High Lonesome Sound
Page 38
“Here it is!” Jinny ran in with a large package wrapped in brown paper. “I think it’s a present.”
“Why would he bring me a present? My birthday isn’t for months.”
“Maybe it’s a love present,” her sister said.
“Hush you!” Ruby snatched the package and looked at the front. “Hey, this isn’t a gift—it’s mail—” She broke off as the Raleigh return address registered. “It’s from Peter.”
The sounds of feet on the stairs echoed through the house. A moment later, Sissy walked in, yawning. “Y’all are loud enough to wake the dead. What’s going on?”
“Ruby got a package from Peter,” Jinny said in awed tones.
Sissy froze. “What is it?”
After the event they never spoke of, Peter had hung around for several days helping to get everything sorted out. After all the funerals, he’d helped the girls move into Granny’s house. Every now and then, she’d hear from him. A time or two he’d offered to help her move away, but she always refused. She could hardly believe it had only been two years since she was that young girl asking him to help her run away like Tom Sawyer.
“I’m not sure,” Ruby said. “He didn’t tell me he was sending anything.” Last week, he’d called to tell her he was moving out to California. He’d gotten a job as a professor at a school out there, teaching English at an all boys’ school.
“Well, open it,” Sissy said.
She cradled the package to her chest and shook her head. “I think I need to open this alone. Can you two handle giving the cubs their treat?” As if on cue, a chorus of impatient mewls came from the yard.
Jinny whined, “I want to see—”
Sissy elbowed her. “We’ll take care of it, Ruby. You go on.”
She smiled at her sisters, now so grown it hurt her to think that one day they’d leave her. “Thanks.”
She took her jacket from the hook and threw it on as she walked toward the front door of the house. If the cubs saw her come out the back, she’d have to stop and spend time wrestling with them before she could go. But something told her that whatever Peter had sent in that box was too important to put off.
She patted Billy on the head as she ran down the porch steps and to the old truck she used to make runs into town. The engine growled in the cool morning air, but soon enough she was on the old fire road. Every now and then, she’d glance at the package and the neat script written at the bottom, “For Ruby Barrett’s eyes only.”
Fifteen minutes later, she parked the truck and got out. She grabbed the bag she always kept in the truck for emergencies that had a spare blanket, a few snacks, and a pistol just in case. When she reached Crying Rock, she stopped to visit Granny Maypearl’s grave. Everyone had argued that she should be buried on Cemetery Hill, but Ruby had insisted she would have wanted to be high above all of it, so she could keep an eye on everyone.
She knelt down and pulled a couple of stray weeds from around the gravestone. “Morning, Granny,” she whispered. “We got a package from Peter.”
Placing her hand over the warm earth, she closed her eyes and let the moment envelop her. A breeze passed over her skin, and it was scented with rhubarb pie and rosewater. She missed Granny so much it burned sometimes. On lonely nights, the worries found her. They tried to tell her she wasn’t up to the task of filling Granny Maypearl’s shoes. They told her that eventually the evil would come back stronger next time. They told her she wasn’t powerful enough to win a second time. But right then, with her hand over the grave and Granny’s name on her lips, the worries seemed a thousand miles away.
One day, the people of Moon Hollow would call her Granny Ruby, and she intended to be worthy of the title. Until then, she’d do her best to ignore the needling voice of worry and keep her hands busy learning her craft. She couldn’t control the future, but having a purpose made her feel important and worthy of the air she breathed. She supposed that was about the best anyone could hope to do with the time they had on earth.
After giving the dirt an affectionate pat, she stood again and went to the edge of the bluff, where she could see Moon Hollow far below. On a clear day, she swore she could see all the way to Kentucky.
She sang a little song to greet the mountain and a light breeze answered by dancing through her hair. She smiled and looked down at her hands. The backs still bore the faint pink lines that covered all of her body, the only evidence that remained of that night no one spoke of anymore.
What was in the box?
Unable to stand the suspense any longer, she grabbed the package and the bag from the truck. She spread the blanket out on the rock and settled in before carefully tearing into the brown paper. Inside was a white box, like one of the shirt boxes Mama had always filled with socks and underwear at Christmas, only this one didn’t have any clothes inside—it held a large stack of paper.
An envelope was paper clipped to the typed pages. She ignored that for a moment and read what she realized was the title page of a book manuscript. The title was Lightning’s Daughter, but there was no author’s name listed. Frowning, she went back to the handwritten note inside the envelope.
Dear Ruby,
For a writer, an untold story sits on the soul like a curse. But this isn’t my story to share—it’s yours. What you do with it from here is up to you. Be well.
Your friend always,
Peter West
She turned the page and started to read.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the wild hearts whose songs are too loud, too dark, or too true. They’ll tell you good girls should be seen but not heard. They’ll tell you good boys should be strong but silent. Sing anyway, brothers and sisters. Your music can change the world.
Acknowledgments
It generally takes a lot of support to write a book, and, with High Lonesome Sound in particular, it took a village.
This novel was my thesis project, which earned me a Master of Fine Arts degree in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University. During the course of that program, it was workshopped by dozens of my cohorts and several professors and mentors. In addition to the help of my Seton Hill family, I also had assistance from colleagues and friends, who acted as experts, fresh eyes, and cheerleaders.
First, thanks to Clarissa Yeo at Yocla Designs for the gorgeous cover. I gasped when I saw the finished product because it was just perfect. Lillie Applegarth’s keen eye handled the proofreading.
Timons Esaias and Shelley Bates were my mentors in the MFA program. They indulged my quirky writing process and laissez faire approach to punctuation, but mostly they offered support as I tried to find my new song.
Huge thanks to Tiffany Trent for her beta reading, and her expertise on bears and southern Virginia. Molly Harper also beta read the novel, and, as a result, reports that she is now terrified of looking out windows during rainstorms. Higher praise could not be wished for nor offered.
A debt of gratitude is owed to my Seton Hill cohort for their insightful critiques on different sections of this novel: Jamie Henry, Tricia Skinner, Tracy Douglas, Jay Smith, Caleb Palfreyman, Jeff Evans, Chad Pritt, Luke Elliott, Chris Phillips, Sarah Tantlinger, and Tasha Kreger.
As always, I owe so much to Mr. Jaye and The Kid for their unwavering support, preternatural patience, and good humor. ILYNTB
Also by Jaye Wells
The Prospero's War Series
Dirty Magic
Cursed Moon
Deadly Spells
Volatile Bonds
The Sabina Kane Series
Red-Headed Stepchild
Mage in Black
Green-Eyed Demon
Silver-Tongued Devil
Blue-Blooded Vamp
Meridian Six Series
Meridian Six
Children of Ash
The Murdoch Vampires
The Art of Loving a Vampire
The Taming of the Vamp
About the Author
USA Today Bestseller Jaye Wells is a former
magazine editor whose award-winning speculative fiction novels have hit several bestseller lists. She holds an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University, and is a sought-after speaker on the craft of writing. When she’s not writing or teaching, she loves to travel to exotic locales, experiment in her kitchen like a mad scientist, and try things that scare her so she can write about them in her books. She lives in Texas.
Find out more about Jaye Wells
www.jayewells.com
jaye@jayewells.com
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