Making Magic (3 page)

“I don’t need them anymore. It’s always the same stories, over and over. I’m past all that now,” she said, glancing over at the couple checking out the chess sets.

Jake leaned in closer to her. “I think they say you never really get past it, Mom.”

“I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here to find out when you are going back to work. Everyone keeps asking me when you’re going to put on your badge again.”

Jake clenched his jaw. It wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t help it if people who weren’t brave enough to ask him directly went to her instead. He turned to check on his customers.

“We’ll ship anywhere,” he said, loud enough for them to hear. The young woman looked up and nodded in acknowledgment. Probably hiking the Appalachian Trail and taking a breather in Patton Springs. Or they had timed their hike to be here in time for the music festival. Either way, they wouldn’t want to lug a chess set on the Trail. He turned back to his mother.

“It’s none of their business when or if I go back,” he said in a low tone.

“But they’re saying you have PTSD or something. Like you’re afraid to go back.” She sat on the stool beside his bench. “I don’t like it when they talk about you like that.”

He hated it when her voice took that petulant tone.

“Mom, I don’t have PTSD.”
Not the way you think, anyway.
“And I’m not afraid of getting shot again, other than the way any sane person would be. It has nothing to do with that.”

“It certainly looks like it to everyone.”

And how things look is so important to you, isn’t it, Mom?
“I’m sorry they think that.” He pulled the other stool up to his bench and laid out all the sound hole inlays he needed to finish carving for the three hammered dulcimers he hoped to finish this week.

She gave a dramatic sigh. “I wish you would stop all this.” She gestured around at the shop. “Managing this little store while Donnie’s off fishing. It just isn’t right. A Moser has been sheriff in this county since—”

“Maybe ‘this’ is the way I want to make my living. Maybe ‘this’ is something I’ve loved since I was a kid. And—” he raised a finger when she started to object “—maybe following in Dad’s footsteps wasn’t such a great idea.”

That was a low blow, but it stopped her cold. Having your son follow in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps to become one of the youngest county sheriffs in the history of North Carolina had been quite a feather in her cap, but having her son shot in almost exactly the same kind of stupid domestic dispute that had killed her husband? The only differences were that this had been in public—and Jake had survived. His mom should be happy that he was considering putting the badge down for good. Instead, she seemed more concerned that his decision would reflect badly on her.

She patted her hair then rubbed at her eyes. “How are you feeling? Are you… Do you still have to take medication?”

“It still aches now and again and I’m still working on building muscle strength, but I’m off the pills,” he said.

“Good.” Her voice was weary. “Good.”

No, Mom. I’m not Becca. I’m not going to get addicted to the damn things.

Jake tried to lighten the mood. “Besides fussing at your favorite son, what brought you down here?”

She sighed. “I came to talk to Sister Sarah again.”

“Dammit, Mom—”

“Don’t you swear at me, Jacob Owen Moser,” she said firmly, glancing over at the customers to make sure they hadn’t heard him. “She makes me feel better about things. And she can talk to my Ron and to Becca. I need—”

“Mom, you know
she’s a fake. She’s a grifter, a con artist. Chief Meade has a file on her a foot thick. She can’t talk to Dad. In fact, he wouldn’t—”

“I don’t care. She understands. And she knows what’s going on in this town. Up on that mountain.”

Jake blew out a breath. Not this again. Tinfoil hat time. He picked up a disk of wood and checked the design he had drawn on it. Almost too intricate for handwork, but he could handle it.

“Are you listening to me?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” He tried not to sound exasperated, but it wasn’t easy. “You’re afraid of something up on Woodruff Mountain. But since you don’t go anywhere near the place, then it shouldn’t be a problem.”

He barely remembered when Marilyn Moser had been a sweet-tempered and fearless mother and a supportive and loving wife. That had been before the alcohol, a long time ago. Now Becca was gone, Eric had fled and Sheriff Ron Moser had died on the floor of a double-wide up in a mountain hollow. At least his mom wasn’t drinking anymore, as far as he could tell.

