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The water tasted stale, but she swallowed it just the same, then splashed a couple of handfuls on her face. There were things to be done, like burying the afterbirth and the bloody clothes that she’d been forced to use for cleaning. She didn’t want any wild animals to be led toward them by the scent.
By the time she’d finished, she was weak and shaking, and the baby was beginning to fuss. After washing her hands once more, she staggered back to the cot, bared her breast to the night and took the baby in her arms. Unaware of her Madonnalike pose, she pushed a nipple into the baby’s tiny mouth. It took several tries, but finally, the baby caught. Fancy’s eyes widened in wonder at the beauty of the tiny mouth working so diligently against her flesh.
“Turner, I need you,” she whispered. A tear rolled down her cheek.
Time passed—enough that the baby had gone back to sleep and Fancy was about to do the same. Her head bobbed, lurching sideways like a rubber-necked doll. The movement woke her, and she groaned, then glanced toward the baby and smiled. In spite of everything, the child seemed to be thriving. A little of her panic lifted. Surely this was a sign. Everything was going to be all right.
It occurred to her then that the child was not named. She and Turner had discussed many names, but almost all for a boy. Somehow, they hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that a Blair would father a girl.
She traced the tip of her finger along the side of the baby’s cheek and thought of her own mother, who had long since passed away.
“Catherine,” Fancy whispered, and then repeated the name, familiarizing herself with the feel of the syllables against her tongue. They felt good. They felt right. “Catherine you’ll be,” she said softly, then kissed the side of her baby’s cheek.
Time passed. The fire ate its way into the sticks she’d put on earlier, until it was time to feed it again. She stretched gingerly, reaching for a small log. Her fingers curled around the rough, dry bark as she lifted it from the pile. Inches away from the flame, she stopped, listening to a sound that struck fear in her heart.
Hounds!
Someone was hunting on this side of the mountain.
She dropped the log back onto the pile, unwilling to add even the smallest bit of fuel to a fire that could give her away. In a panic, she reached for the baby, clasping her close against her breast. The soft in and out of the child’s breath was calming. Fancy took a deep breath, too, reminding herself that this wasn’t the first time since she’d gone into hiding that she’d heard hunters on the mountain. Still, she sat with her eyes wide and fixed upon the mouth of the cave.
Minutes passed. The baby slept on, unaware of the growing danger, but Fancy couldn’t relax. The hounds sounded closer now. She thought of Jubal Blair. She knew from her years with Turner that the Blairs often hunted on this side of the mountain. What if it was him? What if he found her here alone?
Turner…Turner…where are you?
The baby began to squirm, and Fancy groaned with regret, only then realizing she’d been holding her too tightly.
“Sorry, baby girl, Momma’s sorry,” she whispered, and laid her down on the cot.
Almost instantly, the baby ceased fussing. Quiet enveloped them. Everything became magnified, from the sound of water dripping far back in the cave, to the intermittent pop of a twig on the fire—increasing her growing fear of being found.
Finally, she couldn’t sit anymore. Awkwardly, she stood and made her way to the mouth of the cave, stepping out into the darkness and staring down the hillside into the trees. Even in full moonlight, the trees were so thick it was difficult to see more than a few feet ahead, but sound still carried, and she could tell that the dogs were moving in her direction.
Nervously, she looked around for something to pull in front of the cave, but there was nothing but brush, and a few uprooted bushes wouldn’t throw a pack of hunting dogs off the scent of blood.
She looked up at the sky, trying to judge the time by the position of the moon, and guessed it was probably near midnight. Accepting that fact pushed her to accept another. What if Turner didn’t come?
Suddenly one hound’s shrill bugle made her flinch. In that moment she believed her safety had been compromised. She looked back into the cave and then into the trees. What should she do? If she went down the mountain, she would run straight into the hunters. She looked upward toward Pulpit Rock, where she and Turner had secretly married, and as she did, her heart skipped a beat. There was a place up there that no hunters would go—not even Jubal Blair.
The witch’s house.
She’d never seen it, but she knew it was there. At one time or another, everyone around Camarune had seen the fires late at night. Stories abounded about human sacrifices made in the light of a full moon, but Fancy didn’t really believe that. To her knowledge, no one in the whole of this mountain had ever gone missing, so if the witch was making sacrifices, it was more likely animal than human.
