From the Mists of Wolf Creek

by Rebecca Brandewyne

  “Howdy, folks,” he greeted them, opening one of the rear doors of his patrol car and ordering Scarecrow to step out. “As you can see, I’ve caught your intruder, Ms. Muldoon, and now I need to know what you want me to do with him.”

  As she rose from her chair, Hallie saw that in broad daylight, the man called Scarecrow, although clearly marred by the warehouse fire from which he had barely survived, was not nearly as frightening in appearance as he had seemed when staring in at her through the window, from the darkness beyond.

  Now she could see he was no demon at all, but merely a poor, scarred man, who was plainly frightened by what might happen to him since he had been captured.

  “Hello, Scarecrow.” Hallie held one hand out to him. “I’m Hallie Muldoon. Will you—will you please tell me why you were spying on me?”

  For a long moment he gazed at her outstretched hand as though he were wholly unused to people extending him that common courtesy. Then, slowly, he shook it.

  “Please forgive me, ma’am. A whole lot of people are scared of me, because of how I look, and I know you can’t think too highly of me…peeking through your bedroom window at you. But I—I wasn’t really spying on you, Ms. Muldoon. I heard you’d come back to town, and I—I was just curious about you, that’s all. I didn’t want you to be upset by my appearance. That’s why I came in the dark, so you wouldn’t see me. But then I wound up terrifying you, anyway. I’m so sorry. I never meant to do that. I never meant you any harm.”

  “I understand. Well, I hope that now we’ve properly met, you won’t feel any need to sneak around here, trying to get a glimpse of me. You must feel free to come here to the house to speak to me whenever you wish.”

  “Does all that mean you don’t want to press charges against Scarecrow, Ms. Muldoon?” the sheriff asked.

  “That’s right, Sheriff. I believe Scarecrow’s explanation, and I don’t see what’s to be gained by prosecuting him and locking him away somewhere. You’ve told me he’s never hurt anyone here in town, and I don’t think he intended me any harm, either.” Glancing back at Scarecrow, she continued, “In fact, I believe Scarecrow has already suffered enough for his actions. Were you not attacked by some animal on the verandah, sir—a large black wolf, perhaps?”

  “Yes, ma’am—although I don’t know whether it was a wolf or not. It was so dark, and the beast came at me so fast that I never really got a good look at it. So I don’t know what it was. I just skedaddled as quick as I could. But it still got hold of my leg somehow…gave me a right good nip, it did. So now Doc says I’ve got to have those rabies shots—in case the creature was rabid. They haven’t been able to find it, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “I did.” Trace spoke.

  “Oh, you did, did you?” Sheriff O’Mackey glanced with sudden interest at him. “How’d you know that?”

  “Only stands to reason. We’d had a thunderstorm the night before Scarecrow came prowling around here. So the ground was still damp and muddy from the rain. That means the wolf would have left tracks—and there weren’t any. I checked.”

  “What do you mean…there weren’t any?” A frown of confusion knitted Hallie’s brow. “It must have left some sign of its having been here. I mean, something clearly bit Scarecrow!”

  “I’m not saying it didn’t,” Trace responded carefully. “I’m just saying that whatever it was, it didn’t leave any tracks.”

  “Well, that just ain’t normal!” the sheriff insisted. “What’re you telling us, Trace? That this big old wolf simply up and vanished somehow?”

  “That’s right—and I don’t believe you’ll find hide nor hair of it, either. Nobody’s yet seen it besides Hallie, and while I don’t doubt for one single minute that she actually has seen it, I think it’s her special animal totem, sacred to her alone here at Wolf Creek, and that it won’t show itself to another living soul in this town besides her—at least for the time being, anyway.”

  “Well, no offense, but if you ask me, that sounds like nothing more than a bunch of Indian mumbo-jumbo!” the sheriff declared, eyeing him skeptically. “Animals don’t have brains enough to think that way. It’s just an exceedingly wiley old wolf, that’s all…nothing mysterious or mystical about it. But we’ll continue to keep an eye out for it, and sooner or later we’ll catch it, sure enough.”

