Shells Legoullon is the author of numerous publications, including contributions to the Chicken Soup for the Soul series and Thrill Ride—The Magazine: Best of 2023. She is a former San Francisco North/East Bay regional advisor for the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and a current member of Sisters in Crime and the Pacific Northwest Writers Association. Her passions are thriller fiction, red wine, and dark chocolate. Legoullon is the mother of four boys and lives with her husband and two crazy dogs on a misty lake in Northern Idaho.
Daddy dragged the body toward the backwoods. Charlotte crouched behind a heap of old tires, flies buzzing thick and loud, something stinky in the tall grass she couldn’t see. She plugged her nose with her fingers and sucked back a sticky August breath. Holding as still as the Virginia air, she prayed Daddy wouldn’t catch her out of bed. But the shiny car’s headlights had woken Charlotte. Then she heard Rose crying. Daddy yelling.
Charlotte’s eyes adjusted to the night and locked on Daddy’s strong hands gripped around a man’s ankles, slouched dress socks and the reflection of fireflies in two polished shoes. Even at ten, Charlotte knew Daddy was up to grown-up business. She stayed put while Daddy and the struggling figure disappeared into the thicket of trees.
A funny tickle itched deep in Charlotte’s belly. Curiosity. Daddy had strict rules about going into the backwoods uninvited. But even as her tiny heart pounded like a frightened rabbit, she crept forward in her red rubber boots and Cinderella pajamas. Keeping a safe distance from Daddy, she followed behind him and the stranger, and slipped inside the eerie blackness.
That’s the night Charlotte discovered there was a hungry monster living in their backwoods and if you fell into its slick, muddy mouth, you’d disappear forever.
Simon pads into the kitchen with bare feet, his pj’s too short for his growing legs. He’s tall for six, like his father. I’m at the table under the bay window where Mama and I used to sit together when I was Simon’s age.
“Am I too late?” Simon rubs his fists against his eyes.
I set down my coffee and motion him over. “Too late for what, Bug?” He slips inside my open arms and I wrap him up tight. Drinking in the scent of him, little boy, sleep, and hints of smoke from our fire last night. It was magical, roasting marshmallows and catching lightning bugs with my son on the farm I grew up on.
“The chores,” Simon says with a tired whine.
“You’re right on time. Breakfast first though.”
He tips his chin up to meet my gaze. “I’m not hungry. Let’s do the eggs first, then eat breakfast.”
I grin at my son, a complicated blend of Peter and me. He loves this farm almost as much as I do. “I’ll compromise,” I say.
He frowns. “I hate compromises,” he says, showing Peter’s determination.
“We all do sometimes,” I laugh. “Go get dressed and I’ll make you a piece of toast. If you eat it all, we’ll do our chores.”
Simon springs from the kitchen and up the stairs. His feet tromp overhead as he makes his way to my old bedroom. I open a loaf of bread and plunk two pieces into the toaster. While I wait, memories from my childhood wrap around me like a weighty quilt. I picture Mama sitting at the table, her cheater glasses balanced on the tip of her nose while she mends one of our torn items of clothing. Rose is on the phone in the other room gabbing dramatically with one of her friends. And Daddy is outside working. Always working. He was my hero and my best friend after Mama died and Rose left. He was bigger than life.
Now, without him, the house seems smaller but I swear I can still feel his presence in every corner.
“Ready,” Simon squeals, bursting back into the kitchen in old clothes and my red rubber boots in hand.
He sets them down as I butter his toast. I sneak a long glance at him as he stares out at the farm, and I’m certain I’ve made the right decision. This is what Simon needs. In Daddy’s words, a boy needs to be outside, exploring and getting his hands dirty. Peter doesn’t understand why I insisted Simon and I stay at the farm for the summer. Then again, Peter was raised in the city. He doesn’t see the same beauty in these backwoods.
Simon rips off the crust from his toast and gobbles up the inside section. “Done,” he says, then rubs the crumbs on his jeans and takes a swallow of orange juice.
I love how eager he is to be here and honestly, I’m just as excited. Even if it’s not much of a farm anymore. In the last ten years Daddy took care of the chickens and made a good little side business for himself selling eggs to locals or passersby. After the horses died, he never replaced them. Our one cow is nearly fifteen and no longer produces milk.
Simon slips on the rubber boots and pushes the screen door open.
“Hold on Speed Racer,” I say and follow him outside, where my own rubber boots are waiting. “Let’s go over the rules again.”
Simon wrinkles his nose. “Again?”
“Again,” I say. “These rules are very important. I need to know you understand them.”
He huffs, then recites them back to me. “Always wear my boots in the summertime, because of the copperheads and rattlesnakes. Never go down by the main road. Don’t play near the creek unless you’re with me.” He rolls his eyes, then finishes. “And never, ever, ever go into the backwoods unless you invite me.”
“Why not?” I wait patiently.
Simon rolls his eyes. “Because of the sinkhole,” he says as if I’m an idiot. “If I fall in, I’ll drown.”
“Good,” I say. “Now let’s go collect eggs. We might get some customers this morning.”
Simon grabs a basket and runs to the barn. I pull the heavy door to the side for him and we head for the chicken coop, the hens flutter and cluck, but move aside as Simon plunks the eggs into his basket. It’s the third time we’ve done this together and his timidness is gone. He talks sweetly to the hens and thanks them for their eggs, which makes me smile.
When all the eggs have been collected, I close the coop and we make our way through the barn.
“What’s that?” Simon points to the steel bar of metal hooks hanging overhead, just noticing it for the first time.
“It’s a type of gambrel. It’s used for hanging an animal once it’s dead so you can skin it.”
“Yuck.” Simon looks at me. “Why would you want to skin an animal?”
I imagine the image my son has conjured up in his head. He’s grown up in the city after all. “It’s used for hunting, Simon. After Grandpa shot his game, he’d hang it on this hook to prepare it to eat.”
Simon makes a face. “Gross.”
“You don’t think it’s gross when you’re scarfing down a hamburger or roasted ham at Thanksgiving.” I ruffle his hair and think of Daddy’s similar explanation when I was Simon’s age. “Are you ready to put the eggs in the cartons?”
