When Death Draws Near (16 page)

I PULLED BACK ON THE REINS AND ALLOWED
Blake to lead again. Aynslee gave me a questioning look as she passed, and I smiled slightly. She continued ahead until she rode alongside Blake.

“What's my horse's name?” she asked.

“Cinnamon. I call her Cindy.”

“Cindy.” Aynslee stroked the horse's neck. “Hi, Cindy.
You're so beautiful.” She looked up. “What's your horse's name?”

I expected him to brush off “the kid's” questions, but he continued to answer her. Once on a roll, Aynslee peppered him with equine questions, offered fifteen-year-old insight into social media, and shared her miserable time at the boarding school I'd had to send her to last year. Barely pausing for breath, she launched into her friendship with Mattie, then her crush on a boy named Carson.

He listened and commented when she paused.

I upgraded his status to saint, albeit one on the lowest rung of the saint hierarchy.

Trying to keep my mind off Blake, I focused on the trail, but my thoughts kept returning to him. While being married to Robert, I'd never thought of another man in any way but neutral. If I met someone handsome, like Blake or Arless, my fingers would itch for a pencil and paper. I had certainly never blushed or become a bumbling fool until after my divorce.

My identity had been Robert's wife.
Mrs
. Robert Marcey.

Robert was a gifted writer, hailed as the next Hemingway or Steinbeck. I'd been over-the-moon happy when he proposed to me. Early in our marriage, Robert and I would talk about growing old together, sitting in rocking chairs on a summer's afternoon. Then life interfered with our fairy tale. The words dried up for Robert, and he blamed me. My cancer diagnosis was the excuse he needed both to be free and to write again.

I'd been surprised and horrified at Beth's hint that I think about dating. Now here I was thinking about Blake as more than an artist's model.

Forget it, Gwen. He's just a chauffeur
.

Beth's voice intruded on my daydream.
You're a woman worth loving. You're a catch.

Catch and release. Like a fish. Ha-ha.

He could be married,
Dave's voice cautioned.

True. With ten kids.
But he somehow didn't act married
. Or like a crazed rapist and killer.

You're kidding yourself, Gwen.
Robert's voice now joined in my mental discussion.
No man, even a driver making minimum wage, wants damaged goods. You used to be a looker. Now you're—

“Shut up, Robert.”

I didn't realize I'd spoken out loud until both Blake and Aynslee looked at me. I coughed to cover my embarrassment.

So what was my new identity? A woman worth loving . . . or damaged goods?

The trail took a sharp right. At the bottom of a steep slope, the road leveled and opened into a field ringed by a hodgepodge of tents surrounding a series of campfires. On the far side of the field sat a variety of off-road vehicles. The rich aroma of food cooking made my mouth water. The sun had drifted behind the mountains, casting Prussian-blue shadows and causing the temperature to plummet. Aynslee hunched forward and rubbed her arms. The thin blouses we'd put on that morning were hardly sufficient for a late-October evening.

Several men paused in their various activities to come forward and take our bridles. Blake dismounted and helped Aynslee get down. By the time he turned to help me, I'd dismounted. Tugging my blouse straight, I did my best to hide the pain in my backside and thighs from the saddle. It
had
been a long time since I'd ridden.

Shivering from the cold, I pulled off the bag of art supplies and started unsaddling my horse when an oversize coat settled over my shoulders. It felt so good I pulled it close before turning to see the source.

Blake draped a man's sweater over Aynslee. “Thanks. Mom says you're a Neanderthal, but I think you're nice.” She grinned at him.

I could see why some animals eat their young.

I concentrated on loosening the cinch and pretended I didn't know my daughter.

Before I could unsaddle, Blake was beside me. He lifted it off the horse effortlessly. “Neanderthal?” he whispered, his lips so close to my ear that my hair fluttered.

A flood of heat rushed to my face. I turned to watch him. He easily hefted the saddle, then sauntered to the area where he'd stacked the other tack.

At least he didn't ask for his coat back.

An attractive but simply dressed woman sidled up to my horse and stroked his cheek. “So. Blake put you up on Rowdy.”