  “If you say so, Sheriff, then I’m certain you will.” Trace smiled pleasantly, but although his expression might have fooled Sheriff O’Mackey, it did not fool Hallie in the least, and she knew Trace did not believe the beast would ever be caught.

  Nor, in the days that followed, was it.

  Gram’s big fat tomcat, Mr. Whiskers, finally put in a much-belated appearance. But even Hallie did not spy the immense black wolf, and she began to wonder uneasily if, in reality, she had only imagined it. But, no, something had bitten Scarecrow—then vanished without leaving a single trace. That part of it, at least, was certainly real enough. So it must be just as Sheriff O’Mackey had said, she told herself firmly. The creature was simply clever enough to elude capture.

  It was not some wolf possessed with magical powers, who could come and go like the wind, and who chose to show itself only to her, because it was her special animal totem. She was not even an American Indian.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Trace said, when she mentioned that fact to him. “One way or another, we all have our spirit guides. Some people call them guardian angels, of course, or have other such monikers for them. Regardless of what we know them as, they’re sent to watch over us, to serve as our protectors and pathfinders—especially in times of crisis, when we’re standing at a crossroads in our life.”

  Deep down inside, Hallie knew her grandmother had believed much the same thing. But perhaps, despite everything, something of Great-Aunts Agatha and Edith had rubbed off on her, after all—because for whatever unknown reason, Hallie, who had used to dance with faeries in the meadow, stubbornly refused to believe the wolf was anything more than what Sheriff O’Mackey had claimed.

  Chapter 13

  The Courthouse and the Visitor

  I n the coming days and then the weeks that passed at Meadowsweet, there was so much to do that Hallie had little time to dwell on the great black wolf and what it might or might not portend.

  On Sundays, growing up under the aegis of Great-Aunts Agatha and Edith, she had duly attended church. But once she had got out on her own, Hallie had gradually fallen out of the habit, thinking there were a lot of self-righteous hypocrites sitting in the pews on Sundays, hanging on every word of the service—then promptly forgetting it all once the church doors had closed behind them.

  Because neither Aunt Gwen nor Trace was a churchgoer, Hallie saw no reason to start up again herself, and instead, they all took to driving to the cemetery on Sundays, where she and Aunt Gwen laid fresh flowers on the graves of Jotham, Gram and Rowan.

  Hallie found the cemetery a peaceful place, and she especially loved looking at all the old gravestones, reading their inscriptions and wondering about the people who lay beneath, what kind of lives they had led upon this earth.

  On Saturdays, there was the farmers’ market set up around the grassy green square at the heart of town, where all the locals, and sometimes a few out-of-towners, erected stalls from which they peddled fruits and vegetables, and arts and crafts. In wandering from booth to booth, Hallie also took delight, remembering how she had used to play in the square on such days, just as children still did, and to beg Gram for a trinket or two from one of the stalls.

  The remainder of the week, there was the hard labor at the farm to keep her busy, along with all the attendant decisions to occupy her thoughts. To ensure there would prove no impediments in the event she determined to sell Meadowsweet, Hallie had her grandmother’s last will and testament probated at the courthouse, there furthering her acquaintance with Jenna Overton.

  Still, no matter how hard she tried to be pleasant to the heavyset woman, Hallie continued to fee
l Ms. Overton was a very strange person, and she never felt comfortable in her presence. Nor did it help that whenever she stopped by the courthouse to ask a simple question or two, Ms. Overton, who appeared to be in charge of everything, invariably replied, “I’m not a lawyer, Ms. Muldoon. Therefore, I cannot answer your questions. To do so might be construed as giving you legal advice, and since I’m not licensed by the state as an attorney, it would be illegal for me to act in that capacity.”

  Regardless of what Hallie inquired about, even seemingly innocuous questions about matters of public record, the response was always the same.

  “Really, Aunt Gwen! Jenna Overton is undoubtedly one of the rudest, most unhelpful persons I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.” Hallie confided as, exiting the courthouse one day, she and her great-aunt headed across the square, intent on doing some shopping at the stores that lined one side of the green.

  “She knows that every time I have to send Mr. Winthorpe over to the courthouse, it costs me money, and I believe that’s why she deliberately refuses to answer even the simplest, most harmless of questions. I’m not asking her to provide me with free legal advice!