The hounds bugled again. She shuddered. Her decision was made. She darted back inside the cave, returning moments later with the baby wrapped warm against the night, and started up the mountain toward the shadow of Pulpit Rock.
She was wearing her last clean dress, an old blue denim, and had pulled a shawl around her shoulders, wrapping herself and the baby within. Despite her pain and weakness, she would rather face a witch than the likes of Jubal Blair.
She moved through the trees like a small blue ghost, her movements stiff and awkward. The pain in her belly and the one between her legs was great, but they were nothing compared to her fear. Tree limbs grabbed at her hair and clothing, but she continued constantly upward. Brush often caught in her clothing, leaving tiny tears in the fabric and stinging scratches on her face. The baby was starting to squirm. Fancy knew she must be hungry. But there was no time to stop.
A short while later, the hounds set up a terrible howl. It was then she knew they’d found the cave. If it was only hunters, they would be curious, but little else. But if it was Jubal…
Unwilling to contemplate the consequences, she increased her pace, but it was taking a toll. The muscles in her body began to spasm, and each step she took was more torturous than the last. Just when she thought things couldn’t get worse, something popped inside her belly. She paused, gasping for breath, then moaned as something warm began running down the insides of her legs.
In a panic, she tried to get a fix on her location. To her relief, the silhouette of Pulpit Rock was just ahead, jutting out over the landscape like the point of an anvil. It wasn’t much farther. Fancy gritted her teeth and kept walking, but the pain and weakness were winning. Her head was beginning to swim, and there was a constant buzzing in her ears. Faintly she could hear the baby starting to cry, and she wanted to cry with her, but sound carried on the mountain. After the blood in the cave, the dogs would be crazy. Even if the hunters were innocent in their pursuit, they would be too far behind their own dogs to stop the carnage she knew would ensue.
A long, loud bugle from one of the dogs suddenly sounded in the night. Fancy groaned. She knew, as well as she knew her own name, what that meant. The hounds had struck trail. They were on the move again. And they were coming after her.
“God help me,” she whispered, and started to run.
2
T he campfire was small but hearty, the flames eating hungrily into the deadwood that Jubal had piled into a teepee shape before setting it ablaze. Now, minute bits of burning bark drifted up into the air along with a thin spiral of smoke, marking their place in the woods. The forest was fairly dry for this time of year, but the men had been woodsmen too long to be careless. The ground around the campfire was spacious and barren, and added to that, a heavy dew was falling. Hank passed the jug to his brother John just as one of the dogs sent up a howl that echoed throughout the forest.
“That’s Little Lou!” John cried. “She’s struck trail.”
Charles laughed. “So she did,” he said. “Now pass me the jug.”
Jubal grinned. “Easy on the whiskey, boys. You don’t want to be runnin’ into any trees like Hank did last time.”
Hank frowned. “Damn near put my eye out,” he muttered, as his father and brothers laughed, remembering the chaos that had erupted from the accident.
They sat for a while longer, enjoying the heat from the fire and the warmth of whiskey in their bellies. It was Little Lou’s howl, followed by an answering chorus from the other hounds, that changed their perspective.
Jubal stood abruptly. “Sounds promisin’, boys. Let’s go see what we’ve got.”
Hank reached for his gun as John doused their fire. “Maybe it’s a painter, Pa.”
The mountain term for panther was familiar to them all, and, to a man, they shivered as they followed their father’s lead.
The pack was moving upward. Five minutes into the run, the muscles in Jubal’s legs began to burn, but he refused to acknowledge his pain. This would be his last winter to hunt. Age was doing something that his wife never could. It was slowing him down. But he kept on moving, refusing to show weakness in front of the men whom he’d sired. It wasn’t until Hank suddenly stopped that they all realized the howls of the dogs sounded fainter.
“What the hell?” Charles muttered. “Where did they go?”
Jubal stood with his head cocked to one side, trying to identify the familiarity of the sound. Suddenly he knew.
“They’ve gone underground!” he yelled. “Hell’s fire, boys, they must be in a cave.”