“Rowdy?”

She patted the bay's shoulder. “This is Rowdy. Blake's favorite horse. He never lets anyone ride him.” She raised one eyebrow at me.

“Well, I guess he figured anyone from Montana who can saddle and bridle a horse should be able to ride a mount with an attitude. Do you know Blake pretty well?”

She glanced at Blake, patted my horse again, shot me a swift look, and walked away.

A middle-aged woman wearing a denim skirt and a sweater bustled over. She'd been at the memorial service.

“Hi. Is it Ida?” I asked.

“No names here, child. We have a lot of enemies. I bet you're starving.” She took my elbow and aimed me toward the campfires. I nodded for my errant child to follow.

Thirty to forty people sat in folding lawn chairs or on blankets, eating, talking, and laughing. Many stopped when they spotted us, but soon continued. Blake's back was to me, and several women peeked in his direction between bites of dinner.

The woman led us to a log with a flattened top where plastic plates, silverware, and a roll of paper towels lay.

Little Sarah Adkins spotted Aynslee and pulled her into a tour of the campsite.

“Grab a plate and silverware,” the older woman told me.
“Then help yourself to whatever looks good.” She pointed at the different campfires, each with a suspended pot or fry pan on a grill. “The drinking water is over there. You're the one that came to the service today and brought that . . .”

“Tuna noodle casserole,” I offered.

“Well bless your heart. Enjoy. When you're finished, the garbage is over there in that plastic bag.”

I nodded.

Everything smelled heavenly. I chose a pot of what looked like stew and looked around for a place to sit. Ruby caught my gaze and patted the scarlet blanket next to her. I joined her.

“Good choice,” Ruby said. “Squirrel stew.”

“Oh yum.” I eyed the hunk of meat I was about to bite into. I ate most of it anyway. It was much better than my tuna noodle casserole. Casually I glanced over at Blake. Before I could look away, he looked over at me and winked. I ducked my head and stared at my plate. When I finally looked up, Ruby was staring at me.

“My, my,” she said. “Well, he's a good-looking man. All the women have their caps set for him, as you can see. Has a good job selling cars.”

“I thought he was a chauffeur. He's a used car salesman?”

She chuckled. “Something like that. He owns the largest car dealership in Kentucky. Also a bank, a stable, and a number of other businesses.”

I shut my mouth. “He's-he's rich?”

“Has the Midas touch.”

“But I saw him driving a couple of people around in a Bentley. I thought he was a chauffeur.”

“He helps out folks who have trouble driving. That's his
personal car.” She touched her lips with a napkin. “He can be very generous to his friends. And dangerous to those he thinks are enemies.”

I tried to keep from flinching.

She nodded in his direction. “He seems to fancy you. About time he showed more than polite interest. His fiancée ended things with him this past year.”

“Really.”

“Foolish woman. But I heard he put you up on his bay gelding. And you stayed on.”

I shrugged. “Luck.”

“You've caught his attention. If you want to keep it, well, you know what they say. The fastest way to a man's heart is through his stomach.”

“The only way I'll ever get close to a heart is by becoming an open-heart surgeon. The only thing I've successfully made in the kitchen was a mess.”

“That's a start.” Ruby smiled.

Feeling the blush starting up again, I asked, “How do the restroom facilities work around here?”

She pointed. “Men in that direction. Women over there. If you see a roll of toilet paper on the branch, the facilities are empty. Take the TP with you, return it when you're finished.”

“There's no TP in the outhouse?”

“Outhouse? Oh my. You'll find a shovel at the correct spot.” She giggled at my expression. “It's simple but effective.”

My face was under control by the time I returned. I was beginning to feel relaxed and comfortable here, letting my guard down.

Don't trust anybody
.

Sitting next to Ruby, I asked, “How do you let people outside your congregation know if there's to be a revival?”

“We have a most efficient phone tree. We call it the buzz. Works for this and is crazy good at spreading gossip, unfortunately.”

I pushed the remaining squirrel stew around in my bowl. “Tell me, Ruby. Did you know Grady Maynard?”