He tugs his worried gaze away from the scary contraption and heads out of the barn. I make a mental note to take the gambrel down this weekend while he’s away. I have no use for it, haven’t hunted since Daddy was alive. Daddy would say I’ve grown soft, shopping at my fancy grocery stores where everything’s done for me. I laugh at the thought. He’s right in a lot of ways. There was something about growing our own food and living off the land that was special. I was just too young to appreciate it back then.
I follow behind Simon and close the barn doors, taking in the expansive green lawn in front of the house and Mama’s overgrown garden of weeds to my right. Maybe Simon and I will clean it up and plant some vegetables this summer. If Peter had it his way, Simon would be signed up for sports, the Boy Scouts, and chess club, every second of his summer scheduled. But I’m my father’s daughter.
Simon loads the eggs into the cardboard cartons behind the little egg stand Daddy built. A cloud of dust billows up the dirt drive and I glance at my watch. Peter isn’t supposed to be here for another hour.
“I think we have a customer, Si,” I say and my son’s face lights up. I lift my hand to shield the sun from my eyes as a black diesel truck rumbles to rest behind my Range Rover.
Something about the way the two men inside the cab stare at the house brings me pause. They aren’t here for eggs. I feel it in my bones. “Stay put,” I tell Simon and approach the strangers. Both truck doors swing open at the same time. My body hums with a warning. Daddy says the gut has no use for lies, so I plant my feet between my son and the truck, waiting for them to reveal their intentions.
“Can I help you boys?” I use an authoritative tone like I’m generations older than they are, which I’m not.
The driver sidles around the front of the vehicle pushing his hands into his front pockets. His attempt to look harmless, an “awe shucks” sort of swagger in his step. I keep my eyes on the passenger, who leans against the truck and doesn’t try to hide his menacing appearance. His long greasy hair falls past his shoulders, a serpent tattoo on his neck disappearing beneath his shirt collar. I assume the inconsistency between the two men is either on purpose or one of them is trying too hard.
“Howdy,” the driver says, like Virginians talk this way. “We saw the sign on the road.” He points to the eggs.
“You’re here for eggs, are you?” I was never good at pretending. Daddy’s voice is crystal clear in my head. Don’t show your hand too soon, Charlotte. “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” I say.
The passenger rocks off the door of the truck and steps closer. I twist my head and see Simon’s big grin. His first customers. I’ll have to teach him how to read people better. I back up, so that I’m closer to Simon.
“We’ll take a dozen,” the passenger says, looping his hair behind his ears, and it’s then I hear the accent. My eyes flit to the plates on the truck. New Jersey. I’m right.
Simon hands the passenger the carton. “That’s seven dollars,” he says.
Both men look at one another, then the passenger says, “Shit, are they magic eggs?”
“They’re organic and fresher than you’ll find anywhere else,” I snap.
“You owe me a dollar for the swear word,” Simon says to the man.
The driver chuckles, then turns his attention back to the house.
The passenger hands Simon a ten-dollar bill. “Keep the change,” he says. “I said a couple of swear words on our way up the driveway.”
Simon takes the money and gives the stranger his widest grin, his missing front teeth reflecting his age.
I cross my arms. “You gentlemen passing through?”
“Nope,” the driver says. “We’re staying in town at a little bed-and-breakfast.”
“Martha’s Place,” I say.
He shrugs. “I don’t know who owns it. Haven’t checked in yet.”
“That’s the name of the inn,” I say, again with a sarcastic tone. “The owner is a man named Lyle and I’m pretty sure it’s just rooms. No kitchen available to cook those eggs.”
“The eggs are for my aunt,” the long-haired passenger says too quickly. “She only eats farm fresh.”
“What’s her name? I probably know her.”
The driver interrupts. “Just you and your boy live out here?”
“No,” I say as Simon chimes in.
“My grandpa died. So, me and Mom are staying here for the summer.”
I shoot Simon a look. He stops talking.
“My husband’s on his way with more family. Should be here anytime.” Even as the words fall from my lips, I know how pathetic I sound.
The driver tips his chin. “Well, you take care. Our aunt’s going to love these eggs.”
“You didn’t mention her name,” I say again, but I know why. There is no aunt. They’re here for another reason, I just don’t know what it is yet.
For a long beat the men stare at me and I at them. The air between us is charged, my heart drumming between my ears. In my head, I gauge how long it would take me to run to the house for the shotgun. But I can’t leave Simon. Daddy’s literally rolling over in his grave. You’ve grown too trusting, Charlotte. He’s right. I’m off my game. We’re too far from the road for anyone passing by to see a struggle and even if I was able to call someone for help, it would take them over fifteen minutes to get here from town.
I square my shoulders. “Well, thanks for stopping by.”
The driver glances at the passenger, and there’s a brief exchange between them I recognize. Debate. I don’t know what they want or why they’re here, but every cell in my body screams.
“Simon,” I say, keeping my eyes on the men. “Can you go inside please.”
Thankfully, for once he doesn’t argue. He senses it too. As he starts for the house, a familiar sight catches my eye. My husband’s shiny silver Mercedes pulls up the drive. Both men glance at the car then back to me.
“Look forward to tasting your eggs,” the driver says and they climb into their truck as my husband’s car comes to a halt in front of the house.
I wait, as the men pull away from the property and I can no longer see the taillights. A tickle wriggles low in my belly. It’s not the last I’ll see of them. Daddy’s words purr in the back of my head. Fool me once.
Peter swoops Simon off his feet and tosses him over his shoulder. He heads toward me, and I’m struck by his casual appearance. Clad in worn Levi’s, a T-shirt, and a Red Sox baseball cap, he looks like he did the day I met him in the UVA bookstore. An easy smile pulls across his lips as he sets down our son and wraps broad arms around me.
“Hi,” I say, my nerves settling. I hadn’t realized how rattled those two guys made me. “You’re early.” I’m grateful, but don’t tell him why. He’ll just worry.
Peter kisses my forehead. “Wanted to beat the traffic. You know what a bitch that is on a Friday,” he says.