“It is a painter,” Hank cried.
Jubal grinned. “Then let’s go kill us a cat.”
They started off at a jog, still following the faint, but distinct, sounds of the pack.
It was John who first saw the opening.
“There!” he shouted, and they turned, holding their lanterns high and their guns at the ready as they moved inside.
The dogs were everywhere, noses to the ground, running over the makeshift bed, digging in a dimly lit corner. The cacophony of their baying and howls was painful to the ear within the confines of the enclosure.
“What the hell?” Jubal muttered, as he held his lantern high. “This ain’t no animal’s lair.”
John shouted, calling down his dogs. Hank and Charles quickly did the same. The noise trickled down to a series of soft whines and yips, but it was enough that the men could make themselves heard.
“Look here, Pa,” Hank said, pointing toward a satchel of clothes. Surprise colored his expression when he pulled out a woman’s dress. “Well, I’ll be danged. Women’s clothes.”
Jubal’s expression darkened as he poked into the jumble of boxes with the barrel of his gun. Then he looked at Old Blue and Little Lou, who were digging frantically in a darkened area of the cave.
“What the hell are those dogs digging at?” he muttered.
John moved toward them, holding his lantern high, then suddenly cursed and took a step back.
“There’s something buried here,” he yelled, pushing the dogs away from the hole.
They all converged on the place, holding their lanterns and flashlights aloft. Charles knelt for a closer look, then turned away suddenly, gagging.
“Shit,” he muttered, as he staggered to his feet. “There’s something bloody in there.”
Jubal shoved them aside for a closer look. His nose twitched, but his belly stayed steady.
“It ain’t nothing but some innards or somethin’,” he said. “Most likely whoever is stayin’ here just buried the guts of some game.”
“That ain’t like no guts I ever saw,” John said. “There’s some bloody clothes here, too,” he said, and lifted them out with the barrel of his gun. “Hell. It’s another dress.” He dropped it back in the hole with a shudder and moved away, poking through a book that was lying on a block of wood that had obviously been used as a table. Moments later, he spun, his face slack with shock. “Pa! Look here.”
Jubal took the book, read the name inscribed and dropped it into the dirt.
“Fancy Joslin.”
Then he spat, as if the name alone had poisoned his tongue.
Hank and Charles cursed, while John remained silent.
“So this is where she got off to,” Jubal muttered.
“Now, Pa. I don’t imagine no woman has been living in here,” John said, trying to add a bit of sanity to the moment.
“Where the hell else would she be living, then?” Jubal asked. “Frank’s house is gone. Burned to the foundation…remember?”
John looked away. The feud was a bone of contention between father and son, and had been for some time now. John was loyal to his blood, but of the opinion that a feud was something that belonged with the old ways, not the twentieth century.
“Well, wherever she went is no concern of ours,” John said. “Come on, let’s go.”
Jubal turned on his son, and in that moment the hate that burned in his heart was focused on John Blair’s face.
“What do you mean, it’s no concern of ours?”
John held his ground. “Just what I said. It’s over, Pa. Let it and her be.”
Before Jubal could answer, Charles interrupted. “Well, I’ll be damned. Look at this.”
They turned. Charles was holding up a baby blanket and a newborn-size gown.
Jubal cursed, then spat again. His voice was shaking as he yanked the items out of Charles’s hand, then threw them in the dirt and ground them beneath the sole of his boot.
“See there?” he yelled, pointing at John. “That’s what happens when you leave them alone. Females are the worst of the lot. Just when you think you’ve gotten rid of a pest, they’ll breed up another batch.”
He grabbed the dress Hank had found and pushed his way past his sons toward the mouth of the cave.
“Come on,” he yelled. “Bring the dogs!”
John blanched. “Pa! What do you think you’re doing?”
Jubal turned, and the smile on his face chilled John’s heart. “I’m goin’ huntin’, boy!”
“No!” John yelled, then looked to his brothers. “Hank! Charles! Tell him!” he begged. “We don’t wage war on women.”
Hank shrugged. Charles shook his head. “Pa’s right,” he said. “It ain’t over till it’s over.” Jubal whistled up the dogs, then thrust the dress into their midst.
