The Story Keeper (23 page)

I’d always told myself that when I grew up, I’d have a horse of my very own. A good saddle horse, and I’d keep him right in back of my house, ready at all times for an adventure or an escape.

I hadn’t been on a horse in years.

I was almost tempted to sink my fingers into Blackberry’s mane and swing on board. Silly, of course, but as I finished grooming him, I imagined how it would feel.

He was almost dry before Hannah returned. She brought Friday with her and settled him on a bale of hay in the aisle. “Sorry it took so long. I had to help Granny Vi with some stuff,
and
she made me put on dry clothes. Sheesh! Then she fell asleep again finally. We can go inside and make some cocoa. It’s cold out here, kinda. You wanna see my room?”

I thought of what Helen and Violet had said about my resemblance to Hannah’s mom, and Evan’s warning not to lead her on. “I think I’d better wait out here for your dad to come back with my car, but thanks.”

Her nose crinkled, freckles scrunching together. “My dad’s got your car?”

“It was stuck in the mud down on Honey Creek Road.”

“Ohhh . . . that road’s got some real bad spots. I ride there sometimes and go along the creek. I got the key code for all the gates.”

“I used to play on that creek when I was growing up. I loved it there.”

“That’s cool.” Hannah was enthusiastic. “Maybe we could go
sometime. You could ride the gray horse. Or else you could have Blackberry, and I can ride the gray horse. Daddy doesn’t believe I can handle him, but I totally can. He’s fun.”

“I don’t think I’ll be in town long enough, but that would be a blast. Thanks for inviting me.”

Her lips twisted to one side, and she scratched Friday’s head as I untied Blackberry. “Are you and Uncle Evan gonna make a book together? The one you talked about to Granny Vi and Aunt Helen?”

“I’m not sure all of that’s going to work out. Your uncle Evan said the manuscript isn’t his.”

“Oh.” That little mind was working so quickly, there was smoke coming from her ears. “Well, are you gonna stick around until you figure out who
did
write it, then?”

Are you gonna stick around . . . ?
Sadly, I’d had a feeling that was where the whole conversation was headed. “I think I’ve just about done all I can. I have to get back to New York. There are lots of other books waiting.”

“I might write a book.”

“I believe you might.”

“You could have
my
book.” There was such hope in those wide blue eyes.
Why me?
I wanted to say. Didn’t she know I was the last person she should be asking to fill the void here in this big house? Just the thought made me uncomfortable. I didn’t want any more ties to these mountains.

Looping the lead rope in my hand, I guided Blackberry toward his stall. “You’ll have to send it to me in New York when you get it finished. I’d love to read anything you write.” A thought teased the corners of my mind, noticeable in that it was so out of place. What if I could encourage my nieces and nephews from afar,
or even other kids who were growing up around here? What if something could be done with their writing, their stories?

Some sort of an anthology . . . or a compilation . . . a fund-raiser for scholarships . . .

I shoved the inspiration to the back burner, where it could simmer a while. One boiling pot at a time was enough.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Her disappointment was clear. I felt bad for being the one causing it, but the ebbing of our conversation was a relief in a way. We went about putting Blackberry in his stall and bedding him down, while Friday looked on from his hay-bale perch. I peeked around for signs of the baby goat but didn’t see him. I knew better than to scratch another sore spot by asking. This little girl had suffered too many disappointments already. If I thought she could keep it, I would’ve called my relatives and tried to track down a bottle-baby goat to give her, although this wasn’t the normal time of year for birthing.

The tractor rumbled up the drive just as we were finishing. My rental car, looking muddy and bedraggled, came along with it.

Jake met us under the portico. “You did ’er up good.” He pointed to the mud spewed on the side of the car and the long grass still clinging to the undercarriage.

“I’m an overachiever,” I joked, and he laughed.

“I better follow behind you on back to town, just to make sure everything’s okay. Lemme grab my wallet.”

“Can I go, Daddy?” Hannah chimed in, stopping him before he could angle toward the house. Her hands clung around the sleeve of his wet jacket.

“You oughta hang here.” The answer was quick and annoyingly dismissive. He wrestled his arm away and patted her on the head. “Somebody’s gotta look after Granny Vi.”

I blinked, blinked again.
Seriousl
y
?
The eleven-year-old was
supposed to stay here and look after the ailing grandmother, and who was looking after the eleven-year-old all this time? “You know what? No . . . I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I’m sure the car’s in good shape. It’s just mud. I don’t want to take up any more of your time. I’m sorry to have interrupted your day with my stupidity.”

