The Lost Hours (14 page)

I’d driven less than a mile when the road abruptly ended in a stand of tall Georgia pines, the narrow road no longer visible. Throwing the car into park, I studied the map again, seeing no correlation to anything on it with this place I seemed to be. Annoyed now, I slid the gearshift into reverse and hit the gas. Mud splattered my rear window as the tires ground into the soft mud, leaving me in the same place I’d started.

Putting the car into drive again, I gently pressed on the gas. The car moved forward gently, than slid back down into the red mud, where it seemed to make itself comfortable. I tried reverse and then drive several times before finally admitting defeat.

“Damn,” I said to the mud and the pines and my own stupidity, and banged my hands against the steering wheel. I climbed out of the driver’s seat, my sandals sinking into the muck. “Damn,” I said again and would have kicked the car if I didn’t know from experience that doing so would mean only that I wouldn’t be able to walk for a day or two.

I glanced inside the car to where my useless cell phone sat on the dash. I didn’t know the number at the house or anybody who would be remotely nearby. I briefly considered calling George, but realized I would owe him more than I was prepared to give as a matter of thanks for making him drive from Savannah to save me.

With another
damn,
I left everything in the car, then tugged my sandals out of the sucking mud and walked about ten feet toward drier ground. My knee ached from the effort and I had to grit my teeth before continuing on.

Small insects darted around my head and ankles but none bothered to bite me. My grandfather used to joke that it was because I was too bitter. A fellow competitor once told me it was because I had steel running through my veins instead of blood like the rest of the mortals. And for a very long time, until that final jump, I had believed it to be true.

About ten yards from where I’d left the car, I came upon a railroad-tie fence. Tall weeds grew at the fence posts, confirming my opinion that it marked an empty horse paddock. And, judging by my sense of direction, climbing over the fence would be a shorter path back to the tabby house and possible help.

Very carefully, I hoisted myself up on top of the fence and swung my right leg over before lifting my left leg to follow. Then bracing myself on my arms, I let myself down into the grass on the other side of the fence.

I headed to the right in a slight diagonal, thinking I’d reach the far end of the paddock eventually and that the fence on that side would run relatively parallel to the oak alley. I kept my head down most of the way to watch where I put my feet, and used the hem of my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face, taking most of my makeup with it.

I’d walked about twenty yards when I heard an old, familiar sound. I stopped and stood motionless, then listened again, hoping it had been the heat and the throbbing of my knee that made me hear things that weren’t there. But there it was again, the sound of chewing, of large, powerful jaws crunching on long grass.

Slowly I turned to my left and spotted a cherry bay gelding, its large expressive eyes regarding me with a wary gaze as it continued to chew. He was a large horse, about sixteen hands, with a red-brown body and black points. His black tail flicked away a fly as he considered the intruder.

I wanted to step back, to continue on my hunt for the fence and the drive, but my feet had developed their own mind and refused to move. I smelled the horse then: sweat and grass and the heady odor of sun-heated horseflesh. The scent made me dizzy with remembering, my head swimming with the alarming thought that I might pass out. And then the horse turned and I stood riveted, staring at the vivid scar that bisected his flank, as stark and raw as my own.

I almost forgot my fear, distracted by the brutality of whatever had caused the animal’s injury, and for a brief moment considered us kindred spirits, damaged yet somehow back among the living.

The horse lifted its head and nickered softly, then began to approach. “No!” I shouted, knowing I was being unreasonable and silly but his scent and the memories were colliding in my head, and nothing seemed irrational anymore.

“No!” I shouted again, my voice shrill, the edge of it tempting panic. I forced myself to move backward and managed to dislodge a foot, but my sandal caught on something solid and immobile protruding from the ground. My arms flailed as I tried desperately to regain my balance before falling into the sun-soaked grass. I lay still, frozen, just as I’d done in the grass as I waited for Fitz to slam into me, my broken body unable to roll away.

The horse startled, then continued its approach, his massive head appearing even larger from my supine position. I turned my head away as he nudged at my hip, nipping at the fabric of my pants. In the rational part of my mind that still functioned, I realized the horse was simply looking for a snack, but behind my closed eyelids all I could see was Fitz’s body blocking the sun above me for that single moment that seemed to last a lifetime, and then the sudden, unbearable pain followed by blackness and my hope that I would never wake up again.

A low whistle came from the direction of where I thought the fence should be and then a man’s voice called, “Here, boy. Come here, boy. I’ve got you some carrots.”