“Go get her, boys. Go get her.”
Still antsy from being called off the hunt, the dogs took the scent of the dress and then burst out of the cave into the night like bullets out of a gun, with the hunters right behind them.
John ran, too, with his heart in his throat, hoping that they’d been wrong, that it wasn’t Fancy Joslin after all.
Fancy’s legs were numb. She couldn’t feel anything but the child in her arms and the thunder of her heartbeat slapping against her chest. One step, then another, then another, and suddenly she was on her back in the leaves and looking up at the sky.
“No,” she wailed, and curled onto her side, sheltering the child in her arms in the only way that she could. Her heart was hammering against her eardrums, her breath coming in jerks and gasps. If only Turner could have seen their daughter. He would have been so proud.
Suddenly someone was pulling at her shoulders and whispering in her ear. She screamed faintly, thinking they’d found her already, when she realized it was a woman’s voice she was hearing. She rolled over, then looked up, at first seeing only the silhouette of Pulpit Rock above her. And then she focused and sighed. It would seem that she’d found the witch after all.
The woman’s hair was dark and long, braided into a single plait that hung over her shoulder as she knelt at Fancy’s side. Her hands were gentle, her voice soft as she urged Fancy to her feet.
“Get up, girl, get up.”
“I can’t,” Fancy whispered. “Something broke inside me. I’m bleeding.”
The woman’s hands were swift and sure as she made a quick assessment of Fancy’s wounds. The shadows hid her shock at the pool of blood beneath the girl.
“I can help you,” she whispered. “Just try to stand. My cabin isn’t far.”
But Fancy’s world was already diminishing, and moving even an inch was beyond her.
“Don’t let them get my baby,” Fancy begged, and thrust the child into the witch’s arms.
The woman rocked back on her heels, shocked by the choice the young mother had just made.
“I’ll stay. We’ll fight off the dogs together until the hunters get here,” she said. “I can’t leave you.”
Fancy shook her head. “If it’s Jubal Blair, he’ll kill you, too, just to get to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“My name is Fancy Joslin. Turner Blair is my husband and the baby’s father, only Jubal doesn’t know.”
The woman was shocked. Even in her isolation, she’d known of the families’ feud.
“Surely he wouldn’t…”
Fancy grabbed the witch’s arm. “I’m dying, woman, and please God, you’ve got to grant my last request. Save my child from this hell. Take her away from these mountains and love her as you would your own.” Fancy’s voice faded, then caught on a weak sob. “Her name is Catherine, and when it matters, tell her how much her mother loved her.”
The woman bowed her head as she cradled the now crying baby close to her breasts.
“I just can’t leave you here,” the woman cried. “Don’t ask me to do this.”
With her last bit of strength, Fancy grabbed the woman by the wrist and raised herself up on one elbow to stare directly into her eyes.
“Your name, witch…” Fancy gasped. “What is your name?”
The woman hesitated, then touched the side of Fancy’s face in a comforting gesture.
“My name is Annie Fane.”
“Then go, Annie Fane. If you do nothing else on this earth in your time, for God’s sake, save my child.”
The dogs were closer now, too close. By best estimates, less than a quarter of a mile away and closing fast. Fancy stared into the woman’s face until she was satisfied with what she saw; then she dropped back onto the forest floor.
Suddenly the woman stood. Fancy blinked. One moment she was there. The next she was gone. At that point, Fancy shuddered with relief. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered now. She closed her eyes, giving herself up to the inevitable.
Turner was in tears by the time he reached the cave. From the fading sounds ahead, he guessed he was a good five minutes behind. And from the appearance of the interior, he knew that she’d been found. The place was in a shambles, but what frightened him most was the bloody dress on the floor and the fact that everyone was gone. Had they taken Fancy hostage, or had she, by some miracle, escaped ahead of them? And why the blood? Had they killed her already and were trying to hide the body? And the baby—what about the baby? Fear threatened to swallow him whole, but there was no time to panic. His only option was to follow the pack and pray that he got there in time to stop a tragedy before it happened. He dashed out of the cave, saying a prayer as he went.