“Take ya to dinner.” Jake turned the flirt on, and not in any surreptitious way. Mike, who’d been driving the tractor, cast an eye in our direction as he walked to the barn office. No doubt he saw my face turning ten shades of red.

“Oh no . . . honestly, I’m fine. I . . . have to get back and . . .” I grabbed Friday’s leash and prepared to bolt. “And . . . get some work done yet tonight.”

Jake slapped a hand to his chest, wincing as if he’d been struck by a bullet. “Rejected.” He grinned and then swayed on his feet just a bit. I caught a whiff of something and got a clue. Jake had tipped a beer or two while pulling my car out of the ditch. He was smack-dab in his happy place right now.

He definitely didn’t need to be driving anyone to town.

“Thanks so much for helping me. It’s a terrible night to get out. And look, you’re all muddy and wet. You guys just go on with your evening. Thanks so much!”

I was out of there like a rocket, dragging Friday behind me.

Chapter 20

N
udging the fried pie away, I pushed the phone closer to my ear and focused on the conversation. On the picnic bench beside me, Friday perked up, sensing a potential snack. He wasn’t bothered by the fact that the thing tasted like it’d been sitting in the Gordo’s Pie Palace concession trailer since yesterday.

My boss was determined, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Mitch was just the messenger. The real pressure was coming from George Vida. The fiction team had been to a book expo over the weekend, and not only had they seen a newly repackaged offering of the Time Shifters series on display to accompany the release of the final movie, but there was, as Mitch put it, a pervasive rumor that a contract for a new Evan Hall series was all but signed.

“That’s not . . . possible,” I stammered, caught completely unprepared for Mitch’s call and the blindside revelation. “Mitch, I just don’t see any indication of that. I’ve had a couple of
conversations with the man already, and unless he’s one whale of an actor, the unending fan mania from this thing is his nemesis. I don’t think there’s any chance he plans to go back to the Time Shifters series.”

I sounded so sure of myself, but the truth was that I’d been hanging around for two days since the infamous stuck-in-the-mud incident, and I’d seen no further signs of manuscript pages or Evan Hall. It looked like I had reached the end of the trail, yet somehow I couldn’t quite face it. I kept leaving the cabin for periods of time and coming back, hoping more of the manuscript would appear. I’d had a couple of conversations with Helen, and according to her, Evan was being stubborn. He refused to even consider meeting with me again.

Prior to Mitch’s call, I’d been killing time away from the cabin, again
 
—nibbling the fried food and watching a group of medieval elves and warriors LARPing in the open area known to insiders (such as myself) as the Field of Honor. Sadly, I’d spent so much time hanging around the Warrior Week grounds these last couple days, I now knew the lingo.

“The rumor about the new Time Shifters contract came from a solid source,” Mitch insisted.

“He hasn’t touched the Time Shifters stories in, what, more than ten years? I know they split the last few books into multiple releases and milked it with a hardcover, then softcover, rollout, but I
talked
to the man. He’s off the project. Way off. There’s just no way he’s writing another Time Shifters novel.”

The adolescent elf girl who’d originally introduced me to the concept of LARPing turned my way. She was standing alongside the Field of Honor, watching the morning’s combat with other bystanders. Suddenly it was clear that she’d also been listening in on my call.

Leaning away, I shielded the phone with my shoulder. “Listen, Mitch
 
—”

“You’re already out on a limb, Jen. I really can’t even believe George Vida let you go down there.” She didn’t wait for me to finish. “I know you’ve got a history of taking risks and coming up with big wins. I think that’s why he encouraged you to strike off on this one, but I’m going to give you some advice . . . because you
are
new here and there are things you probably don’t understand. The big guy can seem all easygoing and grandfatherly when he wants to, but he does
not
like to lose. He tests people, especially when they’re new.”

“I understand.” My stomach sloshed like a water balloon rolling down a steep hill.

“Find out what’s going on there and get a bead on whether that manuscript you’re after
is
by Evan Hall, and whether we have
any
chance at it, and if the answer is anything but a resounding
yes
, get out of there.”

“Okay . . . okay, I will.”

Mitch was playing hardball now. As we ended the call, I sat gazing across the Field of Honor, taking in a raised dais that featured a guillotine and three sets of wooden stocks. I had a ghostly vision of myself bound in shackles there with Friday at my feet, his hair bristling and sharp little teeth bared as he tried to defend my life.

Rubbing my forehead, I looked down at the phone.

