I was in hillbilly hell.
Cort had command of the radio, which he had set to a local station blasting a morbid mix of steel guitars and banjos as he sang along. Even Stewie was tapping his feet. He had a good excuse. He was suffering from a chronic case of hero worship where Cort was concerned.
Gideon was driving. He didn’t say much. That seemed to be his normal way. Stewie and I sat in the back seat of the king cab pickup truck as it torpedoed down I-64.
“Feels good to be home,” Cort said loudly.
“Cort has horses and dogs and cats and the one cat had kittens,” Stewie told me for the hundredth time. “He said I could maybe have one if you said it was alright...”
I looked in his eyes, shining with all the hope of a kid at Christmas.
“We’ll see,” I said. An ecstatic grin stretched over his face. Cort winked at me. I glared at him. I told him to quit egging Stewie on about the stupid kittens.
“How much longer?” I whined over the music. My thinking was clearer this morning. The fever was gone. The shoulder, however, was still pulsing in agony. I needed to get out of this moving-redneck-radio-on-wheels and stretch my legs, preferably on a bed where I could take a nap.
Gideon looked at me from the rearview mirror. I watched as he reached out and turned the sound down. “About another twenty or thirty minutes,” he said, eyes back on the road.
I worked myself into a fine state of anxiety as Gideon turned off the highway, maneuvering through a small town before chauffeuring us onto deserted country roads. The scenery was freaking me out. The more we drove the less there was. Buildings were scarce. In their place was a plethora of trees and wide open fields of lush green grass perforated with fencing. Sometimes, I saw grazing horses inside the fenced areas.
What worried me was the lack of civilization. Where were the people? The last McDonald’s I saw was in Winchester, the town we just cruised through. But now I didn’t see anything. No cement sidewalks or Walgreen’s or shopping centers or restaurants. Where were all the people?
I’d heard of these types of places on PBS. Deep in the country where they ate roadkill and married each other’s cousins. I’d be quite the catch to these shaggy mountain men. I had all my teeth.
Gideon made another turn and a stately iron gate rose twenty feet high in front of us. Flanked on each side was an equally impressive wall of stone and mortar. He pulled up to the gate, rolled his window down, and entered the security code on the keypad that was embedded inside a large stone.
The heavy gates slowly swung open. Gideon continued forward down a tree-lined, paved drive that seemed to go on forever. I sat up a little straighter.
The lane twisted to the right. My breath caught at the sight coming into view. The driveway continued to the front of a mansion that I could only compare to the one in Gone with the Wind. Tara, right here in the middle of nowhere. The only thing missing were Scarlett and Rhett.
We aren’t in Kansas anymore, that’s for sure. I felt bad for thinking the worst. I bet all the people living in this house had all their teeth.
I caught Gideon staring at me in the rearview. He turned to smirk at me. He knew what I’d been thinking. A blush swept up my neck and over my face. He cut the engine. Cort sprang from the truck with a howl.
Stewie giggled. I sat there, suddenly very aware of my appearance. Leaning over the seat I tapped Gideon on the shoulder.
“If you point me in the direction of your phone I’ll call a cab and we’ll be on our way.” I gave him the sweetest smile I had.
“You can’t go yet.” Cort poked his head into the cab. “You have to meet Maw-Maw.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Stewie was climbing out of the truck, following Cort into the house. Gideon looked my way before exiting the truck and ambling up the wide steps of the veranda.
There was no way around it. I’d have to suck it up and meet these super rich people looking like something that crawled out of a garbage can. Maw-Maw would take one look at my colorful puffy face and gunshot injured arm (Heaven to Betsy!) and promptly order the butler to take us out the back and lock the door. I leaned back, closing my eyes, trying to concentrate.
“You dead?” Someone poked my leg. I screamed, sliding across the seat. My chest rose and fell in rapid breaths. A woman with fuzzy gray hair dressed in overalls stood beside the truck, poking a stick through the window.
“Guess you aren’t dead,” she scowled. “Are you one of those insurance people, coming to see if I’m dyin’?” She tapped the stick on the window trim. “Cause if you are, I got a twelve gauge that’ll tell you I’m alive and well.”
“I’m not an insurance agent.” I swallowed loudly. After a year on the streets I knew nutty buddies when I saw one. She was definitely missing a few screws.
“Oh. Well, come on in then.” She waved me to come out of the truck as she made her way to the porch. “I got tea chillin’ in the Frigidaire. We can sit on the porch and talk.”
I was frozen in place. I wanted to roll up the windows and lock myself in. The crazy lady turned around, saw I was still in the truck, and glared at me.
“C’mon gal, get movin’, I don’t have all day,” she screeched at me.
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
The veranda was beautiful. There were huge hanging ferns suspended by white metal hooks between each of the columns. Strategically placed white wicker furniture sat to the left while an oversized swing hung at the end on the right. It was a scene off the cover of Southern Living.