He ran with his flashlight in one hand and his rifle in the other, dodging low-hanging limbs and jumping over exposed roots that might cause him to fall. Once he thought he saw a light a few hundred yards ahead and yelled out his father’s name, but no one answered. He kept on moving, running until the stitch in his side had spread to his belly, and his lungs were weak and burning, refusing to admit that his legs felt like rubber and his boots felt as if they were made of lead.
Just when he thought he could go no farther, he got a second wind. Desperately, he increased his speed, ignoring the stinging slaps of tree limbs against his face and body, unaware that his clothes were being ripped into shreds by the tentacles of dry limbs and brush. Nothing mattered except Fancy.
It seemed the sound of the dogs and the run would never end when, up ahead, he saw a trio of lights. It was them! Wanting to yell for them to wait, he found he had no breath left to speak. Spurred on by the fact that they were so near, he flipped the safety off the gun and fired, praying that they would hear the shot and stop.
Fancy jerked, coming back to consciousness as a shot rang out. She moaned and opened her eyes, only to realize she could no longer see the stars—only a spreading darkness that was coming closer and closer to where she lay. In the distance, she could hear the flurry of rustling leaves as the hounds traversed the forest floor. Their barking had turned into bays and howls, but it no longer mattered. The darkness was closer than the hounds. Within it would be shelter and salvation. She welcomed it with her last breath.
She never knew when the hounds burst into the clearing and raced toward Pulpit Rock. What they did to her earthbound body no longer mattered. She was soaring toward the light.
As the sound of Turner’s gunshot was still echoing within the trees, he saw a hesitation in the lights and almost cried with relief. But the relief was short-lived. The growls and yips of snarling dogs struck fear in his heart—it was the sound they made as they fell upon their prey. All he could think was, No, Daddy, no.
Seconds later, he ran into the circle of lights, shouting at Jubal Blair like a man gone mad.
“Where is she?” he screamed. “What have you done with Fancy?”
Taken aback by his behavior and appearance, their hesitation in answering was to become their last mistake.
Turner groaned, then pushed past them, following the sound of the pack. Seconds later, he burst out of the trees into the clearing to find himself below Pulpit Rock—the moonlight casting harsh, ugly shadows onto the carnage below it. In the blue-silver glow, he could see a bit of leg and the fabric of a woman’s dress beneath the pack, and he began to come undone, shooting dogs as he ran.
The silence that came after was as horrifying as the hounds had been. With choking sobs, he dragged the carcass of a dog off of her body, then dropped his gun, frantically gathering her up in his arms.
At first the wounds upon her body didn’t register. He kept stroking her arms and her face, begging her to move, to call out his name. But she was too still—too silent. He laid a hand on her stomach, trying to shake her awake. As he did, it hit him that her belly was almost flat. The baby! My God…the baby!
A new fear shafted through him as he looked around the clearing and saw nothing but dogs. The coppery scent of blood was everywhere, but he wouldn’t give in to the truth. Choking back sobs, he laid his cheek against her face, cradling her close.
“Fancy…honey…it’s me, Turner. Wake up now, sweetheart, I’ve come to take you home.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, her head rolled to one side, revealing pale, sightless eyes. He exhaled on a moan. Too late. He’d come too late.
A sense of loss washed over him, so profound that it took the breath from his body. At that moment, he didn’t think his next breath would come. Yet when it did, it was a roar of such grief that the echo of it spilled out in the night, then filtered down into the valley below.
It stopped his brothers in their tracks, but not his father.
“What the hell are you doin’?” Jubal yelled, and yanked Turner roughly to his feet. “Have you gone crazy—comin’ in here and killin’ your brothers’ dogs like some madman?”
For once the ugly accusations in his father’s voice passed through his mind without connecting. He picked up his gun, then pointed it directly into his father’s face. The quiet, noncommittal tone in his voice was deadly deceptive.
“You killed her.”
Jubal hid his shock as he struggled to answer. “We didn’t touch her, but even if we had, she’s just a damn Joslin. What the hell would it matter?”
Turner shifted his aim until the barrel was pointing straight at his father’s belly.
“Fancy was my wife. You set the dogs on my wife.”
His brothers were stunned into silence, but not Jubal. “What the hell did you say?”