“You owe me a dollar, Dad,” Simon says. “I already made three extra dollars from the guys who bought our eggs.”
“You’re right, Buddy.” Peter’s brow furrows. “Go get your stuff.”
“Okay.” Simon skips toward the house, the screen door slamming after he’s inside.
Peter glances around the farm with an air of distaste. He just doesn’t get it.
“Charlie.” His expression is serious. “I hate the idea of you and Simon out here alone. You’re what, twenty miles from town?”
Here we go again. “We’re safe,” I say. This is mostly the truth.
“Come home with Simon and me for the weekend. I can take next week off and help you clean out your dad’s things. We’ll get the place ready to sell.”
There’s an arrogance in his assumption I’ve decided to sell the farm when I haven’t. Besides, this place may be buried so deep in debt, selling won’t be an option. I won’t know anything until I get to the bank.
“It’ll be good for me to go through Daddy’s things by myself. While Simon is off having fun, I can take my time.” I glance at the white two-story where I was raised. “Who knows what Daddy has squirreled away in that house.”
“You shouldn’t be doing this alone.” Peter shakes his head. “Where the hell is Rose anyway?”
My sister. We haven’t really spoken much since the day she left. I didn’t even recognize my own niece and nephew at Daddy’s funeral. Rose didn’t want a thing to do with the farm. She’d flown in the night before the service with her kids, then flown right back out when it was over. She didn’t even bother coming by the house for the potluck. Too many painful memories. I can’t blame her.
“She’s busy with her business and her daughter starts college in a few months,” I say, making excuses for her like I always have. “Anyway, Daddy left the farm to me, not Rose. It’s my responsibility.”
He exhales, “Will you at least take down that sign on the road?” He narrows his eyes. “Give the damn eggs away.” His gaze drifts to the end of the driveway. “I saw the guys who just left. Something off about them.” His lawyer brain. Always skeptical. “You know what, I think Si and I should stay. I’ll call Luke’s mom and tell her Simon can’t go to the birthday party tomorrow.”
“No. Simon’s excited for the party. I’ll take the sign down.”
“Good.” He pulls me into his arms. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I tip my chin and kiss him, the deep romantic kind of kiss that’s often forgotten over years of marriage. It surprises Peter too.
“Ew,” Simon says and we pull apart, smiling at him. “I’m ready, Dad.”
I take in my son; his backpack slung over his spindly shoulders and I miss him already.
“Say goodbye to Mommy,” Peter says.
Simon flings his arms around my hips. I bend down. “I love you, Bug. Have a fun weekend.”
“Don’t do all the chores without me.” He grins and climbs into his booster in Peter’s backseat.
I kiss Peter one last time. “Drive safe,” I say, a lump in the back of my throat. “See you Sunday.”
A few minutes later, my husband and son are gone and for the first time in my entire life, I’m alone on the property. Just me, a handful of hens, a very old cow, and only God knows how many buried secrets.
*
I spend the rest of the morning cleaning out Daddy’s closet. He didn’t have much. I’ll drop it off at the church when I’m in town today. As I gather his boots and place them in a box, I notice the corner of carpeting raised in the back of the closet. The house used to be all hardwood, but Mama said she needed some cushion beneath her feet on those cold mornings and a week later, Daddy had all the bedrooms carpeted. Not with the cheap stuff from our local hardware store but the thick, luxurious kind with the fancy pad underneath.
The landline downstairs rings and I push to my feet, taking the box of boots with me.
“Hello.” I answer on the sixth ring, out of breath.
“Ms. Wildwood?” The woman’s voice has a little draw like Mama’s did.
“This is Charlotte Maxwell, used to be Wildwood,” I say.
The woman on the other end of the line chuckles. “Of course. This is Ruth from Chadwick’s Mortuary. Your daddy’s ashes are ready.”
“Thank you, Ruth,” I say, picturing the slight woman who’s worked at the mortuary since Mama died. “I can swing by this afternoon.”
“I’m here until three o’clock.”
“See you soon.”
Once I’ve loaded the donations into my car, I lock up the house and head out. As I’m pulling down the long narrow driveway, an image of Daddy on the front porch the day I left for college flashes in my mind’s eye. He was happy I’d chosen the University of Virginia. It was close to home and somehow he’d saved enough money to cover all my expenses. I didn’t think much about money then. Daddy always provided. Now that I’m an adult, I don’t know how he did it.
I stop at the end of our driveway, keeping my promise to Peter and wriggling the post from the dirt. Tossing the Wildwood Eggs for Sale sign into the backseat, I can almost hear Daddy mocking me with one of his many metaphors. If the wolves want in, Charlotte, they’re coming whether you want them here or not. And it’s your job to protect the henhouse.
Two months after the glossy car and slick stranger brought her sister home late, Charlotte and Daddy waved goodbye to Rose as she boarded the midnight Greyhound to California. Daddy pretended Rose was going to visit Mama’s sister, but Charlotte wasn’t stupid. She had a pregnant teacher at school. She knew there was a baby growing inside of Rose’s belly. She also knew, deep down in her bones, Rose was never coming back.
Things changed around the house after Rose left. Daddy’s dark moods lifted. He and Charlotte spent their days working the farm, fishing, and at night, catching lightning bugs in Mama’s canning jars. It was also the summer Daddy taught Charlotte how to shoot a gun.
One Saturday morning, he woke her early. She’d wiped the sleep from her eyes, dressed quickly, and met Daddy in the kitchen. The sun was barely awake itself when they slid on their tall rubber boots and trudged into the forest.
Charlotte wasn’t sure if she was more excited about learning to shoot or that Daddy had invited her into the backwoods. As they moved quietly through the dewy forest, Daddy held up his hand and pointed to a huge dark pool of mud between a circle of towering pines. “You see that, Charlotte?”
She tipped her head up to look at Daddy, eyes squinting from the sunrays bleeding through the branches. “The mud puddle?”
Daddy shook his head. “It’s no mud puddle. It’s a sinkhole, close to twenty feet deep. It’s been here since I was a boy.
“How did it get here?” Charlotte was fascinated.