“You know that’s not what I mean.” She waved at the street outside the shop window. “It’s those Woodruffs and the kind of people they associate with.”

Jake frowned. “You mean the people that stay at the cabins? Or the folks who buy their herbs? Or me? I associate with—”

“It’s
those
people. Like the ones who visit in that RV. And that new girl.”

“The one Daniel Woodruff’s marrying next week? That girl?” He had to work hard not to let his frustration creep into his fingers and ruin his carving.

“Yes, that girl.”

“Her name is Mel, Mom. And those people in that RV are her parents,” Jake said in a resigned tone. “I’ve met them. Nice folks. Good people.”

“They’re not normal.”

“Which ones? The Woodruffs? Or the Nobletts?” Jake asked, no longer being as careful with his tone. “Or is it the whole damn bunch of em?”

“There is no need to swear at me!”

The couple considering the carved chess sets looked over and Jake grinned back with his best good-old-boy smile. This was probably going to cost him a sale.

“There is something strange going on with them and you, of all people, know what I mean.” She lowered her voice. “How many times have you gone up there in the past few months and found people waving guns around and shooting at each other?”

Jake grimaced and shook his head. “Mom, the Woodruffs were innocent bystanders both those times. The Taggarts were the ones cooking meth up there. Hell, the Taggarts had been on the wrong side of the law for so long I’m surprised Dad, or even Granddad, didn’t catch them at it a long time ago. And those Italian guys got a little over enthusiastic about some kind of industrial espionage that Mel was writing about. She’s a journalist, Mom. It’s a coincidence that it all happened in the past year.” But before that, there had been Logan Woodruff—the Woodsman—whose death hadn’t really been accidental.

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” she huffed. “Those Woodruffs have always wanted their old home place back. Is it a coincidence that the Taggart boys are in jail now and Annie Taggart is missing? And they can walk in there and take the Taggart place without so much as a by-your-leave? And they’re building fences and bricking things up—”

She’d been listening to Sister Sarah again. Sarah Rae Scott, who called herself Sister Sarah, had been thick as thieves with Old Annie Taggart right up until Old Annie’s disappearance. “It’s the Woodruff’s house. It’s their property. The Taggarts only lived there because of the Woodsman’s generosity and his father’s before him. Hell, they own the damn mountain.”

“Jake Moser—”

“Look, I’ve got a lot of work to do, Mom.” Jake held up his hand to put a halt to any more complaints about his swearing, then ran it through his hair. Part of him was tempted to yank some out. “I don’t have time to listen to all this again. Go on and talk to Sarah. Maybe she’ll give you her ‘easy mark’ discount.” She was trying to buy forgiveness. Forgiveness for things she couldn’t even remember.

He watched as her mouth pressed into a straight line. She stood and shook out her dress. “I’m just trying to protect you.” She leaned over to brush a dry kiss on his cheek. “You stay safe.” She went quickly out the door.

Ever since the car accident his mom had ended conversations that way, like some superstitious ritual. He watched her cross the street toward Sarah’s shop, where a simple neon sign sputtered “OPEN” underneath a fancier one that flashed “Psychic” over an unblinking neon eye.

Jake jumped as the young man spoke up at his elbow. “We’re going to think about it,” he said.

“I’m buying him a few beers at that Tavern down the way, but we’ll be back,” the young woman added with a wink. “Don’t let anyone buy that mixed set.”

“Try the Pisgah Pale Ale. It’s the best,” Jake said as the bell rang and they were gone, arms linked and laughing.
Life’s one big adventure for them.
He followed them and propped the door open to catch the soft evening breeze.

Returning to his work, he thought about how he was going to spend his Friday night. Six sound hole inlays to finish and stain and glue in place. Then he had to string and tune the three instruments he had ready. And tune and play and tune again. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to get much sleep the next few days, other than the workshop’s futon. There was only a week until the festival.