I stayed where I was, mortified to be seen cowering like a frightened child. A shadow fell on my face and I turned my head, opening my eyes to see a tall man wearing riding boots and jeans, towering over me.

“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

God.
Knowing my only alternative was to lie still and play dead, I rose up on my elbows and squinted at my would-be rescuer, who had his arm extended toward me. With a moment’s hesitation, I took it and allowed myself to be hoisted to my feet. I stared down at my mud-covered sandals and grass-stained shorts and saw myself as I must appear to the stranger’s eyes. There’d been a time, long ago, when I’d been somebody, a person to admire. A world-class competitor. And now I wasn’t sure who I was, but I knew it was none of those things I’d once been. I cringed from my rescuer’s close scrutiny, knowing I’d come up short.

“I’m fine,” I mumbled, brushing grass from my pants and trying to rub off some of the mud on my sandals in the tall grass. Furious at myself for being so stupid, I vented my anger on the nearest possible victim. I pointed an accusing finger at the cherry bay, who’d turned his attention back to eating grass. “You shouldn’t allow your horse to roam freely like that. He or an innocent bystander could get hurt. Or is that how he got that scar on his side?”

I saw a flash of anger in the man’s green eyes but it was quickly replaced by something that looked a lot like amusement.

“Not to disagree with a lady, but you climbed the fence, not him. So, basically, you’re the one roaming freely and, I might add, trespassing on his property.”

Embarrassment and ire filled me to capacity, leaving no room for apologies or silent mortification. Drawing back my shoulders, I met his laughing eyes. “Then I’ll just remove myself from danger.” Stiff with anger and carrying my bruised ego, I marched away in the direction I’d been heading when I’d been accosted by the horse.

I hadn’t gone far before I heard him jogging up behind me, then felt him pulling me gently to a stop with a firm hand. “You’re limping. You must be hurt.”

I turned to glare at him, an angry retort on my lips, but paused. I could see his eyes clearly now and wondered how I’d missed it before: the darkness that hovered there that spoke of grief so fresh he hadn’t yet learned how to hide it.

Looking away, I gently disengaged my arm, feeling blood rushing to my cheeks. “It’s from an old accident. I’m fine.” I began walking away again, conscious of my limp and feeling his eyes on me.

He called after me. “If you’re trying to find the drive, you’re going the wrong way.”

Defeated and robbed of my noble exit, I turned toward him. He was trying very hard not to smile as he pointed me in another direction. As I began to walk away again, the man said,“If it makes you feel any better, that’s the first friendly overture I’ve seen that horse make since I rescued him more than a month ago.”

“It doesn’t,” I called back over my shoulder. “But thanks for trying.” I considered for a moment asking him for help in extricating my car but quickly dismissed the idea. I had no desire to extend my humiliation by engaging him in more conversation and furthering our acquaintance.

I continued walking toward the fence without glancing back, and it wasn’t until I was safely on the other side of the fence that I remembered the brief moment when I’d looked into the horse’s eyes and seen the horrible scar, and felt for the first time in a long while that I was no longer alone in the world.

I ended up walking all the way back to the caretaker’s cottage. My knee ached so much that I had to wrap it with ice and rest for a whole hour before finally calling Helen, who sent for a tow with apologies about the map. It had been drawn by Susan, she explained, when she’d first devised the idea of renting some of the outbuildings, but the road that I’d been on hadn’t been in existence since the seventies when the golf course was built. We were both silent for a moment, wondering why Susan might have included a road that led to nowhere.

Setting my laptop on top of the pine kitchen table, I flipped it open, having resigned myself to the fact that I’d have to wait until the next day to head to the library. I had a wireless card, so at least I could do preliminary Internet research on my grandparents’ house as well as a search for any more news articles on the baby found in the Savannah River.

Still, my finger hesitated over the power button, my attention diverted to the scrapbook pages and tattered front cover that I’d placed in the corner of the table, an ever-present reminder of the real reason I was here. I’d had more than ample time to go through all the pages, but I resisted like a dieter contemplating fruitcake, desiring the sweetness but not sure if it would be worth the calories. I couldn’t help but wonder if by continuing I’d be opening Pandora’s box. But, I reasoned with myself, that box had been opened the moment the armoire had slid across the attic floor and exposed the hidden door.

After closing my laptop with a firm snap and sliding it away from me, I reached across the table, dragging the pages toward me before opening them up to the place I’d stopped the day before. I studied the drawing of the necklace again before flipping the page, staring at a sketch of the now familiar angel, and recalled that I hadn’t seen an angel charm on the necklace in the box. And then I began to read.