“What…what kind of a promise?” she asked tentatively, half expecting him impudently to demand a kiss or some other such forfeit.
“Simply this—you must promise me you would never shoot the great black wolf. It would be a terrible sacrilege to kill such a magnificent animal as you have described.”
“That’s an easy promise to keep, Trace—for I would never harm any animal. Gram believed we were put on this planet as caretakers of all God’s creatures, and that’s a belief I firmly share.”
“As do I, so I’m very glad to hear you say that. Now, why don’t you give me a hand with this compost heap? Then, later on this afternoon, I’ll teach you how to handle a shotgun.”
“You’ve got a deal. Where’s the other pitchfork? Oh, never mind. I see it.”
Grabbing the tool, Hallie dug into the hot mound, lifting and turning the debris to help hasten its decomposition.
“Come next spring, we’re going to have such wonderful compost for the herb and vegetable gardens!” she declared, without thinking.
“Are you planning on staying at Meadowsweet permanently, then?” Trace’s voice was carefully noncommittal.
“I…I don’t know yet. Still, I suppose that on some level, I must be considering it, or else I would never have made that comment. I hope…I hope you’re not angry with me, Trace. I know you hoped I might sell Meadowsweet to you—”
“Only because that old Victorian farmhouse and its land speak to me, and I didn’t want them to go to someone like Dandy Don Hatfield. But you, now…I can see you growing old here at Meadowsweet, Hallie. Although you might have spent most of your life in a big city, I can tell, now, that you never lost your bond with the land. This place suits you, just as it did your grandmother. I know she’d be so happy to have you home here at long last.”
“And what about you, then, Trace? Will you…will you stay on here, as well?” Hallie queried hesitantly. “I confess that despite how insolent and maddening I frequently find you, I’ve got kind of used to having you around.”
“Why, Hallie—” Trace grinned hugely, his midnight-blue eyes dancing as he gazed down at her intently “—that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. I begin to believe there might actually be some hope for me where you’re concerned, after all!”
Chapter 16
Traps
I n the days that followed, Trace taught Hallie how to load and fire the shotguns in the gun case in the library, as well as how to clean them after ward and carefully lock them away.
“Always remember,” he told her, “it’s not the gun that’s dangerous. The gun itself is just a tool, like any other. It’s the person behind the gun who makes the difference one way or the other, and even an experienced shooter can make a mistake and accidentally shoot something or someone he or she didn’t mean to. So never point a gun at any thing you don’t intend to shoot.”
“I understand,” Hallie said, biting her lower lip gently as she concentrated on the task at hand.
It seemed there was a whole lot more to this shooting business than she had ever before realized. She had thought one simply loaded the gun, aimed and fired. But for one thing, she had never counted on the horrific kickback against her shoulder, which invariably spoiled her aim and left her shoulder bruised and aching.
“You’ll get used to it, in time,” Trace said, “and once you learn how to compensate for the kickback, your shoulder won’t hurt so bad, either. You’re doing fine. It just takes practice.”
“I think I’m going to need quite a bit of that!”
“Yes, I think so, too.” He spoke in her ear, his breath warm against her cheek as he wrapped his arms around her again, helping her steady the shotgun and, with his feet, gently moving her own into a slightly wider stance. “You don’t want to be knocked off balance.”
But Hallie thought she already had been—and not by anything having to do with the gun, either. It was Trace himself who unbalanced her. His very nearness, the feel of his strong, corded arms around her, was intoxicating, making her feel dizzy and breathless, as though she had run a very long way and could not now get any air into her lungs.
When she inhaled deeply, the scent of him permeated her nostrils, somehow reminding her vividly of the man-beast in her dream, the dark, erotic nightmare that had haunted her slumber when she had first come back to the farm. He smelled of the land, of long-shadowed forests and grassy green meadows, and she thought that if she tasted him, his skin would leave a trace of salt upon her tongue, as well.