“Rock separated and caused a cavern to open. Over time, with all the rains and continued moisture, the soil rose to the top. Now it’s like a swimming pool of wet sludge. If you fell in and I wasn’t here to help you, you’d drown. No one would ever find you.” Daddy looked thoughtful. “I never understood why my daddy didn’t shore it up all those years back but I’ve come to respect it as part of nature’s gift.”
“What if a poor animal stumbles into it?”
Daddy nodded. “Animals know better. Now you do too. That’s why I don’t ever want to catch you playing out here without me.” Daddy’s voice was serious. “Not until you’re older.”
Charlotte nodded. “I promise, Daddy.” Maybe it was the way the shadowy light fell across the film of moisture on the sinkhole that took her back to that night, reminding her of those shiny shoes slipping beneath the surface. A shudder whipped up her back. She had so many questions for Daddy but she wasn’t ready to ask them.
I park on the corner of Main and First Street in front of the church. An older gentleman sweeping the sidewalk waves a teenage boy my way to unload the car.
“I have an appointment at the credit union,” I call to the man. “Can you make sure he closes the car up when he’s done?”
The man nods. “Thank you for the donation and I’m awfully sorry to hear about your daddy,” he says, then continues sweeping.
There’s not a soul in town Daddy didn’t know. It’s the little things like this I miss about home. I’d forgotten how Mayberry it is around here and how people take care of each other. I stride across the street, past The Rusty Spoon, a diner that’s been on Main Street since I was a little girl. Daddy and I ate in that diner many nights after Rose left. Daddy said it was because Rose did all the cooking, but I think he missed her and eating at home was too painful. For both of us.
I stroll into the credit union.
“Good afternoon,” a woman in a tailored suit says as she approaches.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Charlotte Maxwell. My father Russell Wildwood passed away a few weeks ago and I’m here to discuss his accounts.” I reach into my bag. “I have the power of attorney and a copy of the will. The death certificate is taking longer than expected.”
The woman pats my arm. “I was so sorry to hear about your daddy passing. He was a joy around here,” she says, motioning me toward a windowed cubicle in the back corner of the bank.
A joy? Aren’t you full of surprises, Daddy.
“I’m Phyllis Hawthorne,” she says, taking a seat behind a narrow desk. I pull out the chair across from her. “Let me pull up your accounts.”
I slide the documents she’ll surely need across the desk as she works her computer, then I dig out the safety deposit box key and set it down next to my phone.
Phyllis pushes the paperwork back to me. “Russell added you to all his accounts, dear. Don’t you remember signing the paperwork?”
Daddy must have forged my signature. I stifle my amusement. “That’s right,” I say. “I must have forgotten.”
“Ten years will do that to you,” Phyllis says. “I just need to see your identification so I do my job,” she smiles, apologetically.
“Of course,” I say. I slide my ID across the desk. Phyllis glances at it then hands it back to me. She taps a few keystrokes on her computer and turns the screen. I hold my breath, not sure I want to know how deep in debt Daddy really is.
“These are your two account balances, a savings and a checking,” she says as I stare at the numbers on the screen. It can’t be right. There’s over $400,000 in the checking account and the savings sits at nearly $1 million. Where did Daddy get this kind of money?
“Are these the only two accounts?”
“Only ones with us, and knowing your daddy, I’d be shocked if he had an account with another institution.” Phyllis laughs. “He told Carl if he ever sold the credit union to one of those big banks, he’d pull out all his money and run.”
“Sounds like Daddy. What about the mortgage on the farm?”
Phyllis scrunches her forehead like a flesh-colored accordion and I prepare myself. Hopefully, the money in the combined accounts is more than enough to take care of what we owe.
“Charlotte, your daddy paid off the farm years back. Didn’t he tell you?”
“He never mentioned it.” But what I want to ask this woman is how. How did my father, a farmer who really hasn’t done much farming since I left for college, pay off our property and manage to save almost a million and a half dollars?
Phyllis closes her screen, pushes up from her chair, and motions for me to follow her. I loop my purse over my shoulder, grab my phone and the key from the desk. I pad behind her, still reeling from what I’ve learned.
Phyllis unlocks the door and steps inside a room with another security door. She closes the one we just came through, locks it back up, and works through bank procedure for entering the safety deposit box area.
A bank of drawers lines the walls of the small room. Phyllis glances at me, obviously waiting for me to give her the number of Daddy’s box.
“Box 285,” I say.
Phyllis inserts her key and I insert mine below hers.
“Take as much time as you need,” she says. “Just replace everything and close the door when you’ve finished. It’ll self-lock.”
Then she leaves and I’m alone in the room. I open the tiny door and retrieve a weighty metal container, laying it on the table.
Unlatching the lid, I draw the box open and gasp. Three cylinders of what look like gold coins stare back at me. I’ve seen these before. Not as many, but when Daddy and I use to take road trips, he’d always let me hold a couple of gold coins. The only other item in the box is an envelope with my name on it. I run my nail beneath the seal and slide out the letter Daddy’s left me.
Dear Charlotte,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m off to visit your mother. I know you’re wondering about the money and where your Daddy got three cylinders of gold coins. You might want to sit down, Darlin, because this is just a drop in the bucket. Before you go getting all riled up, you need to know, everything’s on the up-and-up. Don’t you dare go thinking your Daddy’s some kind of crook.
Truth is, I found it buried on the property that’s been in our family for nearly a century. It’s Confederate gold from the 1800s. Stolen at the time and buried. And there’s more of it. You’ll find five ammo cans in my closet beneath the floorboards filled with five cylinders each. This is yours and Rose’s inheritance. I know your sister doesn’t want anything to do with the farm. She wanted you to have it. Part of me hopes you’ll keep it in the family, raise your beautiful boy here, but I understand if you have to let it go. I love you, Girlie. You are a blessing.
Hot tears well in my eyes, but I keep reading.
Let’s get down to business. This gold is very old and because it’s so old and valuable, you’re going to want to cash it in slowly, over time. There’s over five million dollars in those ammo cans and you don’t want to draw attention, so go out of town, out of state even, and look for shops that don’t require identification. That was my biggest mistake. Take three to four coins per shop, say they’ve been in your family forever. Use a lot of different coin shops to convert it over time and if you have to give your name, use a false one.