The elf girl was beside me before I really noticed her. “I remember you.” She twizzled an index finger my way. “You were the one who didn’t know what LARP was.”

“That’s me.”
Just as clueless as I look, apparently.
Evan Hall had agreed to write a new Time Shifters series? How could that possibly be?

The girl slid onto the bench across from me. Her hunched-over-the-table posture indicated that the two of us were going to talk turkey now. Seemingly as an afterthought, she stuck out a hand and introduced herself. “Hey, I’m Robin, by the way.”

“Jen . . . Gibbs.”

“I heard you on the phone. Have you
seen
Evan Hall, like, in person?”

“Yes. No. I haven’t. No.” This was the last thing I needed
 
—a rabid mini fan on my case.

Her eyes brightened, her face grew intense, and for a moment, she reminded me of Jamie at a fashion-sample warehouse sale. “Could you get him to autograph some things?”

You’re not hearing me.
“No, really. I’m serious. He’s not a friend of mine or anything. I bumped into him once. That’s all. I can’t help you out. I’m sorry.”

“Because . . . the thing is . . . the camp is
way
crowded this year, and we got here late because my daddy had to finish bringin’ the hay in for our neighbor.” She thumbed vaguely over her shoulder. “And Mama sews, like,
all year
for the two Time Shifters weeks, and we usually sell out ’cause our stuff’s good, but this year we’re just not sellin’ that much, and propane’s got so high, I don’t know how we’re gonna fill the tank at home without us makin’ more money here. And with the baby crawlin’ around on the floor a lot still . . . well, she gets cold.”

“Robin, I can’t help you. I’m sorry.” This kid had serious sales skills, but at least some of this was true. And those eyes. Those great big eyes filled with hope and surrounded by ratty hair that looked like no one had bothered to brush it or make her wash it in a week. There was a flash of fear when she talked about the propane bill. I could see it, and I recognized it. A girl barely into her teenage years shouldn’t know how much a tank of propane costs, but some do.

She wasn’t giving up easily. “Hardly
anybody’s
got signed stuff of his to sell anymore, and if we had some, it’d be worth a
bunch
.” She looked away, then added, “Else, I wouldn’t ask. I don’t wanna be a bother.”

I heard a faint, distant noise. I think it was the sound of my resolve crumbling in the face of a superior force. “Okay, listen. If I get a chance, I’ll ask. But don’t get your hopes up.” Maybe I could put in a bid with Helen and see if she could accomplish the request. “So you live nearby?” I couldn’t help asking, even though in truth, I didn’t want to get involved.

“Next county over. In Sarroh Valley, about ten miles out of Culver. Ever been there?”

The word caught me off guard. “How is that spelled? Sarroh Valley?” It had about eight syllables the way Robin said it, but I wondered . . .

A sardonic gaze rolled my way. “I
know
how to spell it, if that’s what you’re wonderin’. I go to school. Got me all A’s, too. It’s me that looks up all the hist’ry books at the library and figures out what the clothes oughta look like that Mama makes. I’m not
stupid
.”

“Oh, I think I figured out that much already.”

“
S-A-R-R-A.
It’s just down a piece from the old La Belle Mission School. You know that place?”

La Belle
 
—the name of Rand’s family home in Charleston?

“Maybe . . . but I’m not sure.” The name was like a single note out of place, but it held my attention. La Belle Mission School in Sarra Valley. Perhaps Sarra Creek traveled there eventually.

“Did you say you like to go to the library around here somewhere? Do they have much on local history, genealogy, that kind of thing?” It was worth a shot. If I couldn’t follow the manuscript anymore, maybe I could follow the history. And a good librarian
would be just the one to ask. Maybe Rand and Sarra really were more than fiction.

“Oh, sure. They got a great library here in Looking Glass Gap, thanks to all that money from the Hall family. Got a big ol’ room full a stuff about local hist’ry.” She stretched across the table again. “Hey, I got some necklaces that’d go so good with that shirt. Just right over there at the booth. Wanna see?”

I agreed because I had a feeling that making a buy was about all I’d be able to do for Robin. I wished I could offer more. The mountains were filled with smart little girls like her who deserved better than they got.

I gathered up Friday and followed her back to the booth. Before we’d finished there, I was the proud new owner of a necklace, earrings, and a bracelet, all hand-strung by Robin. The necklace had a pendant made from a bit of Carolina beach glass that Robin had wire-wrapped herself. It made me think of Sarra’s necklace in the story.

Robin looked pleased as I clipped my new jewelry into place. She made sure to remind me again about the autographs, and I made sure to remind her again that the chances weren’t very good.