She had never before spent so much time in such close proximity to him, and no matter how much she had tried to fight it over the passing weeks, Hallie knew she was highly attracted to him, felt as though if he were no longer to be at Meadowsweet, there would be an emptiness somewhere deep inside her that would be very difficult to fill.
She was always sorry when the day’s shooting lesson ended, and for all his impudence, she thought Trace was, too. Still, it was not as though they were deprived of each other’s company, because there were many chores they performed together, lazy afternoons when there was lemonade to be sipped on the verandah and long evenings when they played cards with Aunt Gwen.
Once in a while, Scarecrow or Sheriff O’Mackey or some other visitor stopped by, and there was a fourth for bridge. Or Hallie and Aunt Gwen played the piano, and Trace joined in on the guitar or the harmonica; he was equally adept at both. Sometimes they went into Wolf Creek, to take in a movie at the only cinema in town.
In many ways, it was a hard life, from sunup till sundown, an unhurried life filled with simple pleasures—no operas nor symphonies, no ballets nor nightclubs.
Still, Hallie had never felt more alive.
After several weeks at the farm, she no longer even needed an alarm clock. The crowing of old Bernard woke her in the mornings, and it was with a deep sense of inner peace and pleasure that she dressed to feed the chickens and gather the eggs from the nests in the coop.
In fact, she thought as she lay in the middle of the wild meadow where, as a child, she had so often danced with the faeries, life would have been just about perfect—if only Dandy Don Hatfield were not trying to drive her off the farm.
Oh, it simply must be him—or else, much more likely, as Trace had said, someone the man had hired to harass her. For now Hallie was certain she was not only being spied on, but also actively stalked.
It had all started with the poor dead mouse she had discovered one morning, laid upon the back porch.
Aunt Gwen had said the tomcat, Mr. Whiskers, had left it there as a present, to show he was doing his job, guarding the farmhouse and protecting it from small furry invaders. Hallie might have believed it, had not other things even more disturbing began to occur.
At first they had been only little things…misplaced tools, when she and Trace both were always so careful with them, new plants dug up and destroyed, the rain barrels used for irrigating the herb and vegetable gardens overturned and emptied of their water.
But yesterday morning…yesterday morning had been the worst.
Now Hallie shivered just thinking about it.
To drive away the birds that otherwise would wreak havoc on the gardens she was trying so hard to bring back to their former glory, she had asked Trace to make her a scarecrow. Even Scarecrow himself, when he had learned of the plan, had got involved in the creation, insisting on providing the clothes. Hallie and Aunt Gwen had helped with the stuffing of them.
“Make sure you get enough, now,” Scarecrow had told them, laughing, as they had crammed in the hay. “So he isn’t so scrawny that he’ll blow away in a strong wind!”
Once the scarecrow had been finished, Trace had carefully mounted it on a strong wooden pole and erected it in the gardens. Hallie and the rest had had such fun making the hay man, and for the first time since she had known him, Scarecrow had seemed genuinely happy.
But yesterday morning, when she had gone outside to feed the chickens and to care for the bees, Hallie had discovered the scarecr
ow was on fire. Even though she had shouted for Trace, and both he and she had hauled buckets of water from the rain barrels, in an attempt to save the hay man, their efforts had proved futile. In minutes, it had been consumed by the flames—a charred figure on a stick.
“Who could have done something so positively horrible, Trace?” Hallie had asked, tears stinging her eyes. “It’s so cruel—especially in light of Scarecrow himself having been burned in that warehouse fire. I just can’t suspect poor Scarecrow of all these unnerving deeds after this, and I can’t believe Dandy Don Hatfield would have thought of something this vicious, either!
“You must be right, and he must have hired somebody to drive me away from Meadowsweet. But I’ll tell you what, Trace—all he’s done is to make me real mad. I’ll never leave this old farm now. Don Hatfield will never get this place. Not as long as I live! I swear it.”
Now, remembering, Hallie knew she had meant what she said.