On top of running the store, he still had the extra practice sessions with the band, a gig that had to come off like clockwork, and finishing the hammered dulcimers. It was going to be close. But he was determined that any instrument with his name on it was going to be a unique and beautiful piece that he would be proud to own and play himself. If he sold them all, he would make the down payment on this place.

He glanced south into the green dark where Woodruff Mountain reared her beautiful peaks and ridges into the sky.

Unlike his older brother, he had never considered leaving here, even to get away from their dysfunctional family. He still couldn’t imagine it. Sure, Eric had found mountains of his own, but those over in Washington State weren’t anything like these. These mountains had ancient roots that reached the heart of the planet, peaks that touched the stars and a song that hummed through your soul until your fingers itched with the need to play it.

As he leaned over his workbench, he thought of others who had left these mountains behind. There weren’t many. People born up here stayed if they could. Families endured. Some families like his and the Woodruffs had history going back to the beginning, back to the first settlers and even to the native tribes, right here in these mountains. Even when some of them did leave, like Grace and Daniel Woodruff, they tended to come back. And then there was Thea Woodruff.

She was another one, like Eric, who had escaped as soon as she could, although he never understood why. It had been Becca’s death that had been the final blow for Eric. Eric had only come back to town once—for their dad’s funeral. Hell, between his dad’s death and his mom’s struggle with alcohol, Jake had been tempted to skip town himself. But he was the one who stayed.

At least Eric was still playing his guitar. From what Jake had heard after the Woodsman’s funeral, Thea wasn’t even playing anymore. Another thing he couldn’t imagine—Thea without her flute.

He couldn’t imagine not playing. His instrument of choice was a bit more unwieldy to carry around than a flute or guitar. It was even harder to describe to your average music lover, but he had finally come up with a description that worked for him. “
The hammered dulcimer is like a guitar with no neck, a much bigger soundboard, a lot more strings and two sound holes. And what makes it more fun? You play by whacking on it with tiny hammers.
”

The openwork carving of musical notes he was working on would eventually be set into the sound hole. He had carved a musical note for Thea a long time ago. Hers had been one note, stained dark, with an intricately carved flute of lighter wood laid across the stem and tucked under the flag. He remembered how she had worn it proudly every time their little group—Appalachian Synchrony—played together. Now only Jake was left.

And Thea was stuck in the big city without her music. Surrounded by glass and concrete and noise, she probably rarely saw a bird, much less heard all the myriad sounds that composed the mountain’s song.

But Jake could hear it through the open door. He turned off the store’s sound system, cutting off “Sí Bheag, Sí Mhór” mid-note. With only frog song from the nearby creek, the breeze whispering through the trees that hung over the rippling water and faint laughter from the tavern down the street as accompaniment, he settled in to carve.

Chapter Two

Somewhere south of Blacksburg, in the pause between two songs on the playlist meant to keep her awake, Thea finally heard something that reminded her of the mountain’s song. The moonless night showed her nothing of the landscape she was traveling through beyond the endless highway stretching in front of her. She couldn’t even see the ridges of the Appalachians, even though she knew the interstate ran alongside them for her entire route.

She’d forgotten what a long haul it was, driving to Patton Springs from Philadelphia. She was grateful for the eighteen-wheelers and their drivers. Their overwhelming numbers kept her awake out of a sheer sense of self-preservation. And their uninhibited flirting, involving creative horn blasting and running-light blinking, helped as well. They weren’t flirting with her, mind you. They were flirting with her red BMW.

Finally she had heard a whisper of her mountain singing to her again. Perhaps a cricket had leaped into the car at her last stop and was protesting the unexpected journey. But something had hinted of the lullaby she had tucked away beneath her heart long ago to sustain her—hidden so thoroughly that she had lost it for a while. A gentle composition that included the cheerful babble of water over stone, a susurration of wind through green leaves, the lively warble of a mockingbird, and an enthusiastic chorus of peepers in the dark. Something inside her that had been too tightly wound for far too long loosened a bit.