Leaving the festival grounds behind, I couldn’t help thinking about her and wondering what her life was like. At the same time, I didn’t want to know. Not really. I was still in avoidance mode over my own family. I had no idea what I was going to do about that situation.

Maybe the best thing really was to take Mitch’s advice and retreat to New York, focus on issues I could handle, projects I could control. Things that weren’t so complicated. So seemingly impossible. Maybe I’d have a clearer head there . . . about the problems on Lane’s Hill and
The Story Keeper
.

Indecision struck with paralyzing intensity in the Warrior Week parking lot, and I just sat there staring out the window, unsure of what to do next. I finally settled for composing an e-mail to the big boss, explaining my situation. I asked for a few more days to try to work things out here. I lied again and said I was hopeful.

My tangled web of excuses zipped through the ether to Vida House as I left the encampment behind, turned onto the highway, and headed toward the cabin to gather what I had of the manuscript and take it to the library. Maybe I could turn up something there. Perhaps, by some miracle, when I came home this evening, another envelope would be tucked inside the door.

A quote from the manuscript came to mind:
Where there is life, there is hope.
Rand, Sarra, and their story were still alive inside me. I was hanging on by my fingernails, but I was hanging on.

My phone chimed, and I reached for it to see if it was my answer from the office, but it was a voice mail from Jamie, just now showing up on my phone but apparently left earlier that morning. “Hey, thinking about you as I head into work. Hadn’t heard from you in a couple days. Everything okay? Anyway, let me know. I was a little worried.”

Me too,
I thought as I glanced down to slip the phone back into my purse.
Just a little.

An unexpected blur of movement caught the corner of my eye, jerking my attention back to the windshield. Breath hitched in my chest, and I dropped the phone, stomping on the brake. The pickup in front of me fishtailed, the back tires locking up and laying down rubber. Ahead, a chain reaction progressed, the seconds seeming to slow and stretch. At the start of the line, a cattle truck skidded sideways. Its wheels belched out smoke. A swirling cloud of dust and dead leaves overtook my car, blocking the view for an instant, then wafting away.

Something large and white skittered through the ditch and vanished behind the cattle hauler, then appeared again
 
—a horse. It was bolting wild and blind, its head pulled sharply to one side as the rider tried to turn it away from an oncoming car.

Minutes seemed to pass before the semi vibrated to a final stop in a curtain of haze, everything still happening at once. My vehicle came to rest just inches from the pickup’s bumper. People hit hazard lights. The semi driver exited his vehicle. A guy in steampunk clothes ran up the center stripe to flag oncoming traffic.

I imagined some Time Shifters fan’s vacation tragically cut short by an unthinkable accident. What shape were the horse and rider in? Had the truck hit them? Had someone called 911? Should I get out? Move my car to the shoulder? See about the horse and rider? Could I help?

The steampunk guy trotted up the center stripe again, waving for people to get back in their vehicles and yelling that everything was fine.

A long, slow breath passed through me, and I blew out the tension, waiting for traffic to move.
Thank God
was all I could think. Suddenly the phone call from the office and the questions about my mission here seemed very small. Unimportant in the larger scheme of things. Someone had been very lucky today. The incident could have ended so differently.

Traffic inched forward, revealing a glimpse of the rider standing on the opposite side of the horse. Circumventing the cattle truck as it rested cockeyed on the shoulder, I could just make out jeans and boots. Pink ones.

The trailer was empty
 
—probably the reason the driver had been able to stop in such a short distance. In the ditch, he was having words with the horse owner. Ms. Pink Boots was probably getting an education right about now.

Rolling past the cab, I glanced in the rearview at the scene playing out on the roadside, caught a glimpse of a dark head, a ponytail.

Hannah?

The gray horse. The one she wasn’t supposed to ride? What in the world was she doing all the way down here?

I whipped the car around in a clear space, rushed back, U-turned onto the shoulder, and drove up behind the truck. The man was leading the horse now, gesturing and talking to Hannah as she followed along.

Friday spotted her and tried to jump out the door with me as I slipped through. “Stop it!” I yelled, and for once he did as he was told.

The truck driver jerked at the sound of my voice, his surprise evident. “I was just tryin’ to help the girl out,” he defended. The reaction seemed strange. Creepy, even. Like I’d caught him at something. “She got herself in a pickle. She don’t want her daddy to know she took the horse out. I told her I’ll put ’im in the trailer, give her and the horse a ride wherever she needs to go, keep ’er outta trouble with her old man.”