Her decision made and she herself feeling better than she had ever since all the incidents at the farm had started, she sat up, knowing she ought to get back to the house. Still, Hallie lingered. This was really the first time since coming back to Meadowsweet that she had been on her own at the meadow, all alone to indulge in her daydreams and fantasies.
Getting to her feet and smiling to herself as memories of her childhood here swept over her, she began to hum to herself, an old melodic folk song in a minor key. Then she started to dance, prancing and leaping and whirling amid the butterflies, dragonflies and bees that flitted from flower to flower in the meadow.
In that moment, for the first time in her life since she had left Meadowsweet, Hallie felt totally free and alive, as though all the strictures placed on her by Great-Aunts Agatha and Edith had suddenly fallen away.
Still, after a minute, she realized how silly she must appear to anyone watching, and she twirled to an abrupt stop, all her earlier fears returning to haunt her.
Bending, Hallie picked up the shotgun she had carried with her to the meadow, glancing around warily. How could she have forgotten for even a few minutes the malicious acts that were being committed at the farm by one or more unknown persons?
She had made a full report to Sheriff O’Mackey, of course—for all the good that had done. Naturally, he had duly investigated. But even Hallie had been compelled to admit that beyond the threats made to her by Dandy Don Hatfield, there was little or nothing for the sheriff to go on.
Further, when he had questioned her about Mr. Hatfield’s statements, she had been forced to confess he had not actually said anything concrete about doing her any injury.
Sheriff O’Mackey had told her he would have a chat with Mr. Hatfield, and that he would also drive by Meadowsweet occasionally, keeping an eye out. But so far, he had come up empty-handed.
Hallie understood. She and Trace could not patrol the farm 24/7, either, and even if the immense black wolf were her special animal totem and protector, as Trace claimed, even it could not be everywhere on the farm at once.
It seemed whoever was carrying out the malevolent acts knew exactly when and where to strike, in order to avoid being detected. That came from watching the farmhouse, of course. If only she and Trace could catch the saboteur in the act!
But Hallie held out little hope of that.
She was fully aware that these days, there were all kinds of technical gadgets that, although ostensibly marketed to the general public for legitimate purposes, actually aided and abetted criminals. These included everything from powerful listening devices to deceitful software for placing phony identification on caller ID displays.
She felt that whoever was spying on the farm must be utilizing at least some of these gadgets, particularly to overhear conversations between her and Trace, even though since the advent of all the trouble, they had taken pains to attempt to keep their own security measures quiet. Not only did they not want to tip off the unknown person or persons committing the dastardly deeds, but, also, they did not want to alarm Aunt Gwen any more than was necessary.
They had not been able to keep everything from the elderly lady, of course. The terrible burning of the scarecrow had prevented that, so even Scarecrow, from whom they had been unable to conceal the destruction, had become aware of the problems at Meadowsweet.
Still, Hallie did not want either her great-aunt nor Scarecrow to worry any more than was necessary. So she had tried to make light of the difficulties.
“Just some bored kids playing nasty pranks, I expect,” she had told Aunt Gwen. “You know how teenagers are nowadays. Especially in a small town like Wolf Creek, where there’s little for them to do, I think they have too much time on their hands—and of course, I don’t believe all those violent video games have helped matters.”
“No, you’re probably right, dear.” The older woman had sighed heavily. “Well, Hallie, if you’re sure that’s all it is, I’ll try not to fret about it too much.”
“I’m sure,” Hallie had said, hating to lie to Aunt Gwen, but also mindful of how stressed Gram had apparently become over Dandy Don Hatfield’s relentless attempts to pressure her into selling Meadowsweet, so that in the end, she had dropped dead of a stroke.
Hallie did not want anything similar to happen to her great-aunt.
Carrying the shotgun at her side, its barrel pointed toward the ground, as Trace had taught her, she started across the meadow toward the worn, now largely overgrown footpath that wound through a shady copse to the farm. After entering the small woods, however, she had not gone far when she was stopped dead in her tracks.