“Why do you ask?”

Answering a question with a question. Was she going to lie to me? “Just wondering. I'm staying in his cabin.”

“We moved here after Grady . . . disappeared. We're originally from Tennessee. I never met him.”

“I accidentally found his Bible. It showed that he had a son. Devin. I was just curious to learn more about him.”

Ruby's brows furrowed. “I never knew that. The folks who knew Grady were Mamaw and Jimmy. They used to go to his church. I guess Jimmy took over when Grady went missing. But Jimmy and Mamaw both died back in August.”

“I'm so sorry.” I took a few more bites. Something put a tickle in the back of my head, and I sat up straighter. “Both died, did you say? How, if you don't mind my asking?”

Ruby placed her plate on the blanket next to her. “Well . . .” She glanced around, then scooted closer to me. “I don't think of this as gossip. It's what I was told. My nephew's friend's dad works for the sheriff's department.” Another check for anyone paying us any attention. “They were both found in the garage.”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded encouragement. They had to be the two people in their sixties on the list the sheriff gave me.

“It was always kept locked. Always.”

This time I made sure no one overheard us. “The garage?” I whispered.

“Yes. They have to stay warm, you know. That's why you keep them in a garage, basement, or room of the house.”

“Them?”

“The serpents. But you always keep it locked.”

I shoved my bowl away, the sight of food no longer appealing.

“The serpents were all loose. Must have been ten or more of 'em. And Mamaw and Jimmy were both bitten. Many times. It was awful.”

Jason turned those snakes loose. And killed that couple.

“I'm going to get a slice of pie before the service begins.” Ruby stood. “Can I bring you a piece?”

“No thanks.”

People were slowly cleaning up and moving away.

A beautiful, dark-haired woman with mahogany skin and wearing a long khaki skirt took Ruby's place. “Hi. I'm Lindsay.” She offered a soft hand smelling faintly of lavender skin cream.

“Hi, Lindsay.” I shook her hand. “I thought we didn't use names.”

She shrugged. “It's not as if it's a big secret. I heard you're a forensic artist and wanted to meet you.”

“You don't—”

“Look like the other folks around here?”

“I was going to say ‘sound like you're from this area.' ”

Dimples bracketed her smile. “I'm from California. I'm here visiting my cousins.”

I looked around for other people of color.

This time she laughed out loud and pointed to a redheaded man. “Over there. The Scottish side of the family.”

I made a wry face. “Got me there. So you're a snake handler?”

“I think they prefer ‘serpent handler,' and no, I'm not. I'm
here because these are simply good people and I like being around them. I come every fall.”

“I see.”

She crossed her legs and leaned back onto her elbows. “I wonder if you do.” She watched the people sitting around the different campfires talking and laughing, then getting up and wandering toward the outdoor church area. “I've checked out their history.”

Nodding, I raised my eyebrows.

She shrugged. “Just making sure they weren't a Jim Jones–like cult. Their background is quite interesting. Back in the 1890s, there was an average of three lynchings a week of African-Americans. But in the Pentecostal churches, even in the deep South, we were accepted, treated as equals, and given leadership positions.” She looked at me. “With the Azusa Street revival—”

“I'm sorry, the what?”

“A lot of folks point to an event, a revival, in the spring of 1906. People think the Pentecostal movement started in the South by whites, but it started in California with an African-American minister in a mission on Azusa Street in Los Angeles.”

A man walked by and called out, “Folks, time to start.”

“Anyway,” Lindsay said, “I didn't mean to ramble on—”

“I found it fascinating. Thank you. Let's stay in touch, or should I say, I'll give you a buzz?” I held out my hand for another handshake.

“A buzz it is. I'd like that.” She shook my hand, then gave me her cell number.

“I'm sorry.” I stood. “I don't have any way to write it down—”

She giggled and rose, brushing off her skirt. “It's easy to remember.” She gave me the area code. “The next seven letters
spell out my name. I'm terrible with numbers, so I always try to come up with a way to remember.” She headed to the gathering.