I’ve used Al’s Coin Shop in New Jersey for years, but old Al died not long ago and now his shady son and nephew run the place. DO NOT use them. And for God’s sake, Charlotte, don’t tell that husband of yours. I like him, don’t get me wrong, but he’s too damn righteous. Lawyers are all the same. He’ll try to convince you that gold doesn’t belong to you. Anyway, I know you’ll do what I would do. Just be careful.
Love, Daddy
My hands are trembling when I return the box to the drawer. After I’ve secured the lock, I slip Daddy’s note into my purse and wave to Phyllis on my way out of the bank. Pushing into the sunshine, I think of the secrets Daddy’s kept from me.
I’m halfway down the street when a familiar voice sparks the vellus hair at the base of my neck. Outside the diner, the two men from New Jersey are having lunch. And I know. It’s too coincidental for them not to be who I think they are.
“If it isn’t the egg lady,” the guy who was driving the truck says.
I glare back at them, their cocky demeanors contrasting our small town. “And how’d your aunt like the eggs?” My tone borders on antagonistic although I’m well aware I’m anything but dangerous looking.
The long-haired guy tilts his head to the side as he swallows the bite in his mouth. “She wants another dozen.”
“What’s her name again?” Daddy always said, the body language of someone up to no good will always give them away.
Sure enough. Long Hair chokes into his fist and the other guy shifts uneasy in his seat and says, “Sorry to hear about your father passing away.” He thrusts his hand forward. “I’m Robert, by the way.”
I glance at his hand. “Did you know my father?”
He lowers his hand. “Nope. Your boy mentioned it this morning,” he says. “Just being polite.”
“Are you?” I narrow my eyes.
“You’re a frosty one,” his partner says. “You treat all your customers like this?”
I raise my chin. “Only the ones I don’t trust.”
Robert grins. “Ignore my cousin. He means well.” With a sharp glance and a scolding tone, he says, “Don’t you, Alex?”
Tension hangs between them for a beat. Alex wipes his greasy smile with a napkin. “Didn’t mean to offend.”
“You boys take care,” I say and turn to go.
“We’ll see you in the morning,” Robert says.
“Excuse me?”
“Another dozen eggs. For our aunt.”
I shrug. “We’re sold out.”
Robert tilts his head. “Won’t those chickens lay more eggs tonight?”
Stupid city slicker. “Not enough,” I say. “A lot of family at the house.”
Alex laughs. “Lady, we know it’s just you and your boy out there. All alone. Cute kid by the way. Kind of young to leave by himself while you run errands, don’t you think?”
The subtext is deafening, his threat in everything he doesn’t say. Something instinctual snaps inside of me. “Don’t talk about my son,” I snarl.
Robert studies me, rubbing his finger across his bottom lip. “No, Mama Bear would never leave her cub on his own. Kid must be gone for the weekend with his dad.” He twists in the metal chair to face me. “I’ve heard a lot of scary stories about the backwoods behind your farm,” Robert says. “Aren’t you afraid, pretty woman like you all by herself?”
Taking a deep breath, my heart thundering behind my rib cage, I lean in close. “I was raised in those backwoods,” I say, doing my best to sound brave. “Maybe I’m the scary thing you’ve heard about.”
There’s a pause before they both break into a fit of laughter at my expense. I turn on my shaky legs and head for my car. Daddy’s voice is so loud it’s like he’s right beside me. No one threatens mine.
I climb into the car, toss my purse on the passenger seat, and start the engine. As I back into the street, I keep my eyes on the men in the rearview mirror. They’re watching me. My first thought is to call Peter, ask him to come back to the farm. But I’d never hear the end of it.
Instead, I dial up Sheriff Atwater, and as the call rings through my Bluetooth, I take a left off Main Street and onto County Road 28.
“Charlotte Wildwood,” he answers with a smile in his voice, calling me by my maiden name. “What do I owe the pleasure?”
“Hi Sam,” I say to the man I’ve known my entire life. “I just finished taking care of a few things in town and I’m headed back to the farm—”
“You should have stopped by the house,” he interrupts.
“I will next time,” I promise. “This is more of a business call.”
“What’s going on?”
“There’s two men outside The Rusty Spoon. They bought a dozen eggs from me earlier and kind of gave me the creeps just now. They’re up to something, Sam.”
“What did they do to make you feel uneasy?”
“They know I’m alone at the farm. They said as much,” I tell him.
“I’m on it, Dolly,” Sam says, calling me by the nickname he’s used since I was five. “You …”
Damn service always gets tricky at this point. “Sam, I’m going to lose you. Thanks for following up.”
“You must be on your way home,” he says, crackly but audible. “Don’t worry. Talk soon.”
I end the call and release a nervous breath. If anyone’s on it, it’s Sam. He’s been the sheriff of Monroe County forever, not to mention the best friend Daddy and I could ever ask for all those years when it was just the two of us.
My body settles into the seat leather as I realize I forgot to swing by the mortuary for Daddy’s ashes. Glancing at the clock, there’s no way I’d make it back in time. Besides, I have bigger things on my mind. Daddy has nearly a million and a half dollars in the bank, plus the gold in the safety deposit box and another five million under the closet floorboards. I can hardly wrap my mind around the idea of it.
But now it all makes sense. Those road trips we took when I was a girl. The improvements to the farm, the new equipment, the house upgrades. Daddy always telling me that Rose was fine, he was taking care of her financially. And although he was always busy, working the farm, I never really understood how we made money. But I was young and naïve. I guess as I got older, I assumed Daddy had the place mortgaged to the hilt. He’d paid for my wedding, which was no small affair. And all this time, he’d patiently used only what we needed, never lived extravagantly.
I turn onto our gravel driveway and hop out of the car. Pulling the heavy metal gate across the entrance, I connect it to the steel post then loop the bulky chain through to secure the lock. The last time we locked the gate was the night Rose’s coach drove her home. My childhood brain couldn’t understand then how he’d hurt my sister. But after Coach Bale disappeared, six additional girls came forward. Some younger than Rose. As a mother, I believe Daddy did what he thought was in his child’s best interest.