There, blocking her path, standing in the long shadows cast by the branches of the old trees, was the massive black wolf.
Hallie had not actually seen it up close and personal since the night of the thunderstorm, when she had first come to Meadowsweet. Still, it was just as great, impressive, and fierce as she remembered, and as she stared at it, mesmerized, she felt her mouth go suddenly dry and her heart begin to hammer wildly in her breast.
What should she do?
Hallie did not know. She had promised Trace that if he taught her how to shoot, she would not use the shotgun against the magnificent animal, and even now, despite her fear, she was loath to break that vow. Besides, the beast had made no threatening moves toward her.
In fact, much to her surprise, as she continued to watch it warily, it whined anxiously a little. Then it started to circle a small area ahead of her on the footpath, where the grass and bramble were so thick that they had nearly obliterated the trail.
“What—what is it, boy?” Hallie asked softly. “Are you trying to tell me something, to warn me somehow? Trace claims you’re my special animal totem, my protector, you know.”
The beast gazed at her steadily, its ears pricked up attentively and its head cocked a trifle as it listened to her. Tentatively, it took a few steps toward her. Then it ran back to the same spot, whining and circling before settling back on its haunches, looking at her again, as though waiting expectantly for her to do something.
At last, slowly, Hallie dared to approach, peering into the undergrowth to try to determine what might be wrong and that could explain the wolf’s peculiar behavior. Initially she could see nothing. So, still moving carefully, she leaned the shotgun against the trunk of a nearby tree, where she had spied a slender broken branch lying to one side.
Picking up this latter, hoping the animal would not think she intended to hurt it, Hallie poked and prodded the thick brush, screaming with terror as a giant pair of steel jaws suddenly leaped from the undergrowth to snap shut on the bough.
As her shrieks pierced the summer air, the wolf bared its teeth and began to snarl ominously, lunging and snapping ferociously at the brutal trap now rendered harmless by her springing it.
“Oh, God,” Hallie whispered to herself, horrified.
The trap had not been there earlier. She felt certain of that. But had it not been for the wolf’s warning, she would have come along this footpath and stepped r
ight into the vicious steel jaws. She might have wound up losing a foot—or perhaps even an entire leg!
At the realization, she abruptly doubled over and vomited, sick and faint with fear.
Whoever was doing these things at the farm must be utterly deranged, she thought, shivering, knowing that for all that he seemed daily to be growing less furtive and addled, Scarecrow was truly not fully right in the head. Was it he who had embarked on this increasingly horrific campaign to drive her away from Meadowsweet?
But if so…why?
Dandy Don Hatfield at least possessed a plausible motive: he wanted to buy the farm and turn it into a planned urban development, erecting houses all over the land where Hallie had played and dreamed as a child. But Scarecrow had no such obvious goal.
No, no matter what, she simply could not believe the disfigured man was capable of anything like this. Nor could she envision the flabby, clearly out-of-shape Mr. Hatfield creeping through the woods to set a trap in the thicket. It must indeed be as Trace had suggested, and the obnoxious, loudmouth man had hired someone—some ruthless, conscienceless thug—to do his dirty work.
But before Hallie could dwell further on these highly disturbing thoughts, Trace was there, evidently having heard her shrill, frightened cries and come running. In his hands he bore an ax he had been using to chop wood or carry out some other chore.
At first, not realizing it was he, Hallie jumped violently, nearly startled out of her skin, and reached for the shotgun that lay close at hand. Then she recognized it was Trace, and a long sigh of relief issued from her lips.
“Hallie, what is it? What’s wrong? I heard you screaming.”
Mutely she pointed to the steel trap on the footpath.
“It was—it was meant for me, I—I know,” she choked out. “The great wolf—oh, he’s gone now! But he was here a minute ago, and he saved me—”
Then, suddenly, somehow, she was wrapped in Trace’s strong, protective embrace, and he was kissing her wildly, feverishly, with all the pent-up passion he had held in check for so long.
From the Mists of Wolf Creek Page 14