  “It’s just that if I don’t keep on top of Mr. Winthorpe, he tends to let things slide, and I want to get Gram’s will probated and done with—not keep on having it postponed by one silly delay after another.

  “Good grief! Does the entire courthouse grind to a halt every time Judge Newcombe takes a vacation?”

  “Well, actually, I expect so, dear,” Aunt Gwen said contritely, sympathizing. “I mean, he is the only judge in town. So I don’t suppose much of anything can be done without him.”

  “Maybe not,” Hallie reluctantly conceded. “Still, one wouldn’t think so—the way Ms. Overton behaves. I think she’s the one really running the courthouse. Why, I’ll bet that old goat Judge Newcombe doesn’t know even half of what she’s doing. She’s so bossy and overbearing. She acts like the judge is her own personal property, that she daren’t let anyone else even speak to the man!”

  “No doubt because Jenna’s been in love with him for years, Hennie always said,” the elderly lady explained. “Oh, I know the judge is a good fifteen years or more older than she, and that he’s probably never seen her as anything more than a thoroughly competent assistant, besides. Still, I don’t think any of that’s ever crushed Jenna’s strong emotion for him. She worships the ground he walks on.

  “From the way she behaves toward you, I believe she’s afraid of you, Hallie. After all, you’re young and attractive, and I suppose she’s got some crazy idea that you’ll swoop in and steal the judge away from her. She probably sees every pretty young woman in town as a like threat.”

  “Good Lord. As though I’d ever be interested in Judge Newcombe! Why, with that pointy bald head, those big ears and that ridiculous beard of his, he looks just like some old billy goat! The few times I’ve seen him seated on the bench, I’ve half expected him to bray ‘Nyah, nyah, nyah,’ just like a goat.”

  “Oh, Hallie, what a…what a dreadful, disrespectful thing to say.” Her pale blue eyes filled with merriment, Aunt Gwen covered her mouth with her hand in a vain attempt to conceal her laughter. “I declare, child, I don’t know what the world is coming to, when young people don’t have any respect for their elders anymore!”

  “People have been saying that since the time of the ancient Greeks, Aunt Gwen, and the world’s still here. So I guess it’ll just keep marching on, no matter what. Let’s go into Coco’s Ice Cream Parlour and have a chocolate sundae. Just thinking about Ms. Overton’s silly attitude toward me because of Judge Newcombe has got me so riled up that wish I’d never quit smoking. It’s times like these when I badly long for a cigarette.”

  “Yes, but dear, you really shouldn’t replace smoking with eating. Still, you’ve got such a nice slender figure that I don’t suppose you have to worry about calories much. It’s when you get to be my age that you’ve truly got to watch what you eat, lest you wind up weighing a couple of hundred pounds or more.”

  “Oh, Aunt Gwen, you’re like a little bird. A chocolate sundae certainly isn’t going to hurt you, and as for me, I’ll just do some extra crunches or something.”

  In the end, the two women decided to split their sundae, each getting enough of a taste to satisfy her. After that, they completed their shopping, then piled into Hallie’s Mini for the ride back to Meadowsweet.

  “Who’s that, Aunt Gwen?” Hallie queried, as upon reaching the farm at last, she guided the car toward the carport. “I don’t believe I’ve seen that vehicle here before.”

  “Well, I have.”

  Much to Hallie’s surprise, as she glanced at her great-aunt inquiringly, she saw the older woman’s mouth was uncharacteristically thin with dislike and disapproval, so she looked startlingly like Great-Aunt Agatha.

  “It belongs to Dandy Don Hatfield—and I’m sorry if it sounds wholly un Christian of me, dear, but I just can’t stand him! He’s the wealthiest man in town—got rich off selling used cars to people initially, then branched out into all kinds of other schemes—and I’m convinced he’s largely responsible for Hennie’s stroke!”

  “Why? How?”

  “Oh, he’s been coming out here for years to harass her about Meadowsweet, pressuring her to sell the place to him. He wants to turn it into one of those planned urban developments, with a Victorian theme and using the farmhouse as the model show home. Can you imagine! Why, the first time he explained it all to Hennie, I was afraid she was going to start foaming at the mouth, she was so angry!