“Good Lord, you’re a dawdler,” the old lady griped. “Get your fill and come on, slow poke.”
I hustled to the front door and trailed after her into the house. She practically ran down the long hallway, pushing open a swinging door that led to the kitchen. I barely had a chance to glimpse at the beautifully decorated interior.
I saw a sitting room bathed in blues and yellows, a library with shelves lined top to bottom with books and a wall of monstrous windows dressed in rich burgundy drapes. Both rooms had half opened pocket doors trimmed in dark ornate carved wood. It was truly an antebellum home. My jaw was hanging open.
The old lady was muttering to herself as she retrieved a delicate crystal pitcher from the refrigerator. She set it on the marble counter top and plucked two glasses and a bottle of liquor from the cupboard.
“Sit down,” she said without turning around. I looked around the room, saw the breakfast nook and slid into a chair. I watched as she poured the tea then followed it with a dollop of the liquor.
“You aren’t one of those uptight Yankee girls, are ya?” She stirred the concoction before bringing the glasses over to the table, seating herself across from me. “Finest Kentucky bourbon ever made.” She took a gulp, smacking her lips. “Drink up, gal!” she ordered.
Tentatively, I brought the glass to my lips. I wasn’t big on alcohol. Growing up with a drunk for a dad curbed that curiosity. I took a small sip. To my surprise, it wasn’t bad. I barely tasted the bourbon. I took another sip.
“Atta girl,” the old lady cackled, her face wrinkling into a smile.
“I see you met Maw-Maw.” Gideon glided into the kitchen. He bent over the old lady, placing a kiss on her weathered cheek.
“I told you before I’m too darn young to be a Maw-Maw,” she grouched, taking another gulp of tea. “I’m Sissy Shepherd, pleased to meet you.” She held out her gnarled hand. I took it. She had a strong grip.
“This is Cherry, Maw-Maw.” Gideon poured himself a glass of tea. I noticed he didn’t add any bourbon.
“Cherry? What the heck kinda name is that?” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You a hooker?”
“No, ma’am,” I licked my lips. This old lady scared the crap out of me. She could easily be one of the original steel magnolias. “It’s a nickname.”
Gideon leaned his hip against the counter, watching us while he nursed his drink.
“Cherry, huh?” She leaned forward, bracing her forearms on the table, her tea firmly grasped in her hands, giving me a steady stare. “You look like you been rode hard and put up wet.” I had no idea what she meant by that, but it sounded bad.
She finished her tea, pushed her chair back, and stood up. “You have nice eyes, sad though.”
Sissy handed her glass to Gideon and walked briskly to the back door. “She can stay. Put her in the rose room.” The screen door slammed shut behind her. My breath whooshed out in a rush.
“Is she safe to be around?” I blurted out before I realized what I was saying.
Gideon snorted tea through his nose. “Yeah, she’s been approved by the surgeon general.” He grabbed a dishtowel to wipe up the sneezed tea.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.” I blushed again. I can’t remember blushing this much since I first started living on the streets. Back then I blushed every time someone looked at me funny. That’s how I got the nickname Cherry. My face was always red as a cherry, Buck Rogers had said, and it stuck.
“Nah, you’re alright. My grandmother’s just a strange bird. Most Southern Belles from her era are.”
I nodded like I understood this. He swallowed the last of his tea, placing both glasses in the dishwasher.
“You want the grand tour or the condensed version?” he asked.
“I don’t need a tour, but thanks. I think we need to get going before it gets dark.” I followed his lead by putting my empty glass into the dishwasher. “Um... I need to call a cab... Can you tell me the name of a good hotel to stay at?” I needed a good long soak in a hot bath. I needed some alone time to get my ducks in a row. Plan our next move.
“We don’t have cabs out here,” he said, his liquid brown eyes settling on my face.
“Oh.” How was I getting into town? The very thought of walking all that way exhausted me.
“No hotel either.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” I snapped. “I’d have told you to drop us in that sorry excuse for a town twenty miles back!” I moistened my lips and started pacing the room. I lapped the island twice before Gideon spoke again.
“Sissy wants you to stay here.”
My eyes flew to his. “Are you serious?”
He gave a lazy shrug on his way to the back door.
“Where are you going?” I called after him. The screen door slapped shut behind him. He walked away from me! I couldn’t believe this was happening.
“Gideon!” I hollered, stomping to the screen door and pushing it open. He stood on the brick patio facing me, wearing a serious expression.
“Sissy doesn’t usually like people—any people—” he said solemnly. “It says a lot that she’d invite you to stay.”
“Oh... um... well...” I stammered, suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted. Who was I kidding? We had nowhere else to go. Besides, one night wouldn’t hurt. We had a great head start as far as Cass was concerned. “Okay. We’ll stay tonight. We can figure something out tomorrow.” Provided Annie Oakley didn’t kill us with her trusty twelve gauge in the middle of the night.