I consider Simon. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect him.
I’m lightheaded when I reach the house. I should eat but I climb the stairs instead, two at a time. I flip on the light and plunk down on my knees to the raised corner of carpet at the back of Daddy’s closet. Then I tug until the entire floorboards beneath are exposed. Running my hand over the rough grainy wood, I feel for a loose board or something out of place until my fingernail catches in a groove.
I rush downstairs and retrieve a knife then hurry back where I work the tip into the groove until the little panel pops out. Retrieving my phone from my back pocket, I turn on the flashlight and shine the beam into the hole where five metal ammo boxes sit side by side. It takes both hands to pull just one box up from its hiding place. My fingers tremble as I open the rectangular metal canister. Like Daddy promised, five cylinders of shiny gold coins line the interior. Five million dollars. Holy shit!
The landline rings downstairs and I jump. I lower the ammo can back beneath the floorboard, push the panel into position and smooth the carpet back into the corner. I make it to the kitchen just in time.
“Hello,” I say, breathless.
“Charlotte, it’s Sam. You okay?”
Does he know about Daddy’s gold? “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, keeping it simple.
“Wanted to let you know, those boys from Jersey were long gone when I showed up.”
Did I mention their New Jersey plates? I don’t think I did.
Sam’s tone goes serious. “You call if you get spooked out there. I’ll come with guns blazing.”
“Thanks Sam,” I sigh, thinking I must have mentioned them being from out of town. Low blood sugar makes me scatterbrained. “I closed the gate and the doors are locked. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, Dolly. Let’s have dinner while you’re here.”
“Sounds good,” I say.
“Bye now.”
I pull Daddy’s letter from my purse and reread it, paying special attention to the part about Al’s Coin Shop. Daddy said he’d made a mistake giving his real information out. This must be how they found the farm and how they know Daddy’s gone.
I toss one of Simon’s frozen macaroni and cheese dinners into the microwave. Talk to me, Daddy. What do I do? Between the sizzle and popping sound of my meal, I hear Daddy’s velvety voice in my head. People think it’s perfectly fine to take what doesn’t belong to them, Charlotte. Look what happened to your sister. Do what you have to do to protect what’s yours.
The microwave beeps but my eyes are fixed on Daddy’s gun case. I cross the room and tip up on my toes, reaching for the small key nestled into the molding of the cabinet. The glass door swings open. There are two rifles, a shotgun, and an antique revolver I fired once as a little girl. I remove all the weapons from the case and the boxes of bullets Daddy stores in the locked drawer at the bottom. After I’ve loaded each gun, I strategically hide them near points of entry. Then I pull the steamy container from the microwave and devour the creamy pasta.
As I eat, I think about Daddy and the hundreds of dinners we had right here at this table. His essence is everywhere and his wise words reverberate through the rooms like it was yesterday. Do you want to be the predator or the prey, Charlotte?
I know with all certainty those men are coming back here tonight. For Daddy’s treasure. And they will not hesitate to hurt me or even kill me.
I will not be the prey.
When Charlotte was in high school and most of her friends were at cheerleading practice, band, or doing an afterschool sport, she was at home. Daddy’s orders. He would never allow someone to take advantage of Charlotte the way they had Rose. It got to the point where she stopped fighting and gave in. Besides, Charlotte didn’t hate the farm like her sister did. She loved everything about it, especially exploring the forest. By fifteen, Charlotte had spent so much time in the backwoods, she could weave her way through the hundred acres with her eyes closed and not even stumble.
She fished and foraged, read books and wrote in her journal. Not once did she feel afraid out there all alone. In fact, it’s where she felt the safest. Sometimes, because her childhood memories nagged at her, she’d sit near the sinkhole and wait. Not quite sure what she was waiting for. Maybe a hand to break free of the sludge. Reaching for someone to take it. To pull them out. She knew what her answer would be. Because by then, Charlotte was old enough to understand there were good and bad people in the world. And if Daddy put someone in their sinkhole, they were probably not worth saving. Not to Charlotte anyway.
I drag Daddy’s heavy chest of drawers into the closet. It fits perfectly, almost like it belongs there. Then I dress for the evening. Black leggings and a long sleeve dark shirt despite the summer heat. Sure, I could pack my things, including the gold, and tuck tail for DC. But it would only buy me time. In the end, I’d end up leading those boys straight to Peter and Simon.
I won’t put my family in danger. I have to handle the problem here. Tonight. Or die trying.
Before heading up to bed, I stack five soup cans in front of every door. Daddy called this a hillbilly’s alarm. If I fall asleep and the house is breached, I’ll at least have a warning. I release the weighted breath lodged in my breastbone and shake my head. All that money for all those years, sealed just beneath the floorboards.
*
It’s after midnight when I startle. My eyes fly open. I swing my feet off the bed and creep to the edge of the window. Moonlight bleeds through a slice of inky black sky. Bright enough to spy the two shadows skulking up the driveway. If I called the police or Sam, I could have them arrested tonight for trespassing. But they’d be released by morning and I’d always be looking over my shoulder. I don’t do loose ends.
Slipping my feet into the boots I’ve left by the bedroom door, I loop the rifle over my shoulder and ease down the stairs. Daddy told me once that men like the ones lurking outside my home underestimate women, mostly because we’re not as strong as they are. But Daddy reminded me in the same breath that brute and brawn pale in comparison to intelligence.
I slink through the living room and into the kitchen. I’m sure Robert and Alex will split up. Try to ambush me from both sides of the house. But my vantage is the backwoods. Easing the stack of cans away from the back door, I peek onto the porch, then open the door as a crash of toppling cans sounds from the front room. At least I know where one of them is at.
The crunch of footsteps snags my attention to my left. My heart thunders behind my rib cage. Alex snakes around the side of the house and our eyes lock for half a breath. Daddy’s voice booms. Run, Charlotte! I turn on my heels and sprint for the tree line, irrationally hoping my predator follows.
Memory is a clever thing and despite the years since I’ve raced through these woods, my steps are light and knowing. Alex clambers after me, cursing with every tree root he stumbles on. He’s faster than I thought he’d be, closing our gap too soon.