  “She sent him packing with a flea in his ear, I’ll tell you—warning him he’d better not ever set foot on her property again. Still, he kept on coming back here, pestering her, until she finally called Sheriff O’Mackey and had him put a stop to it. But did it stop there? No, it did not!

  “For then Mr. Hatfield only waited until he spied Hennie in town, chasing her up and down the streets, shoving contracts into her face and begging her to reconsider—that she’d have enough money after the sale to install herself in one of these luxury retirement homes they’ve got for elderly people nowadays.

  “Anyway, I guess that now poor Hennie’s dead and buried, Mr. Hatfield’s decided he can persuade you to sell out to him, Hallie. But I’ll tell you what, child—I’ll be extremely disappointed in you if you do!”

  “You don’t need to worry about that, Aunt Gwen.”

  As the elderly lady had spoken, a martial glint had come into Hallie’s eyes, and already irate about the way Ms. Overton had treated her at the courthouse, she certainly was not going to be bullied at her own home by some used-car salesman who had perhaps harassed her grandmother to death.

  After unfastening her seat belt, she got out of the car and strode to the front of the house, where Mr. Hatfield was standing, bending Trace’s ear.

  As she observed the latter’s seemingly casual stance, his battered Stetson hat tipped just so, his thumbs hooked in his wide leather belt, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth, Hallie had a good idea that it was all Trace could do to prevent himself from giving Dandy Don Hatfield a thorough thrashing.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Muldoon! Such a genuine pleasure to meet you at last!” Mr. Hatfield greeted her enthusiastically, grabbing her hand before she even offered it and pumping it so hard she thought it was a wonder it did not fall off. “I’ve heard so much about you from your dearly departed grandmother—God rest her sweet, saintly soul—that I feel I know you already.

  “I’m Don Hatfield, but everybody hereabouts just calls me Dandy Don—on account of I’m such a nice fellow!” A wide, gap-toothed grin displaying one gold cap and that did not reach the corners of his steely-gray eyes split his weather-beaten face.

  “I’m a car salesman by trade—but don’t let that put you off. No, sirree, Ms. Muldoon. Because, for one thing, I can already see you’ve got yourself quite a smart little vehicle there. A brand-new Mini Cooper S, isn’t it? That must have set you b
ack a pretty penny! And, for another thing, I’ve got a whole lot of irons in a whole lot of other fires besides my car dealership, and it’s land I’ve come to Meadowsweet to speak with you about today.”

  “My grandmother’s farm isn’t for sale, Mr. Hatfield,” Hallie said flatly once she could get a word in edgewise. “Not today nor any other day. So I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time driving out here, and quite frankly, I hope it doesn’t get to be a habit. I understand you practically hounded my grandmother to death!”

  “Now, you—you just hold on a goshdarned minute, young lady!” Mr. Hatfield sputtered, reddening with indignation and ire, his affability disappearing so abruptly that Hallie would have laughed if she had not been so mad.

  “I don’t know who’s been feeding you such a load of cow manure, Ms. Muldoon—although I can no doubt guess—but nothing could be further from the truth, I assure you. The offer I made your grandmother for this place was more than fair—quite generous, in fact—and she was just a stubborn, foolish old woman not to accept it.

  “But then, Henrietta Taylor always did think she was better than anybody else around here, what with her high-society background and her highfalutin airs. Well, she wound up working her fingers to the bone on this old farm—and dropping dead while talking like a loony person to her stupid bees, when she could have been comfortably situated in a luxury retirement home!

  “I’m warning you—don’t you make the same mistake, young lady! You’re liable to wind up dead at Meadowsweet yourself, just like your mother and grandmother!”

  Hearing that, Trace suddenly threw his cigarette to the ground and unhooked his thumbs from his belt—like some wolfish predator lithely uncoiling itself, preparing to spring on its prey.

  “Are you threatening Ms. Muldoon, sir?” he asked.

  His voice was deceptively low and silky, but beneath the brim of his hat, his narrowed blue eyes glittered like such shards in the bright yellow sunlight that Hallie knew she had been right in assessing him as a dangerous man to cross.