.

  “Next!” Sam let her go and she spun around, forgetting where she was for a second. A pimple-faced boy was working the register. “Oh hey, Candy.”

  “Hey, Jimmy,” she said, returning the lukewarm attitude. Not a friend, but not an enemy. “I’ll have the veggie, and he’ll have the regular.”

  “Twelve bucks.”

  She frowned at the little thief. “Tourist prices,” she said flatly, while Sam handed over the money.

  “We ain’t givin’ local discounts today, sorry.” The boy craned around her to see the next customer. “Next.”

  They moved to the side to await their meal, and Sam regarded her curiously. “I didn’t know you were a vegetarian. I guess I never have seen you eat meat.”

  “I’m not a ‘vegetarian.’ I don’t like rules.”

  “Hmm, I noticed that.”

  “No, but I do know those goats,” she laughed, embarrassed. “They’re next-door neighbors to my grandma.”

  Another teenage boy that Candy nodded to, but didn’t greet, pushed two steaming pita sandwich cones wrapped in paper into their hands, and they both went silent devourin
g their lunch.

  “God, that is good sauce,” Sam said between bites. Juice from the rare meat mixed with cucumber sauce and ran down his wrist. “And the goats are definitely friendly.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Candy managed with her mouth full. She snatched several napkins to take with them and they sauntered through the throng towards the sound of a fiddle, devouring their messy gyros. The avenue opened onto a large, circular clearing, and they hung at the edge while they finished their feast and watched the stage on the far side.

  “Think this is the fiddle competition,” Candy offered between bites.

  A makeshift stage had been erected on risers, about two feet off the ground, and a young girl was planted right in the center of it, sawing away at a fiddle for all she was worth. She was probably only eight years old, and though her execution was not perfect, in terms of exactness in tone, the notes flowed naturally and there was no denying her passion. When she was finished, she held her bow on one side and her fiddle on the other, giving a petite curtsy in her flowered dress, to modest applause. Sam looked at Candy, with raised eyebrows.

  She shrugged. “Pretty good.”

  The atmosphere quieted, while a middle-aged man dressed in most of a three-piece suit (he’d already removed the jacket in respect for the rising afternoon heat) claimed the stage, next to the emcee. A smattering of applause erupted in pockets around the clearing, and several older couples moved to the center of a loose crowd, taking up position and establishing the dance floor as others graciously moved aside.

  “Y’all, now we’ll have a listen to our own Albert Young, while the judges make their decision,” the emcee, a portly man in overalls and a baseball cap, said into the microphone. He backed off the stage, then amended, “Thank you, Harriett Woods,” clapped awkwardly with the microphone pinned under his arm.