“You can’t outrun the devil, lady,” he calls.
I keep moving. One misstep, a second off, and my plan will fail. Then I reach my mark and spin around, lifting the rifle to my shoulder. Adrenaline courses through me like a rushing river. Alex stops dead in his tracks, a gun pointed in my direction.
“Drop the rifle, Dolly,” he says with a twisted grin.
“What did you call me?” The sting is sharp and sudden. I can’t breathe. Is Sam with them? I level the rifle so it’s trained on Alex’s forehead.
“Come on now,” he says. “We don’t want you hurting yourself with that big gun.”
I’d like to shoot the arrogant expression right off his face, but I hold steady, digesting what I’ve learned. Sam’s betrayal is like another death I have to hold. Alex takes a slow step forward, inches from the slick surface between us. I hold his gaze.
“I know why you’re here,” I say. “You’re wasting your time though. He spent it all.”
Alex shakes his head. “I know your father. He’s a frugal son of bitch, piecemealing those coins one by one. My best guess, it’s buried out here in these backwoods and you know exactly where it is.”
My legs tremble. “You’re right,” I say. “And if you shoot me, you’ll never find it.” I force a calm into my voice. Then I say a silent prayer this greedy asshole does what I expect him to. “But you’ll have to catch me first.” I whip around to run when I hear it. The sound reminds me of meat slapping against a chopping board.
“You bitch!”
I turn around to find Alex sprawled belly down on the mucky surface of our reliable sinkhole. He claws for purchase, which will only move him deeper into the sludge. Daddy says it’s human nature to kick and paddle to stay afloat, but this is nothing like water. Soon he’ll tire and be swallowed up, then drift below the surface to join the other evil dwelling there.
“Help me,” he pleads.
I shake my head. The gun he was holding is out of reach and sinking too. Watching him struggle, I’m drawn back to the night I watched Rose’s monster descend to Hell and I wonder if somehow it prepared me for this very moment.
“Please,” he says, more desperate now. The venom in his tone all dried up.
I turn away, before my conscience can stop me. When I step into the clearing and out of the woods, Alex’s last scream pierces the night. Robert must hear it too. He bursts from the front porch.
“Alex?” He calls out. I wedge inside the parted barn doors as Robert takes in the quiet farm.
I lift the rifle, line up the sight, and think of Daddy. Don’t aim at something you aren’t prepared to shoot, Charlotte. Robert’s a big man. From this distance, I’ll need to be accurate. But I’ve never hurt another person. Daddy whispers in my ear. The same words he used the first time he took me hunting. There are only two reasons to take a life, to feed yourself or to save yourself. I hesitate then pull the trigger. Robert shifts as the bullet strikes the metal bracket on the porch post. He’s a blur as I move away from the door and scramble up a ladder to the loft. I crawl behind the stack of hay Daddy keeps stored up here despite the fact the horses died years ago. My breaths follow in a ragged rush.
The barn door slides open and I press my body against a hay bale, close my mouth to still my panting. I’ve always been good at hiding. I’m weightless as I reposition and brace my rifle on top of the straw. Lights illuminate from outside, no idea where they’re coming from. Robert’s shadowed outline looms up the barn wall.
“Alex?” He clicks the scope light on his gun and shines the beam around the barn. “Are you hurt?”
My trembling finger loops around the trigger as his light strikes my face. I freeze and he’s up the ladder before I can fire. He rushes me, knocking the gun from my sweaty grip. It falls to the concrete below with a loud clank. Robert mounts my hips, pushing me onto my back.
I punch at his face, but he’s quick. “You’ll never find the gold if you kill me,” I say.
“I’m not going to kill you.” His grin is sinister. “I’m going to have a little fun first. Then you’re going to show me where Daddy hides his fortune.”
I buck and twist, my fists connecting with his chin, then his ear.
“Stop hitting me,” he snarls, smacking me hard in the face.
He sets the gun on the hay bale. I glance at the open ledge not two feet from us. Daddy always meant to build a rail. Robert fumbles to unbutton his pants with one hand, the other pressing my wrists over my head. Sweat drips from his forehead. I go limp beneath the weight of him. He smiles at my submission. Then he unzips his jeans.
My eyes flit to the hay door Daddy installed during one of the upgrades, again noticing the lights outside of the barn. I manage to free one of my hands and work my fingers around the metal loop for leverage. Robert’s too interested in finding the waistband of my leggings to notice. I wait for his weight to shift. As he wriggles his pants lower, I buck my hips and knock him off balance. I twist from beneath his legs and as he attempts to right himself, I don’t hesitate. I push.
The look on his face as he falls over the ledge sears into my brain. I brace for impact, expecting the thunderous mass of him to strike the unforgiving surface below. Instead, I hear bones crack. Flesh split. The familiar sound of Daddy mounting his kill on the gambrel. I wiggle my leggings up and retrieve his gun, then carefully move down the ladder of the loft. Robert moans in pain, his eyes finding mine. But he doesn’t beg for my help like Alex did. Not yet anyway. He’s probably in shock.
Moving to the wall, I turn on the power and lower the skewered man to the floor. When he’s on his knees, I get closer. He fell at an angle, so that one of the hooks went through his shoulder blade and the other, his ribcage. Blood pools around him.
There’s movement in my peripheral. I whip around, pointing the gun at the figure. It takes a beat before it registers. Sam. Thank God. I almost didn’t recognize him out of uniform. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen him dressed in shorts and athletic shoes. Then, I’m reminded. He betrayed us.
“Good work, Dolly,” he says, continuing his game. “Put down the gun. You’re safe now.”
The lights outside are from Sam’s cruiser. Robert was going to rape me with Sam right outside. “Am I safe, Sam?” The question hangs between us like a sticky spider’s web and through it, I see him differently. This man I’ve trusted and loved for as long as I can remember, Daddy’s best friend. Sam was going to let them hurt me. Then what?
Sam tries again. “Charlotte, I’m here to help you.”
“Get these fucking hooks out of me, Atwater,” Robert growls, and I’m certain.
“We were like family, Sam?”
Sam shrugs and at least has the decency to look ashamed. “It’s a lot of money, Dolly, and your daddy hoarded it like a miser. How much do you think a sheriff makes around here, anyway?”
“He loved you like a brother, Sam and I …” Daddy’s voice fills my ears. Charlotte, you bring your heart to a fight and it’s sure to get broken.
I back up toward Robert, his gun still held in my hand and poised on Sam’s chest. Lining up behind the big man, I crouch down, careful to stay clear from the blood. Sam watches with interest until he understands.
“You’re not a killer, Dolly. I know you won’t shoot me.”
He’s right about one thing. I’m not a killer. There’s only one choice.
I pull the trigger.
Sam recoils. “Shit. You shot me, Charlotte.”
But I hit his shoulder, not enough to take him down. He lunges for me as I pull the trigger again, the bullet striking the wood post. The gun slips from my hand and I run. Sam runs after me. Out of the barn and into the backwoods.
Sam might be one of the few people who know these woods as well as I do. He knows about the sinkhole. My only hope is to outrun him and hide. Hope his bleeding shoulder slows him down. I sprint over roots and felled trees, but Sam, despite his age, is close.
“Charlotte,” he calls. “There’s enough money for both of us.”
I dare a glance back at him and my boot gets caught in a vine. Falling face first, into the leaves and forest debris, I scramble to get up. Sam looms only feet from me.
Shaking my head, I think of Simon. “Okay, Sam,” I say. “You win. We’ll split the gold and never talk about this again.”
With the precision of a man who’s been enforcing the law forever, he whips out his gun and flashlight. I’m sorry, Daddy, I tried.
Sam cocks his head to the side, studying me. “On second thought, I know you too well. You’ll go tattle to that attorney husband of yours and ruin everything.” Sam’s face pinches. “I think this has to be goodbye, Dolly.”
My heart sinks at the thought of leaving Peter and Simon. I take a deep breath in as movement next to Sam’s foot catches my attention. Sam rolls his wounded shoulder as I take a deliberate step to the left and back. Move Sam, just a little.
“Stay still. This is hard enough,” Sam orders, but I shift again and this time, Sam repositions his stance. The lurking copperhead, hidden in the dry leaves, strikes like lightning. Sam yells. I bolt from where I’m standing and run until I’ve reached the barn. The bite won’t kill Sam, but it should slow him down and buy me enough time to call the police, figure out my next move. Think, Charlotte.
I find Robert passed out. Most likely from the pain. I bend down and wipe Robert’s gun clean of my fingerprints, then use my shirt sleeve to position the gun in his right hand. I fire once, then scoop up my rifle from the floor, climb the ladder and crouch behind the hay bales. Waiting for Sam.
Minutes later, he returns dragging his right leg. As Sam steps inside, I line the sight onto his chest. The rifle shakes in my hand. I have the perfect shot. Daddy’s voice is sharp. He’s not the man we thought he was, Charlotte.
Bang! I startle. Sam stumbles and folds to the concrete.
My finger is still soft on the trigger. It wasn’t me. I scramble to the edge of the loft and look down. Robert’s trembling hand drops the gun at his side.
The timer sounds and I lift the roast from the oven. Peter’s favorite. Herbs and garlic fill the kitchen as the front door slams.
“Mommy,” Simon calls. “We’re home.” Tiny feet scamper up the stairs.
Seconds later, Peter rushes into the kitchen and scoops me into an embrace. “Oh my God, Charlie. Are you okay?”
I squeeze him tight. “I’m fine,” I say. “Sad, of course, about Sam.”
“Random, right?” Peter pulls back. “So, tell me again what they think happened.”
I shake my head and turn toward the stove, so I don’t have to look at my husband when I lie to him. “I mentioned to Sam those boys who bought eggs from me were in town and acting shady. He must have followed up and I guess there was a car chase. I woke to gun shots. Obviously, there was a struggle, not sure what happened, but by the time the police arrived, it was over.” I shrug as I place the roast on a platter.
“And you said one of them fell into the sinkhole?”
I nod. “Sam’s final words as sheriff. They managed to pull the body out pretty easily since he hadn’t been there long.”
Any longer and they may have had to troll deeper, exposing all of Daddy’s secrets.
Simon flies into the kitchen. “Hi Mommy,” he says. “You didn’t do anything fun without me, right?”
I wrap my arms around my boy and bury my face in his soft hair. “Nope. You didn’t miss a thing.”
As I sit at the table with my family, my thoughts drift to Daddy. I couldn’t have survived this without him. My partner in crime. And in a few weeks after everything has settled, I’ll tell Peter about the gold and Daddy’s wishes.
“We should probably shore up that sinkhole, Charlie. And for God’s sake, don’t let Simon ever play out there. It’s too dangerous,” he says, stuffing a potato into his mouth.
I’m my father’s daughter. I repeat the words I’ve heard a million times. “The backwoods are only dangerous if you don’t respect them. Just like the ocean,” I say. “Those backwoods built me, Peter. Shaped the woman I am today. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
He takes me in, suppressing amusement as I lift my knife and slide it through a tender chunk of meat. Hopefully, he’ll never have to find out.
*My inspiration for this story stemmed from countless visits to my in-law’s home in Faber, Virginia. It was a sprawling, sixteen-acre parcel nestled into the side of a rock outcropping and surrounded by creek beds and backwoods. It was beautiful and mysterious, and I often suspected it held incredible secrets.
An idea sparked when my husband, a gold coin enthusiast, shared a story about missing Confederate gold from the Civil War. According to history, Jefferson Davis left Richmond, Virginia, in April 1865 with millions of dollars in gold, silver, and bullion. He held only a few dollars when he was captured a month later in Georgia. Where did it all go? Historians, treasure seekers, and the FBI believe millions of dollars remain buried and unaccounted for.
Coupled with this intriguing gold legend and my in-laws’ enigmatic property, “The Backwoods” sprang to life. Although I took many fictional liberties, from the town to the county, I hope I’ve captured this special place’s essence, leaving the reader with a curiosity and heightened respect for the Virginia backwoods.